Another aging rocker pig trying to cling to relevance. When the crowds stopped coming, when people just up and stopped paying the $5 cover, when he couldn't figure out how to work his online profile, it was time for Jammin Joe to make a career change.
So with that shock of puckish gray hair, the desperate soul patch, the golden earring, he turned to the last resort of so many pigs at the end of the line: barbecue impresario.
Now, surrounded by the trappings of rock 'n' roll rebellion, he dishes up the pig parts to audiences who care nothing for his artistic talents. They line up instead for the chance to partake of his unthinking corporeal qualities: the way his flesh can be made to taste.
Truly, it's all he has left to give, and give he does. All the while, he tells himself he's dying as he lived—defiant, owned by no one. He grabs onto that final, defining illusion, but it is no life preserver. He drags it with him to the bottom.
Addendum: We've never seen the word apostrophobic, but it applies here. Yes, it's Jammin Joes, not Jammin' Joe's. Rock 'n' Rollers have no use for the niceties of punctuation!