‘Salty Dave and the Voice of the Brazen Head’ by Russell Hugh McConnell

Historic Events

In Pulp Literature Issue 49, Russell Hugh McConnell offers up an entirely realistic portrayal of normal life in southwest Florida with ‘Salty Dave and the Voice of the Brazen Head’. Read an excerpt of this story below, and be sure to pick up a copy of Issue 49, Winter 2026 to find out what happens next!

Salty Dave and the Voice of the Brazen Head

by Russell Hugh McConnell

It’s the Fourth of July weekend and I’m stuck inside watching the Brazen Head. This is such crap. The others — including and especially the Magister — are so out of touch that they probably don’t even remember what the Fourth of July is. The Ritual of the Lightseed usually falls on the second week of the month, but this year it’s early. Something to do with the rising sign of Mercury, or the transit of Venus, or something. I can’t even admit to anyone that I didn’t know about the dates, because then everyone would know that I never finished reading the Codex of Ethereal Certainties. There’s a reason I’m still the most junior apprentice.

Anyway, everyone else is busy with the ritual, and that’s why I’m all by myself at the Secret Shrine, which is really just a house in Englewood, Florida. At least I was by myself until Salty Dave showed up. I don’t know how he even knew I was here.

The Magister wouldn’t be thrilled if he knew that Salty Dave was hanging around. He always refers to him as ‘that slovenly idiot’ — not that he talks about Salty Dave very much. The guy kind of hovers on the fringes of the magical community. He’s not a wizard, or an apprentice. Heck, he’s not even a psychic. He’s just a big dude in a Hawaiian shirt who seems to know everybody.

It’s actually a pretty historic event, him showing up like this with an armload of booze. Salty Dave isn’t generally a bring-the-drinks kind of guy; he’s more a drink-the-drinks kind of guy. Ten to one he persuaded someone else to buy these for him. I can’t deny I’m grateful, though. He even brought little paper umbrellas.

I haven’t seen Salty Dave since the open mic at Jetty Jack’s last month, when he did an a cappella version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ (about four octaves lower than Freddy Mercury) that brought the house down. Well, it didn’t literally bring the house down, but it did bring down the big umbrella, which fell on me and made me drop my hot dog into some kid’s ice cream.

We start out on the couch, staring at the Brazen Head. It’s quite a sight: nine feet in every direction and apparently solid bronze. God knows what it must weigh. I don’t like the look on its face, though. Its eyes are always closed, but it’s got a permanent scowl. Really disapproving, you know? Like it can’t even see me but still knows what a crappy apprentice I am.

After a while, Salty Dave and I decide we can’t keep looking at the thing. It’s too unsettling. So we abandon the couch and sit on the floor with our backs against the side of the head, drinking earnestly to America.

“So,” says Salty Dave, gesturing backward with one massive thumb, “What’s with that thing anyway, man?”

“It talks,” I reply glumly, sipping at my Cuba Libre.

Find the full story in Pulp Literature Issue 49, Winter 2026

Russell Hugh McConnell hails originally from Toronto, Canada, but over the years his mad peregrinations have taken him to many strange lands. He was shipwrecked on the sea-coast of Texas some years ago and now ekes out a living in the wild prairie by teaching writing, literature, and liberal arts to interested (and uninterested) passers-by. He has no social media handles because he wants to become a famous author the hard way. This story is intended as an entirely realistic portrayal of normal life in southwest Florida.