Buick Cannon: (A Joke From the Moon) Page 6

  “Well, you don’t have to be a crankcase about it. Just say it, will ya? Christ! I got all my shells locked up in one little basket. And now I’m giving my life for some stupid cause. There’s nothing left to live for. Who says broken hearts don’t mend?”

  “Buick, I wish you’d tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “I thought you didn’t like a man who swore?”

  “Not in your case. In my case, I can’t seem to forget. There’s nothing going on I can’t seem to let go of. The feeling is that there’s too much going on. Live while you can, right? Harper and Collins ain’t got nothing on you?”

  “Harper and who?”

  “Never mind,” Dan said.

  “Dan, I’ve been going though some craaazy shit lately. I’ve seen some wacky shit, and that’s no good. Nothing is making sense to me. Nothing is making sense to me at all. I feel like a freak trapped in some sideshow with Bob as his adolescent predecessor. I’m not running the distance anymore because nothing makes sense. If you give me just one minute, Dan-O, I’ll let you have all the quilted applications you can get.”

  Dan looked at Buick, and continued to polish the glasses. He didn’t know what to think. Quilted applications were not his style, but he was willing to participate.

  “What exactly are you talking about, Buick?”

  Buick smiled. “The end of time. Man’s ultimate pursuit. The disruption of a simple, every-day life, Dan-O. My mind’s been made up, see?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to you, Dan. It’s not polite.”

  Buick took a long drink, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Dan looked wounded, like he wanted to go to his bedroom and shut the door.

  “I’ve been seeing shit, Dan,” Buick whispered, serious now, leaning over the bar. “Like crazy shit, you know? Things have never looked to me like the way they do now. I have everything wrapped up in a little ball, see? At least that’s what I thought I had. But it’s not there anymore. This little ball has completely unraveled. There’s nothing left for the little ball to do but disappear. This is all the little ball has left.”

  Buick took another drink and wiped his mouth again. Dan looked at him, concerned. He didn’t want Buick to go bonkers. He liked Buick. He wanted Buick to stay right here in Peekie.

  “Buick,” Dan said. “Let me get you another. On me. Like a shot?”

  “Sure, a shot,” Buick said. “I’ll take a shot. What harm can a goddamn shot do? Why not have ten shots. Why not twelve or ninety?”

  Dan poured a shot and put another beer on the bar. Buick looked at the shot for a minute, resolving something in his mind, smiled, and lifted it straight back, then slammed it on the counter. He grabbed the beer and took a swallow. “Ahhh!” he said, sounding a little rough from the alcohol. “Thanks, Dan.”

  “Anytime.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, Buick swilling beer, a red, glossy sheen developing on his face, feeling fine.

  “I’ve been seeing like…monsters and stuff, Dan. Monsters. The sky opens up and these roars and voices and winds and currents and bad breath and all kinds of other stuff just start pouring out of the air like the mighty Mississippi. I’ve never been one to believe in the imagination, or even the supernatural, but this is a different thing entirely. I mean, this is proof, Dan-O, isn’t it? This is either proof of the other world, or I’ve gone completely insane. I mean I must be bonkers, right? There’s no other explanation. I haven’t seen this kind of thing since early high school—or at least the second grade.”

  “Buick, what are you—” Dan corrected himself and let Buick talk, even if Buick seemed insane, which he certainly did. Buick was his best friend, and the man was going completely crazy, and Buick was going to fall off the bar stool and start going into convulsions, and that would be the end of Buick Cannon. Maybe he would swallow his tongue or some ridiculous thing, but it was beginning to worry Dan. Dan was wondering what Buick did behind closed doors.

  “I mean it, Dan. I don’t know what’s going on. Something serious. I can’t describe it. It all started…” Buick looked puzzled and thought it over. He looked at Dan. “When the hell did it start, Dan?”

  Dan wished he had the answers. He wanted to tell Buick exactly that and was disappointed all he could do was shrug.

  Buick shook his head. “Me, too, Dan,” he said. “I don’t know, either. Get me another beer, will ya, Dan?”

  “But you—” Dan almost finished before he stopped, checked himself, and put another beer on the counter. Buick had three beers in front of him now, and the man didn’t even know it.

  “Maybe you should take a vacation, Buick.”

  Buick pushed out his lips and thought about it. “That’s quite possible,” he said. “Maybe we could run away together, become the Bobsy twins. You know, like a couple’a homosexual brothers.”

  “Sounds good to me. But aren’t the Bobsy Twins girls?”

  “What are the odds, anyway?”

  Dan laughed and polished more bar glasses. Why Dan had to polish so many glasses when there wasn’t any business puzzled Buick immensely.

  “A vacation,” Buick mused. “That’s not a bad idea, Dan-O.”

  Dan smiled and nodded at Buick. “I thought you would like the idea,” he said. “How about another round, Buck-old-buddy?”

  Buick sipped his beer and smiled. He looked towards a distant galaxy where only predators breathed. “Another round would be perfect, Dan.”

  ~

  Murder always makes for a merry man. He is so much happier after the murder is done. The murder is Heaven and gilded gates. Murder is the foundation of all pure things. Nothing can be made without murder.

  His nostrils were wet. He was breathing deeper than usual. He clung to the base of existence as though all else had failed. He’d run the gauntlet, survived and found himself in a place called home, and it wasn’t on Perrywinkle Way. Now, he was watching. In the dark, he looked and brought all of it into being. Being, made his hairs stand on end. He dug his nails into the earth.

  A spell had been cast down through the ages, perhaps. He had been this beast countless times before, always seeking a way to redeem himself. He’s sent the old hag out into the rain. She was no beauty queen to him. An angel? He laughed at the idea.

  Without murder, of course, how could he breathe? How could he stand another moment on this fetid soil? Murder made the soil.

  He laughed behind mammoth teeth, shaking, trembling with lunatic delight. Yes, of course, he had thoughts. Just because he was different didn’t mean he was less civilized. Just because he enjoyed killing didn’t make him less likable. He was Buick Cannon, the Creamy Weenie, purveyor of lost souls.

  Murder is the beginning and the end.

  He understood now. But not before. This was a new life, and he liked it a lot better. Who said salvation was obtainable only in Heaven?

  The end of life brought a prosperous beginning. Man judged, and man killed. Man did not go out revivifying order, flesh, the birds, and the trees. Man dismembered, maimed, and mutilated. Man disturbed, interrupted, and broke all the laws. Man could not create without destroying.

  Nostrils flared, wet and breathing, Buick loped into the dark on all fours.

  Who said there had to be a moon?

  ~

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “I didn’t hear anything, and I really wish you would leave me alone.”

  Christine was in Buick’s office. Buick was sitting in the chair behind his desk. The afternoon sun shone through the window.

  “By the way, sir. I had a wonderful time the other night.”

  Buick looked at her and tried to grin. It was impossible. “That’s nice, Christine. Do you really have to bug me now?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “About the murders. It’s not in the papers, but it’s all over town. People talking. Sam Sharlott never went to work this
morning. Connie and Ray drove over and found them all butchered. The same thing happened at the Cooper’s, the Korbett’s, and the Daniel’s house. A real bloodbath. It’s all over town. I can’t believe you didn’t hear.”

  Buick had to think about it for a minute. He was in dreamland again. The circus wasn’t over. He couldn’t make himself wake up, and he was back home in bed dreaming. He had to start eating better or something. This was too real.

  “The morning papers?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Not the morning papers. It’s all over town.”

  “But not in the papers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well then, how do you expect me to believe it if it’s not in the morning papers?”

  Christine furrowed her brows. “Sir?”

  “I need evidence, Christine. Crucial evidence this isn’t some trick of your imagination. You have not brought home the Nobel Prize yet, sweetheart. You have to be more convincing.” Buick laughed and wiggled his finger. “I’m no dummy. This isn’t a game we’re playing.”

  Christine looked puzzled and frowned. “Sir, are you okay?”

  “Who gave you permission to ask me that? Did I say you could ask a question?”

  “I just thought you’d be concerned, sir, for the Coopers’, and the Korbetts’—”

  “Yeah yeah yeah, and the Smitzes, and the Smoltzes, and the entire cast of Leibowitz Von Honstonstein’s Castle for the Criminally Impaired. The picture is as clear as crystal. Getting around the big picture is impossible. And, of course, everyone thinks I did it! Well, that’s just wonderful! That’s just blueberry pie!”

  “No one’s saying you did it, sir. It’s just a matter of—”

  “Oh, don’t try to kid me, Christine-love-affair. I’m no joker at the poker table. You give me one ounce of respect for all the cash I’ve doled out to you, and you might be able to understand a few things. First, don’t go peddling your programs without my permission. You can keep that handy three-dollar bill, but just give me back my change once in a while, will ya? You’re not the best supermarket shopper in town. We have better bargains at the pet store, you get what I’m saying?”

  Christine looked at Buick as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail. Perhaps a second head. She didn’t know what he was talking about, and she was worried.

  “Get out of my office, Christine. Before I call the cops. I know a freeloader when I see one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Christine saluted, about-faced, and walked out the door.

  “Quit doing that!” he yelled after her.

  ~

  Why was there never any aspirin when you needed some? Where was the coffeepot, the candlelit stove? His friends weren’t around anymore. This was chaos and confusion (Hello, nice to meetcha!), all grins, smiles, and apoplexy. He welcomed them with open arms, open smiles, grins about their faces, and all the joyous tears he could muster. You didn’t watch Buick Cannon and not understand what he was going through. You didn’t watch Buick Cannon and not be reminded of the wrong you’d done, the perception of things in life, dreams, fancies, idle imaginings—and be considered one of the great few who had participated in The Pageant of Great Thinkers, All Those Who Made a Difference.

  It was all nonsense and everybody knew it. Buick knew it, and that was why he was loping about on all fours.

  Hey, goddamn it! That’s my mark! Don’t go near there! That fire hydrant is wet for a reason, the same with that bush, that line in the sand!

  They were all out to get him, to put an end to his sewer-like upbringing, the rat slaying of his forefathers. Who on Earth had given these people rewards? The perplexity of the situation was stunning. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t escape the chaos and confusion without getting in the way of some terrible rodent.

  He didn’t know anything about the Smitzes or the Smoltzes. He didn’t care what happened as long as people left him alone. He couldn’t be bothered and participate otherwise. All was nothing, and nothing was new to him. He didn’t care, didn’t breathe, didn’t leave another ounce of serenity behind. If he did, he’d have to face the Great and Terrible Maker. The Terrible Maker drew lines in the sand, writing out Buick’s name in Greek letters. He’d started the feast, waking toward a terrible sun.

  Buick howled at no moon and waited for his day at the office.

  ~

  He ran through the mountainous terrain on all fours. Trees whipped by. Animal smells, dead and alive, pervaded the air. He sensed houses close by and veered from the neighborhoods, moving deeper into the hills. A storm was brewing, and it would be here soon, his senses told him.

  He was smiling as he ran, tongue lolling from his mouth, panting for breath, bounding over rocks, between trees, along gullies, and creek beds. He liked this life, felt it, sensed it in everything around him, eyes seeing differently, smells he’d never noticed before, and the knowledge of the storm.

  The stars were visible in a clear, velvet sky. He didn’t feel like a massive beast, certainly not a werewolf, just a dog, a hybrid mix, some yellow mutt. He wanted to lick faces, lap at the space between his legs, and sniff the crotches of strangers. What else did a mutt have to look forward to?

  He felt free, energized, probably because of all the victims he’d eaten.

  Now he was awake and rested, wanting to play, bounding through nearby hills and forests.

  A flying saucer suddenly ascended the hill in front of him. Lights blinded him. For some reason, the saucer was making helicopter noises. Maybe he didn’t recognize it as a helicopter because he was a dog. But no…even his trained K-9 senses made the connection, flat and round like the faces of two dinner plates put together, only these dinner plates had spotlights and lasers.

  “BUICK CANNON! STOP WHERE YOU ARE! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!”

  Stop where he was? This was no good. He wasn’t about to play their game. Who the hell wanted to be captured by a UFO?

  Buick barked repeatedly in reply. He turned and bolted the way he’d come, trying to lose them through the trees.

  They were good aliens, and they owned an impressive machine. The spaceship followed, spotlight encircling him like the center of an Oreo cookie. All he could hope for was that they’d crash into the side of a mountain.

  “YOU’RE NOT MAKING THIS ANY EASIER ON YOURSELF, MR. CANNON! PLEASE STOP WHERE YOU ARE! WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE AND WHAT YOU DID! PLEASE STOP OR WE’LL BE FORCED TO SHOOT!”

  Buick didn’t stop. He hurried through the hills, the spotlight still dead on him. He darted here and there, jumping small boulders. A laser blast went off ten feet behind him, felling a large pine. Sparks showered all around. Good thing their lasers weren’t as accurate as the spotlight.

  But then one got him, and he yelped. His hindquarters lost an edge, and he skidded over the ground, dirt, and pine needles. A blast of pain paralyzed him. He whined, barked a feeble curse, and came to a halt. They’d taken his rear, right leg. He whined in agony, trying to move, dragging himself in circles.

  He wasn’t through putting up a fight, however, despite the odds. He hobbled on three legs and tried to find cover, a place to lick his wounds.

  Another laser blast tore off his left leg, and he howled in maniacal pain. His throat was dry, and it was hard to breathe. Sand and dirt were in his throat.

  “WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED! PLEASE DON’T TRY AND ESCAPE, OR WE’LL BE FORCED TO SHOOT!”

  They seemed pleased. Where was he going anyway? Sure enough, as he looked to the sky, three other saucers rose behind the hill, illuminating the entire mountain in a configuration of colorful, carnival lights. Wasn’t he supposed to see in black and white?

  Defeated, he put his head on his paws. Lasers blasted the earth around him, sending debris over his head and onto his coat. He cowered behind a large rock and whined as the saucers closed in.

  CHAPTER V

  “Oh, I’m getting so sick of this roundabout crap. Where’s the Calgon bath when you need it?”

  Buick put his hand to his head. He�
�d tell himself later he had to put the booze down. It was going to kill him. He had to get away from the sauce, start exercising, or win some contest, which would bring him into prosperity, hope, salvation, and eternal peace. He deserved a prize. He had to have something for his skittish existence—this unpalatable reversal of fortune—a wrong turn in a dark direction.

  “I’m like a comic book character. It’s impossible to die. There’s no end. Every month an issue keeps coming out, and I’m stuck trying to amuse some half-baked twelve-year-old with a dull imagination and all his mommy’s pocket money.”

  Buick didn’t know what he was talking about anymore than we do.

  Maybe he was going crazy, slipping, seeing things because of withdrawing from the booze. Maybe the tail end of the universe was tied into a great big knot, and it was doing whatever it wanted to people, whenever it felt like it.

  “That’s exactly what’s happened. That’s exactly what’s going on. There is no timetable. No turn of events. It’s just someone laughing his Lordly ass off. That’s all it’s ever been. Who gave this guy permission to talk? Where did he get the right?”

  Buick didn’t know to whom he was talking, but he felt better for having gotten it out of his system. He liked getting things off his chest. He liked listening to himself. That was the trouble. And now he was sleeping and dreaming too much or going insane. He didn’t understand it, of course, and if he didn’t understand it by now, he probably wasn’t going to. He couldn’t differentiate between the sleeping world and the waking one. Time, as well, had abandoned him. When he thought back, he couldn’t remember individual days—a day he had done this or that thing in particular. It all seemed like one day to him. One day filled with so many events it had to be more than one, a thousand days in one day, and for some reason, time just didn’t make sense. He was losing his grip. The edge of the universe was in sight. He was balancing on it by his toes. He just wanted to forget all these corkscrew events, roller coaster rides, unexpected wrappings on doors to a parallel universe. He just wanted to go to work and come home and enjoy his time in front of the boob box. Was that too much to ask? Why did he have to be a massive predator beast, unknowingly dismembering the neighbors and townsfolk? Jesus, what a dilemma! Maybe he should end his life right now! He could save a lot of people from a lot of hurt.