Buick Cannon: (A Joke From the Moon) Read online

  Marion was still screaming, resisting Buick’s force. She kicked at his legs, slapped at his chest and arms, then smacked him good on the side of the face.

  “Ouch! Goddamnit, Marion, cut that out!”

  Marion’s arms pin-wheeled in blurring circles, her feet kicking out.

  Buick rammed the blade into one of her arms. She crumpled a bit. The screams stopped.

  “Doesn’t feel good, does it?” Buick said. “How’d you like to go through that again?” He stabbed her in the other arm, but she returned with vigor, coming to life again, kicking at his shins, bruising them, making them bleed. She tore a whole in his pants.

  “Marion, I’m not gonna tell you again! There’s no getting around it. It can’t be helped. You know as well as I do that this is how things are supposed to be! So quit trying to fight it, and let’s get this over with. You’re driving me crazy!”

  Marion continued to resist, bringing her screams once more to a flat-out wail. She tried to beat at him with her wounded arms, kicked, punched, slapped, and did whatever she could do to thwart her attacker.

  “You’re starting piss me off, Marion!” Buick cried. “Ouch! Goddamnit, Marion! Stop that! What the hell did I—”

  That did it. He plunged the knife into her belly, and she finally sagged. Her head fell to her chest. Her arms tried to stop the flow of blood from her stomach. She wasn’t kicking, wasn’t screaming, wasn’t doing much of anything now, but dying.

  “That’s better,” Buick said. “I don’t know why we can’t just get along, you know? It’s not that I don’t love you or anything. This is just how it’s supposed to be. Jesus, I thought that was obvious.”

  Marion did not think that was obvious. She fell to her knees, then to the side. Blood spilled freely from her stomach. Her eyes were open. Marion was dead.

  “God,” he said, exasperated. “I hope Dan is a little more cooperative.”

  He thought he would make it easy on himself. On the way to Gilmour’s, he changed into the beast. Dan wouldn’t have much to say about that.

  CHAPTER VII

  It was a white and cold day in the town of Peekie. Summer had come and gone. So had fall. A thick blanket of snow covered the town, and it was still snowing.

  Buick woke up and groaned. Oh God, when would these dreams end, he thought? Was it just gonna go on and on? Maybe he should see a doctor.

  Rubbing his eyes, he went to the phone and called Christine. She picked up after three rings.

  “Christine!” he said. “Birthday girl! How are you?”

  “My birthday’s not until tomorrow, sir,” Christine said.

  Buick cackled. “I know. I just wanted to make sure we were still on for tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to it, sir,” Christine said.

  “Great, I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “The anticipation is killing me.”

  Buick smiled and hung up. He showered, made coffee, breakfast, and hoped the sidewalks had been shoveled. He had to go into town and buy Christine a present.

  At 10:34 a.m., he put on his coat and gloves, his boots, took his wallet, his keys, and walked into town.

  ~

  Shopping for several hours, he ended up buying Christine seven different presents, his favorite, being the green marble bookends. They were expensive, but Christine was worth it. He had also purchased a coffee-maker because she said she didn’t have one, coffee mugs, the finest coffee he could find, an umbrella, a knit hat, leather gloves, a book on castles of Europe, and a set of sterling silver earrings. He didn’t count the mugs or the coffee itself as a present since it all went together with the coffeepot. He did, however, wish he’d brought the car, because this stuff was getting heavy, and he was thirsty and hungry.

  He stopped at Curly John’s Convenient Store and had a hard time maneuvering through the isle with the bags he was carrying. All he wanted was a 7-up and a cinnamon roll. He managed to carry everything to the counter, but a customer by the register was taking a very long time. Not a local, obviously, dressed as if he’d come from the city: long black trench coat, black knit hat, and gloves. The man was buying a pack of cigarettes and a candy bar. On his way out, the man turned to Buick and flashed him a wide, creepy smile.

  The confusion he felt was virtually mammoth-like in its proportion, but there was something that convinced him—confirmed that he knew this man. Long black hair, wide smile, black eyes, and in that moment, Buick did remember. The jester in the king’s castle, the Counselor. It was the same man, and the Counselor had just confirmed it, the same sinister sonofabitch who’d put the spell on him.

  Dropping the bags, but emitting the bookends, Buick ran out the door, and down the street. It was still snowing. Sirens headed for Gilmour’s Tavern. (Supposedly, there had been a slaughter there the night before, just recently discovered). Buick saw the man turn and disappear around the corner at the end of the block.

  Buick did not slip on the ice, panting for breath, big vapory clouds floating out in front of him.

  He caught up to the man, grabbed him by the shoulders, and wheeled him around. The man was clearly caught off guard, offended, and irate.

  “Hello there,” Buick said. “Remember me?”

  He did not give the man time to register what he’d said. The Counselor tilted his head, and that was when Buick brought the bookend up, caving it into the man’s skull. People screamed and fled. Someone yelled, “Police! Police! Murder!”

  Buick didn’t pay attention. The man was already on the sidewalk, bleeding from his head, and into the snow. Repeated blows continued to rain down on the Counselor’s head:

  “How do you like that? How does that feel? I think we’re even now, don’t you?”

  Buick cackled like a hyena. Unable to control himself, he began to snarl and growl, and police cruisers stopped, skidding across the icy streets. They came to halt where he was killing (or killed) the man on the ground. Shots erupted. Someone told him to halt, but he was oblivious.

  Buick was gunned down on the streets of Peekie. Bullets took him from every side, and this time, they did have an affect. He slumped over the Counselor, the marble bookend still in his hand. That was a helluva present to give Christine, he thought, and breathed his last.

  Buick Cannon’s comical, bloody reign was over.

  EPILOGUE

  “I should probably be getting home. It’s getting late.”

  Tommy nodded, sad to see the night come to an end. There would be other days, though, and that was something to look forward to. After all, they did this ‘play thing’ on a regular basis, especially now that it was summer. Next year, they would be in the fourth grade, practically adults! The toys and the pretend world would fade as the years went by.

  “That was fun,” Phillip said. Phillip was a small, African-American boy, who lived down the street with his dad, Oliver Jenkins. He and Tommy (who was Caucasian) had been best friends since kindergarten. Sometimes, they played with their toys, grouping them all together at one another’s house. It was a ritual to switch: sometimes Tommy’s house, sometimes Phillip’s. Sometimes, they played in the back yard, sometimes in the field across the street, but always the same: The Further Adventures of Buick Cannon.

  “Do you mind if I borrow this one,” Tommy said, holding up the figure of a large hairy beast, maniacal claws, and demented features.

  “Go ahead,” Phillip said. “I’ll trade you for Christine?”

  “Deal.”

  Phillip grabbed the figure of a busty figure with long, auburn hair. He didn’t know where Tommy had picked up the figure. He didn’t have a sister. But ever since, he had called her Christine, and they used her as Buick’s sometime girlfriend.

  Tommy stood up and put the figures in a large black case, the one that looked like a large Georgian house. Inside, the black case, he put the figure of the bartender, the cop, and the man with the blue shirt and slacks. (Don’t forget the massive beast with hair and claws). The case was large enough for most of the toy
s, and sometimes they used the case as a prop, a black haunted house. Tommy closed the case and locked it, suddenly laughing. Phillip turned toward him, wondering what was so funny.

  “I just thought that was a funny one,” Tommy explained. “They’re not usually that funny.”

  Phillip was smiling as well. They were like a couple of scientists, experimenting each time, trying to make the next play more entertaining than the last.

  “The UFO’s,” Tommy said. “That was good. But we need to stop swearing so much. Next time, Mom’ll ground me.”

  Phillip laughed, modest. “We’ll do an edited version next time,” he said.

  Tommy nodded. “Well, I’ll see you next week,” he said.

  “Sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks. The moon’s out.”

  Phillip nodded and walked his friend to the door. His parents said goodbye, they’d be barbecuing tomorrow if Tommy wanted to come by. Ribs, they’d said. Tommy said he’d ask his mom. He loved barbecued ribs.

  Tommy walked down the sidewalk in the warm summer evening, issuing growls from his throat, and started to laugh. There wasn’t anyone on the streets. It was dark and empty except for the full moon, bright and shining in the night sky.

  “The joke’s on you, Buick, old buddy,” Tommy said, and giggled again.

  Buick would’ve been upset. The whole time he had never seen the moon, not once, but there it was now, full and bright, a single eye in the sky: a joke from the moon. Who would’ve thought?

  Tommy was still giggling when he walked up the steps to his house. He grabbed the knob, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

  Thank you, Dear Reader, for taking the time to read Buick Cannon. If you enjoyed the tale, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review on Amazon. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated!

  Sincerely,

  Brandon Berntson

  If you liked Buick Cannon, you might try Body of Immorality, To Disturb the Dead, and All The Gods Against Me.

  About the Author:

  Brandon Berntson was born in Boise Idaho, but grew up in various towns throughout Colorado, where most of his stories take place. A fan of dark fantasy, horror, magical realism, and young adult fantasy, he is the author of Castle Juliet and When We Were Dragons, enchanting, magical reads for all ages, along with Body of Immorality, a cryptic collection of horror stories, and the raw, adult-themed, All The Gods Against Me.

  A fan of ice hockey, Beethoven, Black Sabbath, classic horror films, and Star Trek, he makes his home in Boulder, Colorado. Visit him at www.brandonberntson.com or his Amazon Author Page.

  Go to the next page to see the complete works of Brandon Berntson.

  Also by Brandon Berntson:

  Urban/Dark Fantasy:

  All The Gods Against Me: The Story of Clarence Manning

  Calliope

  Worlds Away

  Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy

  Snapdragon Book II: In the Land of the Dragon

  Horror:

  Corona of Blue

  Body of Immorality: Tales of Madness and the Macabre

  Donny’s Day

  Silly Girl

  To Disturb the Dead

  The Battle of the Elect

  Literary/Magical realism:

  The Smoky Dragon (a love story)

  Blue Sky Winter (A Christmas Tale)

  One World

  All It Will Always Be

  King of Forgotten Land

  Comic Horror:

  Buick Cannon (A Joke From the Moon)

  Fantasy/Young Adult:

  When We Were Dragons

  Castle Juliet