The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai

by Earl Mac Rauch

  And it isn’t long in coming. Someone shouts, “Perfect Tommy’s here,” and in pads the culprit, guilt written all over his face. With him is the network commentator, no longer on her way to Cambodia, instead intent on a little spade work where we’re concerned. Is it true you’re all sharpshooters? she asks. Yes. Like the FBI? Somewhat, although we are not crime solvers in the main. Then what are you? She explains apologetically that she is our biggest fan but has been instructed by her network to ask some “hard” questions. I accordingly refer her to a paper issued by the Banzai Institute which lays out our aims, philosophy, and sources of funding, pointing out that we are a non-profit enterprise in all respects. As for our constitutional powers, I say, we have none, unless you consider the extraordinary rights accorded every U.S. citizen by law, in which case we are amply empowered to go about our business. What is your business? she persists. Adventure, I reply.

  My chief calls. “Everybody ready?” says Buckaroo. We assent, with the glorious exception of Tommy who is still furiously tuning his guitars. The owner of the club, Artie, comes in, summoning us to the stage. Full of bluster and loud of voice, he is actually a self-made parody of a hepcat, a necessity in this rough-and-tumble syncopated music club.

  “You guys gonna play music or play with your chemistry sets?” he says. We all ignore him, feigning indifference. “I don’t care if you drove through a rock this morning. That’s Texas! This is New Jersey! I want some music outta you characters!”

  Buckaroo observes Tommy through narrow eyes, restraining comment, when suddenly Professor Hikita leaps to his feet, his face deathly pale.

  “Look at this, Buckaroo!” he exclaims, bringing over the slides and the spectroscope. “It’s growing!”

  We crowd around, eagerly wanting to see for ourselves, each with his own theory.

  (Buckaroo peers through the spectroscope.)

  Buckaroo Banzai:

  It does seem to be larger. Have you phoned the Institute?

  Professor Hikita:

  I’ve told them to run immediate tests, measuring its response to electricity.

  Perfect Tommy:

  Electricity? What are you talking about?

  Rawhide:

  Are you tuned up?

  Perfect Tommy:

  I’m ready. What’s on the slide, Prof?

  Professor Hikita:

  A smear of the specimen Buckaroo pulled off the Jet Car drive shaft.

  Perfect Tommy:

  You mean the thing he picked up in the other dimension?

  Rawhide:

  Exactly.

  (The network commentator, thrilled to hear this . . .)

  Commentator:

  What? You brought something back from the other dimension? Something alive? Where is it?

  Professor Hikita:

  At the Banzai Institute, in an Igloo box, undergoing tests.

  Commentator:

  In quarantine? Then there is possible danger?

  Buckaroo Banzai:

  This will all be explained tomorrow at the press conference.

  An explanation I’d like to hear myself, I remember thinking, as at last we head toward the stage, stepping into a small antiquated elevator for the descent. As the somber machinery takes us down, we talk freely among ourselves about what we had seen on the spectroscopic slide.

  Perfect Tommy:

  Is it alive or dead? That would seem to be the key question.

  Reno:

  Obviously it’s alive—if it’s growing.

  Rawhide:

  Not necessarily. Crystals grow in inorganic chemical reactions. You can’t say they’re alive.

  Reno:

  You have a point. On the other hand—what is life?

  Perfect Tommy:

  On the other hand, those were like no crystals I’ve ever seen on the slide. Without even being able to identify the compound, I’d say this conversation is pointless.

  Buckaroo Banzai:

  Right, let’s keep our minds on music.

  Thus, we were left to ponder, with only superficial scrutiny of the strange object which I have called a parasite, its significance. It is no wonder human beings become crazed in the twentieth century with so much to contend with daily. I’m sure it crossed all our minds. What is this strain from a place we cannot even name? What have we unleashed? Is there a chance of its springing upon an unsuspecting world, in the manner of classic science fiction? Of course. There is always a chance, miniscule as we might wish to portray it. Scientific progress is always fraught with unknown risks. In fact, even as we gained the stage, beads of sweat glistening from our faces, we could not know that the real danger to our planet was already poised to strike from another quarter.

  11

  It is in the nature of the mentally ill to wage acts of war upon themselves, and, as I have said, the gods had not been kind to Dr. Emilio Lizardo. His strength undermined, he passed the years in tedious watching and waiting, living in constant terror of himself, some dread act he might commit. At least this was how he must have seemed to his warders, long since accustomed to hearing his wild tales about someone named John Whorfin or finding desperate notes in his hand shoved beneath his door. They were short and vague. “Whorfin is a stowaway!” he might write. Or, “This is America!”

  Naturally there was no tangible evidence against anyone. Apart from his impassioned entreaties, there was no record of a John Whorfin having existed on this planet. Indeed, such a being in the flesh had not; and yet it was John Whorfin who had pulled Lizardo into the shadows of the underworld and into this manic bin, seeking an ally.

  It was the same John Whorfin who often gripped Lizardo’s hand as it held a bread knife and thrust the long narrow shaft into an electrical wall socket. While the stricken Lizardo gave hoarse, inarticulate cries, John Whorfin convulsed in ecstasy. For an instant, the brow of the scientist and the eyes of the madman danced violently at odds before the body fell back limp and quivering, Whorfin’s ravenous hunger for electricity momentarily sated. After such sessions, he was surly and, quite literally, drunk with power, bubbling over as if a quart of brandy had passed his lips; and this evening was no exception, as he lay back and listened with a snarl to the night guard’s key grating in his lock.

  “Hello, Jack,” Whorfin muttered. “Come to tell me your problems?”

  The guard Jack, intoxicated himself, thanks to Xan’s doing, gazed around Whorfin’s room in despair. In such filthy disarray that it might as well have been lined with straw, the room, in its way, resisted intruders. It would have taken days to search it systematically.

  “All right, Doc, I’ve come for your little TV,” said Jack. “You been using too much damn juice . . . Beats me how one old homicidal loony could use that much power.”

  Whorfin shrugged, sitting in that part of the room which was a sort of bedroom. “Fine with me. Take it.”

  “Where is it?”

  Whorfin pointed to a spot near his chair where, under a small pile of refuse, the television was still playing, its gleam now catching the guard’s eye.

  “Take it,” Whorfin said, making a theatrical gesture with his right hand, while in his left, prehensile lingers curved more tightly around the knife.

  The guard made his way cautiously, flipping on his pocket torch. He was middle-aged and had a round, fleshy face. Involuntarily almost, he came closer, chary of the compelling magnetism of the old man’s eyes, his sonorous voice, and air of mystery.

  “It’s all right,” said Whorfin. “I don’t need the TV anymore. Do you want to know why?”

  “Why?” asked Jack.

  Whorfin burst into a roar of laughter which chilled Jack’s soul, and yet he came closer, reaching for the television, visibly trembling.

  “What’s the matter?” said Whorfin.

  Jack tried not to meet Whorfin’s mocking gaze but found it impossible to look away. “Maybe I’ll come back later,” he said.

  Whorfin smiled an ironical smile. “You know I have some reputat
ion as a seer, Jack,” he said.

  “You’re a deep one, all right,” agreed Jack.

  “Then come closer. I have something to tell you.” Jack crept closer, all his efforts to resist proving unavailing. Inwardly Whorfin was already crouching, ready for violent action. His masterful eyes seemed pleased at the look of alarm on his quarry’s face, as it took another step. “What I have to tell you is—”

  Jack leaned closer, when suddenly, with no warning, Whorfin’s hand flicked out with astonishing strength, driving the knife into Jack’s stomach and out between his vertebrae. With an exhalation Jack fell forward, and Whorfin lifted him cleanly off the ground.

  “What I have to tell you is—” said Whorfin “—I can’t help you.”

  The shock, so to say, of what he had done made no mark on him whatever, as he greedily snatched his victim’s keys and fled. What happened in the following minutes I do not know, although the odor of Xan is unmistakable throughout. What is known for certain is that Whorfin wreaked havoc upon various defenseless fellow inmates and delivered a fearful blow to a video game machine bearing a likeness of Buckaroo Banzai before fleeing in a sports car belonging to one of the staff physicians. Who assisted him in his getaway I am not prepared to say, but it is demonstrable fact that neither Whorfin nor Lizardo could drive, in which case the accusing finger would seem to point to Xan’s toady Lo Pep, a shady figure with New York and Hong Kong connections who disappeared that night and has not been seen since. It does not strain credibility to think that he may have relaxed his vigilance in Whorfin’s presence and ended up the poorer for it, perhaps floating face down in some New Jersey marsh.

  At all events, Whorfin was free, and our own problems were just beginning.

  12

  It was past midnight, we were well into our second set of songs, when the girl known as Penny Priddy entered our lives. As far as I am able to reconstruct, no one noticed her come into the crowded club, penniless and alone, carrying the bulk of her possessions with her. She apparently found a table near the back of the room and sat for a time, inoffensive and quiet, replying only in monosyllables to the waitresses who sought to serve her. No one guessed that she was awaiting an opportune moment to end her life.

  I have, over the years, seen Buckaroo Banzai do many uncanny things, even mysterious things. That is not to say that I believe in the preternatural, for I believe quite the contrary—namely, that there is no such thing as the preternatural. Let me explain. Some centuries ago static electricity was unknown—or was it? Of course it existed—sparks did leap from fingertip to doorknob under the right conditions—but, as electricity was then unknown, there was no frame of reference in which the phenomenon could be understood. It was thus deemed to be of the preternatural realm of things. A century or two later, science having done its duty, static electricity became merely another part of nature in all her moods. People could discuss it without invoking the spirits and could well ridicule the superstitions of their forebears. It is the same, I’m sure, for every generation, each attributing to itself an intelligence out of all proportion to what posterity will afford it.

  My point is this: The preternatural of today is the science of tomorrow. Mysteries will be solved, the proper adjustments made, and humankind will go on to new discoveries. This is the bracing challenge at every stage of human history.

  Having said that, let me qualify it. Although not a believer in the so-called preternatural, I do believe in unseen powers, causal relationships of whose secrets I am in utter ignorance and yet cannot dismiss, for I have lived too long and have seen too much empirical evidence to the contrary. The intelligence of our species is of a narrower compass than any of us cares to think, and that there are things and processes beyond its pale is but a daily fact of life.

  I think of this when I think of Penny Priddy, the young girl whose mysterious glamour would soon woo B. Banzai. As I have said, none of us had the slightest intimation that something extraordinary, bordering on the incredible, was about to occur. We were simply musicians plying our trade, engrossed in the untrammeled, primitive joy of loud syncopated music, in full swing when suddenly Buckaroo stopped and signaled the rest of us to do likewise. Above the decibels of the music, he had, in a flash of intuition, heard something which bothered him. For a moment the rest of us stared at one another in bewilderment, Buckaroo having us all at a disadvantage.

  “Excuse me,” he said into the microphone, trying to quiet the audience. “Excuse me, but somebody here is not having a good time.”

  Coming from a mouth other than his, such words would have produced laughter, but in this case the room grew still, heads turning to see what could have so galvanized their hero.

  He repeated, “Somebody here is not having a good tune. Is someone out there crying in the darkness?”

  Like the rest of us, he squinted to descry a waif of vivid good looks lounging at a table by the entrance, smoking nervously, self-pity welling like a poisoned stream from her lips. “Leave me alone,” she said, spitting curses. “Can’t you just leave me alone, you half-breed?”

  The crowd hissed, but Buckaroo hushed them again to silence, saying, “That’s all right. I am a half-breed. This great country is full of us.”

  His measured words only slightly tempered her anger. “What do you care?” she demanded. “What do you care who I am, or what happens to me?”

  “I care,” he replied. “What’s your name?”

  “Peggy.”

  Feigning exhaustion, I think I nearly fell over. I could see the blood racing to Buckaroo’s temples, as Rawhide stepped up to succor him. If it was the girl’s idea of a joke, it was an outrage.

  “Did you say . . . Peggy?” Buckaroo said.

  “Penny,” was her response, her voice this time heard more clearly, and we all breathed more easily. “My name is Penny. Penny Priddy. What’s in a name? It doesn’t mean anything to you or anybody else. Please, get on with the show. I’m just a nobody.”

  “Nobody is a nobody,” Buckaroo said. “Everyone has something to offer.”

  “Save the speech,” she cried. “I don’t need it.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying,” she scoffed, as one hand slipped unobtrusively into her plastic purse and felt the welcome barrel of a small-caliber pistol. The thought of death made her strong. Life was a hell, but there was hope! She realized the longed-for moment had arrived and felt the weapon coldly, examining its joints. She would shoot herself on these premises, would cut once and for all the ropes which bound her late to Buckaroo Banzai. “It’s like this guy said,” she added, in a kind of trance, no longer even caring whether anyone heard her. “The guy in the employment office . . . he said, as long as there’s a sidewalk, I’ll always have a job. So how can I complain? I think he was trying to be nice.”

  Nothing yet had happened, except that she had knocked over a glass on the table. Those around her snickered insensitively before B. Banzai chastened them. “Don’t be mean,” he said. “The fates are cruel enough. Remember. No matter where you go, there you are.”

  She saw only a blur as he went to the piano. Memories floated across her mind, most of them unpleasant. Shortly they would all disappear. She would die and be reborn, perhaps go to that other dimension B. Banzai had discovered only this morning. There was more than this life—that much was now known. The thought of erasing the past, starting again with a clean slate and no memories—how alluring it seemed!

  “This song’s for Peggy, and anybody else a little down on their luck,” announced Buckaroo at the piano.

  “The name’s Penny.” She heaved a sigh. “But who cares?”

  Earlier in her nocturnal expedition she had accepted an offer of drinks from the first stranger who had made a momentary impression. In a cracked and pitted booth she had sat with him, enduring his filthy hands and coarse attentions while waiting for the liquor to blot out every feeling. Then he had offered her stimulants to go to his room and had attempted to ba
r her way when she refused. Only her little handgun had saved her, and now it would save her forever from men of his stamp. She would put a bullet through her aching brain.

  She knew there was no drawing back. At the threshold now, she cocked the hammer. Soon, she thought, I’ll be steeped in blood . . . white-hot, then cold.

  Now began a dreadful scene. In my shorthand notes of the affair I have described what happened next.

  (Buckaroo takes a seat at the piano and begins to play. This in itself is rather unusual, for despite his many other natural gifts, he is a fledgling pianist at best and is ordinarily loathe to play in public. On this night, however, he seems to have forgotten where he is. His face is brooding, his eyes far away as he inflicts upon us the first chords of a song we have not performed since Peggy died. For a moment the rest of us stand irresolute, confused. Is he actually going to play it? Does he want us to accompany him? The others are as uncertain as I. The song had been Peggy’s favorite. It frightens us to hear it. There is something intangible, abnormal in the air as he begins to sing the sad lyric of unrequited love. Then suddenly . . . the sound of a shot! We whip out sidearms, join forces around our leader. Is there a plot afoot? Club security men dive for Penny Priddy, struggling to disarm her, when a second shot is fired harmlessly into the ceiling. The club is a screaming melee, as they drag her toward the door.)

  Penny Priddy:

  Let me go! Let me go, you creeps!

  Buckaroo Banzai:

  Let’s have calm. Calm down, everybody. Everybody okay? Anybody hurt? Anyone in need of a doctor?