The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai
Page 1
“I speak Spanish to God, French to women, English to men, and
Japanese to my horse.”—Buckaroo Banzai
Buckaroo Banzai. A strange, elusive figure, his name whispered in barrooms and boardrooms, his advice sought by pashas and presidents, his exploits recounted in movies, novels, and comic books that seem somehow more real than life itself.
Buckaroo Banzai. First and foremost an extraordinary brain surgeon. In his spare time designer and driver of the electrifying Jet Car, a speed machine faster than sound! Buckaroo Banzai. A happy man whose life has been marked by great tragedy, who speaks a dozen languages and writes songs in all of them. His musical sidekicks the Hong Kong Cavaliers—Rawhide, Reno, the Swede, Perfect Tommy, Flyboy, Big Norse, Pecos—are one of the toughest, most popular hard-rocking bar bands in east Texas.
Join Team Banzai on their two-fisted, action-packed assault against the evil red Lectroids from Planet 10! Experience the horrors of the Shock Tower and the Pitt deep within the walls of Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems as Buckaroo Banzai fights against impossible odds to rescue Penny Priddy from the clutches of Dr. Emilio Lizardo, the diabolically alien dictator. Pray that Buckaroo will succeed, knowing only too well that if he fails the Earth itself will be blown to dust!
For the first time in nearly twenty years, Pocket Books is proud to present The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai. This special edition features a new introduction by the author and a color insert featuring photos and illustrations seen here for the very first time!
No matter where you go, there you are.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 1984, 2001 by Sherwood Productions, Inc. Introduction copyright © 2001 by Earl Mac Rauch
Originally published in mass market in 1984 by Pocket Books
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-7434-4248-2
First Pocket Books trade paperback printing December 2001
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POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Cover art by Michael Okuda
Printed in the U.S.A.
Contents
INTRODUCTION
EDITOR'S NOTE
TO THE READER
THE ADVENTURES OF BUCKAROO BANZAI
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
To Rawhide and the others
without whom . . .
Introduction
How time changes everything! By a decision of fate, I was thinking of this as Buckaroo Banzai and I sat swapping wonderful stories one night, and it was not long before he turned to me and said, “Why don’t you collect a volume of our adventures together, Reno?”
“Could we collect many together?” I asked excitedly.
“As many as the book will hold,” he assured me, and I immediately set about to plan details.
But which stories? To this end, I turned to you, my flying squad of youthful readers and the conscience of honest people everywhere, who have imposed on me the strictest moral principles in my actions and sustained me in conditions that surpass the imagination. When I say that you are the supreme authority to whom I resort, it is in joy at feeling your loyalty and high sentiments of duty. You are my church, my thunder, who never fail to remove every stone from my path; it is for you to show the way.
Thanks to your overwhelming messages of support, there will be a book of new stories—hopefully many of them—in the near future.
But for now, many of you have hard-pressed me to reprint in narrative form the torturous path traveled by the creature Dr. Emilio Lizardo, Supreme Dictator of Planet 10, from his lost corner of hell in the 8th Dimension to his miracle return to the land of the living: in effect the volume you are holding in your hands at this very moment.
The fact that Lizardo’s wild plan nearly succeeded had, as we now know, famous near-tragic consequences. At a hard moment—the most dramatic of my life—the world stood still, all but lost, and would have been . . . but for one man, whose name is on my lips.
“Why don’t you collect another volume of stories, Reno?”
Yes, I will—and soon. As Buckaroo Banzai is fond of stating, each must give as much as he can afford of the three T’s—Time, Treasure and Talent—in order to serve others. With the active assistance of many others, I have been kept busy remounting this little volume and now bring it to you posthaste.
Armed with an open sesame to Banzai Institute archives and Buckaroo Banzai’s private files, I have taken a great deal of trouble to safeguard the truth, even where the requirements of storytelling have superintended augmenting my sources with occasional “scenes” at which neither I nor any of our group was present. (It is to be hoped the reader’s appraising eye will find these occasional sorties of necessity picturesque and even largely believable.) Seeking only to contribute to honor the dead and to prove that a noble exploit still finds recognition, I embrace you in a special manner. For always, for ever
—Reno
Banzai Institute
June 1981
Editor’s Note
Portions of the following material appeared originally in the Journal for Empirical Research into the Paranormal, 1982
To the Reader
It will doubtless be charged by cynics that the compilation and publication of this volume have been done with an eye toward mass sales and nothing more; that the sensational elements of the case have been accentuated to serve the public clamor rather than the cause of accuracy. The truth is otherwise, however, as the most cursory examination of the facts will reveal. If anything, I have refrained from using much of the more lurid material on the grounds that it might invite panic among those unfamiliar with the story or in those of weak mental fiber. I do confess that in my zeal for getting an overview of the whole and a sense of perspective, I have found it necessary to recreate certain situations central to the drama where I could not have been a witness or where, indeed, no person now living (I use “person” in the sense of “intelligent being”) could have been present. In all other instances, where possible, I have relied upon eyewitnesses, the corporate records of Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems, the kindly assistance of the Nova Police (the Planet 10 equivalent of Interpol), the documents of the Banzai Institute, and, of course, the Freedom of Information Act in obtaining U.S. government files. Throughout, I have endeavored to be as faithful as possible to the events as they actually occurred and would like to thank Mrs. E. Johnson, archivist of the Banzai Institute, for her valued help and her many hours of selfless labor on behalf of the project . . . and, of course, Buckaroo Banzai, M.D., Ph.D.
Reno
1
Sitting here safely in the stained-glass enclosed study of the Banzai Institute for Biomedical Engineering and Strategic Information, I am at last able to look back on the events of the twelfth and thirteenth of June past with a certain remove and, I may say, a sense of profound relief that the worst did not occur when it seemed as though it might. For this, the world has to thank Buckaroo Banzai, that rare combination of cunning and civilized breeding, who was contacted by representatives of the Nova Police, whose very existence until that time was unknown to us; but perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. A bit of history may be helpful here for our youthful readers.
One evening I made my way down from the bunkhouse, as the top floor of the Banzai Institute is called by those of us fortunate enough to be residents, and on passing the projection room looked in to see Buckaroo Banzai sitting alone while a faded eight millimeter home movie print flickered on the screen. It was a sight I had witnessed on more than one occasion, the man alone with his thoughts and whatever memories the images on screen rekindled, and I mention it here only because of the fortuitous timing. It was only days before the scheduled test run of the new Jet Car in Texas, and the events on the screen took on a special meaning, bearing as they did on the present.
On the screen, a Texas vista, made broader by the sweep of the camera, served as a backdrop for a 1950-model Ford automobile and an expedition of five individuals dressed in the style prevalent in that arid habitat, in boots and hats of the American Southwest. In my mind’s eye now I see them smiling, waving at the camera. It looks more like an outing in the country than a scene of any scientific expedition. Certainly there is no presage of what is to come, not the faintest hint of danger. Comprising the group portrait are two Oriental men, two Caucasian men, and a single Caucasian woman. The sun is sweltering, thermal waves rising off the desert floor which is a dry lake basin. In one corner of the picture I recall surveying instruments, a theodolite. The operator of the camera shifts its focus repeatedly amongst the companions, his hand not the steadiest, and shooting from a lower angle relative to the subjects. He is in fact the young Buckaroo Banzai, a precocious boy of four years, and he now comes into view as one of the Orientals walks forward to take the camera.
Young Banzai is a boy like any other, racially mixed, wearing a red hat and a six-shooter, possessing what all children most require, a pair of loving parents. The Caucasian woman and the remaining Oriental embrace him warmly, and the film changes scenes.
Standing in the doorway of the projection room, I noticed Buckaroo stir. Something in him surged to his throat, and he exhaled audibly. More than thirty years later, the recollection of what was to follow on the screen still made it almost unbearable for him to watch. I must confess to feeling convulsed myself every time I have seen the footage.
Imagine a long torpedo with wheels and a cockpit cut into it so that it might accommodate a crew of two, and imagine yourself further to be the four-year-old Buckaroo watching from behind a sandbagged shelter as your father, at the wheel of the streamlined vehicle, presses the starter only to be engulfed in searing flames. Your mother screams, releases your frightened hand, and plunges herself into the fire in an effort to save your father. An explosion terrible to behold sucks the air out of your lungs, and only the body of your father’s closest friend thrown recklessly across your own saves you from being pelted with bits and pieces of your parents.
For a long time after the film finished and slapped against the reel, Buckaroo did not move. Finally, because I suppose I could bear the pathetic sight no longer, I stepped forward, placed my hands on his shoulders.
“Buckaroo—?”
He looked up, trying to compose himself. “Hey, Reno—” he said, sitting up straighten “I thought everybody was asleep.”
“Just going downstairs for a beer. Can I get you one?”
“No, I’m all right. Think I’ll go to bed. I was just trying to see if there was anything we could learn.”
“Still think it was an incendiary device?” I asked, fully aware of the answer.
“It had to be.”
I nodded. “Xan?”
“Who else? I can’t prove it, though.”
“What difference would it make if we could?” I said, knowing that getting Xan out of his stronghold in Sabah would be like extracting the incisors of a wildcat. No one knew this better than Buckaroo, who had actually been there and had seen the relic city of caves hacked out of mountainous jungle, teeming with brigands and assassins from every corner of the world, afforded by Xan a sanctuary from which they could come and go with impunity.*
*(Note to the reader: In the adventure Extradition from Hell, B. Banzai went to Sabah under the protection of the beautiful zombie La Negrette, introduced to him by Seth. Seth told Buckaroo that his wife, poisoned by Xan, was not dead but alive in Sabah, having been injected with the nerve poison Talava which destroys mind and soul but actually improves one’s health. B. Banzai failed to find any trace of her and barely escaped Xan’s Nautiloids at sea.—Reno)
Buckaroo stood up, resigned to going to bed. “Not a helluva lot,” he said. “I can only kill him once. Good night, Reno.”
“Good night,” I said. “What time we leaving tomorrow?”
“Bus pulls out at ten-thirty.”
“See you in the morning, Buckaroo.”
He nodded. I took the film from the projector and went down the hall to the archives to file it. As I suspected, Mrs. Johnson was still awake, listening to another batch of demo tapes submitted to the Hong Kong Cavaliers, the musical group of which Buckaroo and I were members. One of those persons who languishes by day and does not seem to come fully alive until the middle of the night, Mrs. Johnson, at nineteen the premature widow of Flyboy, was just gathering momentum. Over the indescribable din of a song called “Merry as a Monkey,” she said hello and asked if Buckaroo had said anything about her going to the Jet Car test.
“To me?” I said. “Was he supposed to?”
“Well, it’s been nearly six months.”
By that I supposed she meant her apprenticeship which preceded internship, which in turn preceded residency. In the manner of a hospital, only interns and residents were allowed to go on actual operations, which I pointed out to her.
“But this isn’t technically an operation,” she said. “It’s a tour.”
True, we were presenting musical shows in three cities along the way, but that was mainly for gas money. Our clear mission was the Jet Car test, and beyond the Jet Car test there was the real Jet Car test of which only Buckaroo and the residents were apprised. And despite the perceived nature of the trip, any trip, there was always the lurking menace of Xan, capable of the basest atrocities. I said this to her.
“Anyway,” I said. “The problem is that with the Seminole Kid, Pecos, and the Argentine with Cousteau on the Calypso, we’re a little short around here.”
“Go suck eggs,” she said.
So much for my explanation. I smiled, remembering myself at her age when my quick temper had been legendary. Buckaroo in fact had more than once seen fit to needle me by reciting one of his Oriental maxims: “Young blood needs little flame to boil.” I mentioned this to her, and she found it singularly amusing, as if I should have ever been her age.
“See you when we get back,” I said on my way out the door.
“Good luck,” she called after me.
2
The morning of the scheduled Jet Car test, I was awakened on the bus by the rude breath of Rawhide, who found it necessary to tell me that Buckaroo had been called away, and he, Rawhide, was going with him.
“Called away? What are you talking about?” I said, summoning the fortitude to look at my watch. It was barely four, and the test was to be in less than five hours, on top of which, there had been a concert in Amarillo the night before so that any foray at this hour of the morning seemed a particularly unappealing prospect.
“He has to go El Paso,” Rawhide said in his typical humorless wa
y. “He has to operate on an Eskimo.”
I nodded, somehow knowing it was true. “What about me and Perfect Tommy?” I said.
“Buckaroo wants the two of you to go on out to the test site with Professor Hikita and stand by. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
“Isn’t the Secretary of Defense supposed to be there?” I asked, raising a small point.
“That’s why we’ll be back as soon as we can,” Rawhide repeated and disappeared. “Try to keep him busy.”
If I had dared to hope it was a nightmare, I was soon dissuaded by the anxious hands of Perfect Tommy shaking me awake for a second time.
“What is it, Tommy? Can’t it wait?”
“Buckaroo’s leaving.”
He had heard the helicopter. I shouldn’t have laughed, but no one ever told Tommy anything. He was the youngest of our number and the good-humored butt of our jokes. Again on this occasion he was the last to know.
“Well, what do we do now?” he said.
“Let’s get some breakfast.”
On our way back to the galley, we passed through that amazing section of the bus known as World Watch One, devoted to a constant monitoring of worldwide satellite and communications traffic. The intern on duty, a young Blue Blaze from Denmark who through no fault of her own had somehow gained the mismatched moniker Big Norse, immediately called to our attention a cryptic message just received from the Seminole Kid off the coast of Sabah, Malaya—a latitude-longitude fix and something about “death dwarves taken aboard.”
I scratched my head, passed the wire to Perfect Tommy. “When did this come in?” I said.
“Just now,” replied Big Norse.
Perfect Tommy proved as mystified as I. “Did you radio back?” he asked.