He breathed a sigh of relief and realized he still needed a screwdriver. He saw the spatula on the barbecue and grabbed it. Returning to the window, he stuck the spatula between the casing and the frame and endeavored to pry the screen out.
A loud, rasping squeal issued from next door. Buick turned just in time to see Mrs. Palenski turning deathly white. Her hands went to her face. She looked to the left. She looked to the right. Her feet moved up and down beneath her. She was running in place, unable to decide what to do.
Buick closed his eyes, sighed again, and continued to pry the screen off the window, but his neighbor continued to scream. Buick turned toward her:
“Mrs. Palenski!” he cried. “Mrs. Palenski! It’s me! Buick! I just locked myself out. Unfortunate circumstance! No harm done! See?”
He wanted to add, “Just me and my pecker,” and motion toward it. It was a harmless thing. It wasn’t excited or anything. It was just sitting there underneath all his black hair. It wasn’t even doing anything. Hell, if it was doing anything, it was shriveling up on itself!
He was embarrassed, pissed-off, and out of patience.
Mrs. Palenski continued to scream.
“Mrs, Palenski, please!” Buick pleaded. “You’ll bring out the entire neighbor-hood!”
Mrs. Palenski, still screaming, holding her hands to her face, turned, and bolted into her house. By this time, Buick managed to pry the screen off. He threw it on the ground and jumped onto the edge, trying to lift himself up and over.
At least she didn’t see it this way, he thought, and managed to smile. Hairy ass high in the air, all primed and ready, feet kicking, oh god, what a sensation!
He was giggling like a schoolgirl when he hit the kitchen floor.
~
After getting some clothes on, he wondered what had happened to him last night. He remembered going out with Christine, getting chilidogs, but after that, everything was a blur.
He wondered if there was hair between his teeth. He inspected his nails and found them jagged and worn. He hoped Mrs. Palenski didn’t call the cops.
Maybe he should leave town.
Suddenly, that seemed like a brilliant idea. He’d go to Gilmour’s, see what Dan was up to. Buick probably couldn’t afford to hang out too long anyway. The cops were on his trail.
Looking around, he realized he didn’t have his wallet, couldn’t find it anywhere. Jesus, what had happened to Christine?
He left the house, closing the door behind him. At least he wouldn’t have to crawl through the window when he came home.
Stuff will all be gone when you get home, but what do you care? You’re a werewolf.
Sirens wailed from every corner. Once in the street, police cruisers, red and blue lights flashing, surrounded him, tires squealing. People opened their front doors, stepping onto their lawns to watch. Mrs. Palenski peeked out her front window. Someone commanded through a bullhorn:
“Mr. Cannon! Stop where you are! We have you surrounded!”
“Are you guys from NASA? Where’s all the UFO’s?”
“Mr. Cannon, you are under arrest! Please put your hands in the air! Keep your hands where we can see them!”
“You know something,” he shouted. “I’ve just about had enough of this! Someone better start explaining things!”
Buick did not put his hands in the air. He was looking for answers. Cops had opened their car doors, aiming shotguns at him.
“Is that you, Carty?” Buick said. “How come you’re not behind bars?”
“Because I didn’t kill fifteen people in just four days, Mr. Cannon. Now let’s talk some sense. Put your hands in the air and don’t move. We’ll have a deputy give you your rights and cuff you.”
Carty turned to a policeman beside him and said something. The other man nodded. The policeman stood, reached for his belt, and took off a pair of cuffs. He walked toward Buick.
“Mr. Cannon, please put your hands in the air!”
Buick shook his head. He was disgusted. He’d had enough. Not caring what they did, he put his hands in the air. Not the way they had in mind. He danced around in a circle, a parody boxer. He put his hands up in front of his face, taking potshots, tapping his nose with the thumbs of each hand. “You guys wanna piece?” he cried. “You wanna piece? I gotta piece right here. There is a piece here waiting. Waiting for all of you. Come on!” He darted back and forth, avoided several imaginary blows, and continued to punch silent air.
“Mr. Cannon, you are not funny. You have the right to remain silent!”
Carty was obviously unnerved. It made Buick giggle. He continued to dance, bobbing his head this way and that, taking shots at the air. The deputy, on his way to cuff him, looked suddenly reluctant. He looked back at Carty, who simply nodded. The deputy drew his gun.
“Please, Mr. Cannon,” the policeman said, approaching. “We can handle this maturely. We can take care of this like adults.”
Buick ignored him, stabbing at the air with his fists.
Who did this guy think he was, the policeman thought, Steve Martin?
“You guys don’t know who you’re dealing with.” Buick said. “This is no laughing matter.”
“You’re right. It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Cannon. Please quit acting like a clown and put your hands behind your back!”
“I thought you wanted them in the air!”
All the policemen exchanged glances. They couldn’t believe their eyes. They couldn’t believe their ears! They had never seen anything like this before. Was the guy on PCP? Come on, Mr. Cannon, what gives?
Lippitts was the policeman walking toward him. He was the one who eventually braved it, continuing several paces toward Buick. The cuffs put away, Lippitts had a .357 out of the holster now, aimed at Buick. “Now, look here, Mr. Cannon. No one wants to hurt anyone. Let’s just go away nice and easy, and we can forget all these mean men surrounding you.”
Buick did not waver. He stepped toward Lippitts and took a punch, but it wasn’t enough for Lippitts to fire. Buick was still a good six, seven feet away.
“Goddamnit, Mr. Cannon, this is not a joke!” Carty said, from the bullhorn.
Buick continued to dance for a while, then stopped. He furrowed his brows, looking over at Lippitts. His hands fell from the air, dangling at his side. Buick looked shamefaced. “It’s not?” he said, genuinely dejected.
“No. It’s not,” said Carty through the bullhorn. “Now let Lippitts cuff you and let’s get the hell outta here!”
Buick turned and smiled at Lippitts. Lippitts looked worried, much like Christine the night before. His faced paled, and—low and behold!—the gun fell from his hands and to the pavement. It did not go off.
In the seconds that followed, Buick gained control of his faculties and transformed. Bullets fired through the air, blasts from every side.
How does that look, Mrs. Palenski?
But the rounds didn’t faze him, only infuriated him more. Buick swiped at Lippitts’ head and it came clean off, bouncing and rolling under a nearby cruiser. Bullets continued, pelting and punching him from every side, and Buick turned and roared at the nearby officers. Some gained a sense of the situation and bolted toward their cars, but Buick was quicker.
On all fours, sudden hair and big teeth, he ran toward the first cruiser, picked it up, and threw it on top of another. Metal crashed on metal, glass shattered, and officers scurried in every direction like ants. The sudden din and confusion was a fog. People were screaming all around him. Neighbors retreated into their homes. Policemen tried to bring him down by firing their guns. The Lore had proved beneficent. He had stepped into the supernatural and found himself invincible.
Buick ran and grabbed a lone deputy, tearing the man in half. Blood made a rainbow of crimson in the air. He roared again, ran toward another police cruiser, and upended it, throwing it on its top. People bolted and retreated. More screams filled the air. Buick found Carty and tried to smile through his claws, hair, and teeth. “You slow, dying car
d shark, dubious, wanton luxury queen,” he wanted to say, but roared instead.
Carty’s head flew and spiraled through the air, landing on Mrs. Palenski’s lawn, where it rolled toward the window. Mrs. Palenski—still riveted to the window—screamed and screamed. It was muffled behind the glass, but clearly audible.
All he’d wanted was go to Gilmour’s and have a beer!
Buick Cannon loped away on all fours and bayed at an empty moon.
~
The funny thing was the dream he always remembered, the shadow of doubt, picking at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the dream about the black house, or the murderer, the UFO’s zeroing in on him. The dream had to do with another time and place. Altogether, it was unexpected. He didn’t believe it, really.
He was a jester in a kingdom. He did cartwheels and back-flips, swallowed flaming swords. He wore a hat with bells on it, which made music as he danced around the king, knights, servants, and various loyal subjects. His outfit was striped yellow and green like a Green Bay Packer. He was a performer, his true origin. He was the king’s jester in Lochenbach Castle in the land of Malazindronikis. The king was King Lochenbach himself, and he was probably two-feet, four-inches tall, and three-and-a-half feet wide. A long black beard and black hair made him look wolfish himself. He wore a long, blue velvet robe with an ermine border. He had defeated Charos more than seven years ago, and The Land of the West reigned in peace, tranquility, comfort and strong, dark ale. Banquets, celebrations, taverns were full and brimming with the revelry echoing through the countryside still. With King Lochenbach on the throne, peace finally reigned.
Parimore, the king’s cat, was nestled on his thighs as Buick, the jester, juggled flaming rods, spun them in circles, and caught them behind his back. Around him, the crowd in the king’s hall ‘ooed,’ and ‘ahhed.’ The sound was feigned. Everyone was bored with the jester, especially Parimore. Parimore yawned, the king yawned, and even Buick was about to yawn because he was tired of performing. Couldn’t he be a loyal subject in the kitchen somewhere, the library perhaps? Why did they have to keep him as the jester if they were bored with his antics? It didn’t make sense.
“Jester, jester!” the king said, fed-up. Lochenbach, apparently, had run out of patience. He waved a hand, and a knight approached, taking Buick’s arm. “Enough. We have seen your tricks before, and there is nothing new you can show us. You’re jokes have turned sour. What have you to say for yourself?”
Buick stood, looking at the flaming rod in his hand. He looked to the knight at his side, sneered, then turned back to his king. “But, my Liege,” he said. “I thought you enjoyed the antics of the jester. If it’s new jokes you desire, I shall present them accordingly. I will learn new tricks and bring acts of comedic proportions to delight the entire kingdom!”
The king was unimpressed. He waved the issue aside. “Counselor!”
A tall man in a gray cloak approached the dais. Buick watched them carefully. The king whispered into the man’s ear, and the man turned to Buick. He got a good look: Thick, black eyebrows, black eyes, long black hair, a wide, red, leering mouth, diabolical smile, and extraordinarily pale skin. The Counselor nodded a single time. Rumors said the Counselor was a wizard, and strange happenings had been reported around the castle of late. In the hall of the king, in front of witnesses and wenches alike, the Counselor proved his reputation.
Buick began to sweat. The knight stepped away from him. The Counselor stepped from the dais, approaching Buick, still leering, still showing his wide smile. Buick wanted to tear his head off.
The counselor nodded a single time. He brought his right hand out, opening his fist, and waved his fingers in a strange motion, then closed his hand again. He whispered a single word; Buick didn’t catch it, but in the next moment, he realized what had happened. He felt it all around him. He was unbearably, suddenly, unquestionably afire! His body was roasting over open flames! Inside and out, a fever gripped him like no illness he’d ever felt before. This stalwart and worthy Counselor had just put a spell on him, the ninny, the nincompoop!
Buick writhed under it, clenching his teeth, hands going to his face to claw out his eyes. What was this? Were they laughing at him, saving him the trouble of a newer, mortal pain and plight? Goddamn the middle ages! He’d get them! He made a vow. This wasn’t the last they’d hear of Buick Cannon, the king’s jester!
But yes, suddenly a new applause resounded through the marble hall. They were delighted, enchanted! Even the king was on his feet (not that it granted him much stature!), dancing and hollering as if a boxing match had suddenly ensued.
Buick was twitching. He was turning into a dog. He felt this, the cruel agony, screaming under claws splitting the tops of his fingers, the tops of his toes. New teeth mangled his mouth as they cut through his gums. Blood spilled between his teeth and onto the floor. His nose elongated, pushing outward from his face, and he let out a howl. For some reason, howling was a comfort. He wanted to turn and face the Counselor, to keep growing, so he’d be able to rip out the throats of everyone here. But the spell had stretched even further. The revelry continued. Raucous celebration and laughter filled his ears.
The Counselor pointed to the main doors of the entranceway, and Buick had no choice but to heed his command. He turned, whined, tail between his legs, and bolted. Someone tried to kick him as he ran outside. Behind him, the king shouted and roared with laughter. Someone had put a turkey leg in the king’s hand, a glass of wine in the other. The king was spilling the wine all over Parimore, and Parimore meowed in protest.
Buick ran into the dark and tried to make a home for himself in the nearby forests and untamed lands of Malazindronikis.
~
He never remembered that particular dream. That dream was locked deep inside. If he’d gone to see a psychiatrist, perhaps he could’ve tapped into the mystery.
As it was, it was simply a new day in the town of Peekie. The sun shone brightly overhead. It was a beautiful day. Flowers lined the sidewalks of nearby houses. Not his own. He didn’t enjoy working in the yard.
At least, he wouldn’t hear from the police. He did remember that for some odd reason. He wouldn’t be getting any calls from them. The thought made him laugh, and he got up, smiling for the first time, actually enjoying his day. A lot of people were dead, Christine included.
Buick shrugged, went to the shower, and turned on the water. Nothing sounded better than a hot shower, a hot breakfast, and a cup of coffee.
Later, in the evening, he would go to Marion’s house and dispose of her and her husband.
~
“To Marion’s, to Marion’s, to Marion’s we go,” he said, aloud.
He’d showered again for the occasion. He had eaten three hearty meals, was clean-shaven, wet hair brushed back over his head. He put on a pair of dress pants, his best shoes, and a nice blue shirt. “You are a handsome devil,” he said to his reflection. “Buick, where have you been all my life, you tiger? You little sweetheart?” He giggled and went to the kitchen, pulling out one of the drawers by the sink. He grabbed a kitchen knife and walked out into the dark streets, whistling to himself.
~
He heard something in Spanish after he knocked on the door. It sounded like a curse. Soon, the front door opened and Fred, Marion’s husband, stood in the doorway, wearing a white tank top and red boxers. He was not much taller than Marion. He said something else in Spanish Buick didn’t recognize.
“May I come in?” Buick asked.
Fred looked reluctant, but let him in. He shut the door behind Buick.
“Is Marion home?” Buick asked.
Fred nodded, but did not say ‘si’—which was the only Spanish Buick knew.
“You know, Fred,” Buick started to say. (He did not see Marion.) “I’ve always kind of liked you. So, it’s hard for me to do what I’m about to do. But I want you know it’s for the best. It has to be this way, see? There’s no two ways around it.”
Fred looked confused. Th
at didn’t surprise Buick. He knew he was wasting his breath trying to explain things.
Buick shrugged, not knowing what to say, and pulled the knife out from behind his back. Fred saw it an instant too late. Surprise showed in his eyes.
Buick rammed the blade into Fred’s throat before the man could protest. Blood arced through the air, and Fred struggled violently. Under the ceaseless, maniacal blows of the knife, it was futile. Buick stabbed him thirteen times in the chest before Fred fell to the ground.
Blood was everywhere, in Buick’s new clothes, slicked-back hair. Marion came into the living room, saw Buick, then her husband. She dropped a bowl of popcorn on the floor, and put her hands to her face. Marion began to scream.
“Marion?” Buick said, “How are you? I’ll clean this up later. Hey, why don’t you come over here, and we can get this over with, huh?”
He couldn’t hear himself talking over Marion’s piercing wails. No doubt, she couldn’t hear him, either. No matter, he would just step over the body of Fred…like so…and go to Marion…
“Marion, could you please stop that? You’re giving me a headache?”
Marion continued to scream, backing up against the wall. Buick walked over popcorn and blood.
“Marion! For God’s sake! Now, come over here! Quit making this so difficult!” He reached for her, but she swatted his hand. He held the knife in the other. “You know, Marion, we can make this difficult, or we can make this simple. It’s up to you. Fact of the matter is, it has to be done. So, just quit that goddamn yelling and come over here!”
Marion slapped his hand when he reached for her.
“Goddamnit, Marion, you’re not making this any easier!”
Marion was still screaming. Buick had no choice but to go in for the kill, do it the hard way. He grabbed Marion by the hair. Nails dug into his forearms. It made her scream even more. She kicked him hard in the shin. A bolt of pain lanced up his leg and into his brain.
“Oww! Goddamnit, Marion, what the hell are you trying to do, break my legs?”
Buick Cannon: (A Joke From the Moon) Page 8