MUSICAroLina

by Daniel William Gunning

  CHAPTER 19

  BUCKY, THE TOWN DRUNK

  John somehow had marshaled all of his remaining emotional strength and fortitude, for once again he found himself sitting alone in that gruesome cavern of lost souls that wormed its way just underneath the surface of Musicarolina, beneath the sanctuary of the church. He had torches stationed in the ground on either side of him, bringing light to the ghoulish, morbid scene in front of him. He sat there on the ground, contemplatively, directly in front of the ghostly forms of Adrienne and Jack and the newest additions to this gallery of horrors: Virginia and headless Mac. He looked upon them as carefully as one studies a fine piece of art in a museum. There they hung on the cavern walls, both held aloft and imprisoned by the ghastly tentacles writhing all around and through them.

  He had long since lost the ability to care both about the overwhelming strangeness and the underlying danger that surrounded him in his current situation, so he simply sat there, unflinching, directly in the bloody mud. The blood soaked through his clothing and stuck to his skin, but he didn’t pay it any mind. It was a minor annoyance to him now and the least of his troubles. John simply stayed there, still as a statue, gazing both at and past their ghostly forms at the same time. He no longer even winced or looked away as those foul tentacles wriggled over and inside the apparitions of his dearly departed friends, occasionally peeking out of a wound, or orifice; they quickly retreated when confronted with the torchlight, as quickly as if they had touched the flame itself.

  He once again found himself sitting in front of the forms of the dead, silently weighing the true cost of human life. He didn’t cry, nor did he shake his fists dramatically toward the heavens, decrying the evils of this cruel and bizarre world he found himself trapped in and the perceived unfairness of their current plight; he merely rested there, silent and determined. Finally, having come to some sort of final decision, or epiphany, John rose to his feet, blood streaming from his body and clothing, spilling back onto the ground from where it had originated, and he began walking back toward the light and the entrance to the church.

  ***

  Kurt sat in one of the pews closest to the opening in the floor, keeping an apprehensive vigil; staring at the gaping hole leading to the abyss, waiting for John to return. The preacher stood near the back of the church by the pulpit, giving Kurt his space and calmly reading his Bible.

  “Can I ask you something, preacher, and have you not take any offense to it?”

  “Of course you can, my son; you can ask me anything you want.”

  “How could your God have let this happen?”

  “Oh, my dear sweet child, God didn’t let this happen. What you have seen—this entire town here, this whole horrific display—is but a microcosm, a tiny surreal glimpse into the very essence of the supremely beautiful but, ironically, perfectly flawed creation that is mankind. You see, Kurt, whether you believe in God or not, you have to believe that people possess the miraculous gift that is free will. It is, at the same time, both the utmost blessing and the greatest curse of being human.

  From my perspective, when God created Man way back at the beginning of time, he lovingly sculpted and molded us. He created us in His own grand image and He gave us the most unique ability among his creations, to choose our own destinies. He didn’t want to create mere puppets with strings for him to pull or wooden toys that He could put away on the shelf and take down to amuse himself with whenever the whim struck him. He could’ve made us that way so very easily if He had so wanted. In the end it would have caused him far less pain, but alas, no real joy. He could’ve created automatons or slaves that merely did nothing more than worship him sunup to sundown and follow him implicitly without the slightest question, but He didn’t want things that were controlled.

  Things that are controlled, by their very definition, by their very nature, cannot choose. Therefore, they can’t choose to love; they can’t experience true joy, or sadness, exultation or deepest despair. He could have them mimic these emotions, I suppose, but in the end they’d still just be toys, only emulating these deeper things, but these are the things that truly matter. We live and we die and we love and we suffer each and every day we are in this world because of the choices that each and every person makes on that individual day. Every moment of every day of your life, whether you perceive it or not, you make choices that change the world. They may seem insignificant at times, meaningless even; just tiny ripples across the ocean of our existence. It may be something that simply shapes your own soul, but something changes for every decision that you make in your life.

  It is in these choices, even in our failings and in our struggles, that we truly find the worth and the value in the simple good that can be found in this life. If we couldn’t choose between good and evil, if we didn’t have to fight tooth and nail with our every waking breath for these things, if all was just simply handed to us, if all was told to us, revealed to us, controlled for us, or our paths were simply fixed from the moment of our birth, from heaven above; then what value would any of these things truly have? It is in that endless struggle, it is in that eternal fight against the evils of this world and the evils that reside within our very selves that we learn to truly cherish what we have won; every single minor victory and every inch we win from the darkness. Evil can never completely destroy the good in us; it knows this. Nor does it ever truthfully want to. Evil wants to take the good in us, the best parts of us, and corrupt them. To simply kill or destroy a good person is nothing; it would be terribly easy and oh-so-boring to do it.

  The greatest joy and triumph that evil can ever hope to attain is to take someone with a pure and good soul and get them to choose the wrong paths every day of their miserable life, like convincing devout men of God to use the Bible to justify bloody crusades, slavery, or prejudice. To convince the faithful to murder innocent men, women, children, and even themselves with suicide bombs; to corrupt those very faithful using a distortion of their own faith, that my child is the perfect perversion. That is what evil truly strives for. It has always known that it can never prevent any of us from going to heaven should we choose the one right path, no matter how far it can drive us off it, but it can make sure that we hang our head in shame when we get there.

  That is what Musicarolina really is, my son; it’s an eternal wrong path. The people in this town made their decision long ago and the people that subsequently are allowed to come here since have made their decisions as well, but his great lie, his grand illusion, the all-encompassing deceit that this whole town is built upon, is that people have no choice in the matter. The trap is that if people give up their free will; they become those mindless slaves that they were never intended to be. Those who surrender and happily sing along with him into oblivion have given away the very thing that makes them human, the very thing that makes them truly eternal. That is what gives him his power; he doesn’t have it himself, he never has, and yet it’s freely given to him for but the price of a song.

  There it is, the greatest thing that humans have ever possessed, something far greater and more powerful than he can even begin to fathom and it’s given away for such a hollow reward: eternal life, with no real meaning. Humans were always meant to be eternal whether or not they believe in heaven, or if they are merely remembered in the lives of those they have touched and changed.

  So what need have you of life eternal on this painful plane of existence? It’s merely your battlefield, your proving ground; it was never meant to last, so why let him trap you here for that? Fortunately though, he does have a weakness; his weakness is that he believes all souls to be feeble and corruptible. Though he feeds on souls, he has none of his own, so he is merely that pitiable toy, capable only of emulating the tragic beauty that we humans experience every moment of our lives. Therefore, he can never really truly understand the power contained within a single pure emotion. It is that lack of understanding that will eventually destroy him.”

  “You’ve watched him feed on countl
ess souls, for century after century after century, and you still manage to hold on to the desperate belief that someone can really destroy him? I’m pretty sure you’re living out the dictionary definition of insanity, preacher.”

  “No, I’m not, my son. I never chose to come to this town. I was placed here; the demon never wanted me here, and I don’t think the citizens even notice I’m around anymore. That being said, I still believe that I have a purpose here, that I was put here for a reason. I believe that’s why I live on, even without the life granted by the devil’s bargain the townsfolk made. You see, I still believe in my God, but I also believe in mankind, and that faith has remained unwavering throughout the centuries. I believe that even in a town full of the lost and the damned, consumed entirely by this darkness, there is still the smallest spark of light within their hearts and their souls. I believe that one day that spark will ignite a fire that will burn this place to the ground, and I will be standing there proudly, among the ashes, and I will know that my faith has been rewarded.”

  “And do you believe that we’re that spark for you, preacher?”

  “I believe that you’re going to try your level best, and in the end that’s all that any of us can do really; but no, you are not the spark, my child. That particular spark is the same that it always is, that it always has been throughout the ages. It’s the one thing that a creature like him made up of pure hatred and despair can never fully comprehend.”

  “And what’s that, preacher?”

  “Love, Kurt. It’s always been love. It is simultaneously both the most fulfilling and most destructive force in the universe. It will consume and destroy this town, as easily as it could do so to your heart and your very soul. It can also rebuild it, just as easily, into something far greater than you ever could have imagined.”

  ***

  It was then that John climbed back out of the tunnel, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. “Did I miss anything?” John asked cheerfully, as his head popped up through the hatch.

  “Not much pal, just a long-winded sermon.”

  “Oh good, glad I was down in the creepy tunnel of death then. You ready, Kurt?” he asked as he hauled himself back up and flopped down on the church floor.

  “Um, if I may offer a mild suggestion, you may want to consider changing first,” the preacher interjected.

  John looked down at his blood-soaked clothing and said, “You know what? You may be right about that, padre.” The preacher smiled and returned once again to his trunk, pulled out some clothing, and tossed it to John. He then went outside and brought in a bucket of water and a washcloth. Once John had changed and sufficiently washed away the blood and grime from the tunnel, he nodded at Kurt. Kurt tried to control his laughter at the ludicrous sight of John, dressed ridiculously in the old-fashioned clothing the preacher had provided for him to wear, right down to the absurd gardening gloves to cover his injured hands. “Don’t say a word, just don’t. I am rocking this look,” John said sternly. Kurt giggled some more, in spite of John’s protests, as the two men bravely walked out of the church together. They traveled across the churchyard, side by side, up to the fence and opened the gate.

  “Well, here we go,” they said in unison. Bold as brass, John and Kurt strode out into the streets of Musicarolina.

  ***

  They traveled down the sidewalk, both of them bravely putting up a front of far more confidence than they really felt. John and Kurt tried to appear as if they were completely unafraid, indifferent to the danger even; as they casually strolled down the boulevard, they tried desperately for their pounding hearts not to betray them. The people that passed by them on the street nodded and said hello, as they had before. Some seemed genuinely surprised to see them while others smiled broadly. A few of the citizens even went so far as to heartily pat them on the backs and welcome them back to their midst, but it was still far different than the first time they came through town. The townspeople’s greetings were not as warm and inviting as they had once been. This time around, their smiles seemed forced and they could see looks of shock and even fear lurking in the countenance of each person that passed by, no matter their outward reaction. That is, until they saw Miss Bay, hustling toward them from her bed and breakfast.

  “Why, hello, dearies!” she cried out, ambling up to them jovially. “I knew that the two of you would come around eventually. I didn’t think you’d come to your senses this quickly, mind you, but I am ever so glad you did. You are going to love living here, and let me just say that you came out just in the nick of time too. You are in for a very special treat,” she said, pointing up the street at a disheveled man who had come stumbling into the roadway.

  He wobbled precariously, stumbled, and fell more than once, as he made his way right down the middle of the street, entirely unconcerned for his own safety. He was noticeably different from the typical prim and proper citizens of Musicarolina. His clothes were tattered and torn, his face unshaven, and others could almost imagine cartoonish odor lines emanating from him. The townspeople who already were outside had begun to line either side of the street and other people were now beginning to come out of their houses to join them.

  John and Kurt could hear the music beginning to fill the air. The gathering crowd began to hum in harmony and clapped their hands to the rhythm. As the happy mob began to break into choreographed dance John whispered to Kurt, “Yeah, here we go, indeed.”

  “I regret every decision I’ve made in my wretched life that has led me to this point,” Kurt said, mockingly. The townspeople paid them no mind and began their song:

  Now here comes a lad named Bucky, our lovable town drunk.

  Now we don’t rightly know out of which pub he has slunk.

  Oh, drinking is his life.

  Even cost him his wife.

  Once was smashed in preschool, causing him to flunk.

  Oh, His name is Bucky.

  And he smells like poo.

  But he is a friend to me.

  And a friend to you.

  His parents were beside themselves, they didn’t know what to do.

  For having to wean your child off liquor is weird, I’m telling you.

  Oh, they offered him sweets.

  They tried some other treats.

  Finally they said, “Screw it!” and starting mixing his milk with brew.

  Oh, His name is Bucky.

  And he smells like poo.

  But he is a friend to me.

  And a friend to you.

  As Bucky kept getting older, his problems grew worse and worse.

  Upon the dawning of each day, from bar to bar he does traverse.

  Oh, he fills himself with cocktails

  And he pickles himself with ales.

  Frankly, we’re surprised each day he doesn’t go by in the hearse.

  Oh, His name is Bucky.

  And he smells like poo.

  But he is a friend to me.

  And a friend to you.

  Now let me tell you friends, a terrible problem did appear.

  He didn’t shower for centuries; he was way too busy drinking beer.

  He’s not one of the posh.

  He’s chosen not to wash.

  So you can always tell he’s near, by the stench of his rear.

  Oh, His name is Bucky.

  And he smells like poo.

  But he is a friend to me.

  And a friend to you.

  When Bucky comes into a place, the people flee, oh yes, they run.

  They run straight to the landfill which smells sweet by comparison.

  Oh, skunks are sickened by him.

  Yes, the smell is mighty grim.

  But Bucky simply doesn’t care; he’s drinkin’, reekin’, and having fun.

  Oh, His name is Bucky.

  And he smells like poo.

  But he is a friend to me.

  And a friend to you.

  So you may say to yourself my friend, why do we let him run amuck?

  Yo
u may say that having a smelly town drunk has really got to suck.

  Oh, we don’t really mind him.

  Even though he’s kinda dim.

  We know that he’s really, truly happy, so we figure what the—

  ***

  Sadly, they never got to finish their happy, irreverent song as John reached back, pulled out his gun and shot Bucky right in the kneecap. Bone and blood splattered onto the stone street. Miss Bay’s eyes got as big as saucers and she backed several steps away from him and Kurt, aghast at this sudden, unprovoked, outburst of violence. The rest of the townspeople looked at John and his smoking gun in shock and awe, still in their dance positions. They quickly, however, turned their attention back to Bucky, who had collapsed onto the ground and was writhing there in agony, clutching what was left of his knee in his hands, and blood freely streaming through his fingers. He didn’t cry out in pain, though; in fact, all Bucky said was, “Oh, God! I need liquor!” The townspeople pointed and laughed at him hysterically.

  John and Kurt grinned slightly at the crowd’s vastly inappropriate reaction, until they heard a shotgun pump behind them. Reluctantly, they slowly turned to see Sheriff Cane standing there, his shotgun leveled at their heads. “Now boys, I know it may seem that we’re a little loose on the rules of life and limb here from time to time. Being in a town run by a demon and all, it’s completely understandable, but I am going to have to ask you politely not to shoot our citizens in the streets, even if it is just the town drunk.”