The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai (9 page)

I
t 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 bar 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?

(The house lights come on, as we holster our weapons, and for an unobstructed moment gain a clear view of Penny Priddy. Almost as one, we gasp. What intended treachery is this? She is amazingly the mirror image of our dead Peggy!)

My eyes immediately darted to Buckaroo, the poor devil. What must he think? A queer look on his face, he was in immediate consultation with Rawhide, who quickly left the hall to pursue the secret of the girl.

“Did you see her?” he asked us.

I consequently shrugged, not wanting to believe what I had seen with my own eyes. It was the same with the others, the shock to our nerves leaving us spellbound and speechless. After all, the very idea was incomprehensible. We must have been seeing things. I myself suspected at once the malevolent genius of Xan somehow in this but said instead, “Your piano playing gets them every time, Buckaroo.”

He nodded, stabbing thoughts testing his sanity. “I heard someone crying. I must have had a premonition,” he said.

“Must have.” I nodded. “I don’t know what else it could’ve been.”

A numb feeling tugged at my heart. Either someone had embarked upon a hellish scheme against our chief, or cruel Fate had made him its sport. Either way he would have no surcease of bitter memories for sleepless nights to come.

F
ollowing the discovery of the night guard’s body and the disappearance of the inmate known as Dr. Emilio Lizardo, a furious hunt for the callous criminal was immediately organized. Airports and train stations were watched, roadblocks erected; but in vain. Although the stolen sports car was found in a rural county of the state wrapped around an electric light standard, it seemed that death would have none of Whorfin. He had walked away from the violent collision and headed straight to a telephone.

“Operator,” he shouted. “I want to place a person-to-person call, collect, to John Bigbooté, Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems, Grover’s Mills, New Jersey. Tell him it’s John Whorfin calling, from the
outside.
W-H-O-R-F-I-N. Got that?”

He had to wait several minutes, as his party, the alien Lectroid called John Bigbooté, had to be found and roused from sleep, a circumstance which only confirmed in Whorfin’s mind the timeliness, nay, the necessity, of his escape. Clearly his fighters, once fearsome to behold, had grown enfeebled. It pained him to think it, but even the cold mouth of the grave, even the hideous Eighth Dimension (its Planet 10 name) was preferable to the bourgeois life of ease. Nothing good could come of years of peace—muscles atrophied, the will failed. Soldiers who had once fought back-to-back fell to bickering among themselves amid the creature comforts. No, it was best he had arrived. He would make inquiries, establish the iron discipline needed. He would make examples! Yes, there was much to be done and little time.

The groggy voice of John Bigbooté came on the line, almost whining, it seemed to John Whorfin. “What’s the matter, John Bigbooté?” he said tersely. “Did I take you from something important?”

“No, I was just getting some snooze.”

“What kind of language is that?” Whorfin screamed “Snap to attention when I talk to you! I’ll have your head! Prepare for my return!”

Bigbooté seemed to revive, understanding that this was not a mere social call. Far from his original muttering tone of voice, he now began to purr. “Lord Whorfin, my liege, this is the happiest night of my life,” he sputtered. “Where are you?”

“Camped by the side of the road,” rejoined Whorfin. “You’ll send a car.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“What?”

“Isn’t there danger? I am concerned about your safety.”

“Be concerned about your own. Things had better be in order.”

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

Whorfin gave him the location and hung up the phone, rubbing his hands together. He had thinking to do, plans to create. There was a saying on Planet 10, “No positive edifice can be built on a negative foundation.” First he had to get Banzai’s OSCILLATION OVERTHRUSTER and then work his Lectroids into a fury to complete the Panther Ship being built secretly at Yoyodyne. By morning, he would be at his place, back where he belonged at the head of his paltry band of fighters on this worthless blue planet named Earth. What had to follow would not be easy. He did not underestimate his formidable array of adversaries who would do all they could to thwart him, once his plans became known. Secrecy must be the foremost consideration. Accordingly, he stepped away from the deserted country road for the cover of a tree. The night was clear, the location of Planet 10, his home, hidden by the bright edge of the moon. Somewhere up there as well, his hated nemesis, the Nova Police, were on constant patrol. How much did they know? he wondered. Had they been alerted to his presence on Earth? God, how he hated this place! Better to die fighting, to be torn to pieces and scattered like cosmic dust throughout the universe than to be standing here under a tree in New Jersey.

A thought came to mind. It was Lizardo’s thought, wild and beautiful as it was. Something about the little Jap, Hikita. Whorfin laughed, his cackle echoing in the stillness, as he seized upon the idea before Lizardo could take it back. “Too late, Lizardo,” he gloated. “Good idea.”