The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai by Earl Mac Rauch

could no longer satisfy the strong yearning that had begun to insinuate itself into every pore of my being. I longed to roll up my sleeves and take a course of unabashed action without the usual need of diplomatic niceties, what we in the so-called civilized world have come to acknowledge as accepted behavior. The constraints of having to “go through channels” to put in one’s “two cents” while the world burned had suddenly ceased to be a viable option for me. I had heard of Buckaroo Banzai of course; I knew of his work, but I had no idea whether he would reply to the letter I dashed off one evening after a particularly bad day at the office. I have no idea to this day what gave me the audacity to drop it in the mail so airily and then forget all about it until a week later when my secretary buzzed me over the intercom, so excited she could hardly speak.
    “Buckaroo Banzai is here to see you!” she ejaculated. “Should I show him in?”
    I confess to having taken a quick drop of whiskey to energize myself as I arose unsteadily and went to open my door. I have always found it remarkable how a confident and open person can make a strong lasting impression in the space of a single moment, but that was just what I found to be the case with B. Banzai. A ready smile and a firm handshake attached to a body that seemed to be made entirely of sinew captivated me immediately. I suggested that we walk outside, and he agreed.
    In the sunshine his face was smooth, unmarked. A smile played constantly around his lips, but the eyes were deep and thoughtful, of an unusual color I cannot readily describe. Neither can I recall who spoke first, a phenomenon I have found common among others when they have been asked to recall their first encounters with the man. I tend to believe it is the eyes, of such an unusual hue and hypnotic intensity that they could make one believe almost anything. In short, within the first minute of our meeting I believe I had decided to follow him anywhere without the slightest hesitation.
    “What sorts of things do you enjoy doing?” I recall him asking.
    I described my hobbies such as they were, giving a brief outline of my background and education. Throughout, he looked at me with great attention, giving away not a hint of what he was thinking until I mentioned the subject of music.
    “You like music?” he asked.
    “I like it very much.” I nodded. “Jazz, especially.”
    “How about syncopated music?”
    “I like all kinds, but I prefer to play jazz.”
    “You do play, then?”
    “The saxophone,” I said, itching to show my skill. “Would you like to hear me?”
    “Of course. You have your sax?”
    “I don’t live far.”
    Buckaroo whistled, and as if from out of nowhere two women and a young man appeared. “Bring the car,” Buckaroo said to the heavyset youth I later came to know as Rawhide, while the two women, both of whom appeared capable of taking care of themselves in a pinch, looked me over with a scrutiny I did not appreciate. “This is Reno,” Buckaroo said to them, the name causing me to look around as it was the first time I had heard it. “He plays sax.”
    Before I could reply, one of the women stepped forward and introduced herself, her eyes still filled with what I sensed to be secret contempt. “I’m Pecos,” said the slightly built female who nonetheless cowed me. “Are you hot?”
    “I’m pretty hot,” I said, slipping into the argot of musicians.
    “We’ll see,” she said, displaying a smile that made me feel only more intimidated. “We’re looking for somebody really hot.”
    “Good,” I said. “You’ve found him.”
    She muttered something and stepped aside. I remember thinking at the time that this birdlike creature with the steel grip had it in for me, I could not for the life of me figure out why. I immediately resolved not to like her, a resolution that I soon found myself hard pressed to keep, as regular readers of the series well know.*
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