They'd spent the evening and the little hours of the morning playing knockdown rock n' roll with a garage band in Hoboken, and now Buckaroo Banzai and three of the Hong Kong Cavaliers were on their way home, tired and happy. The Institute's battered old Pacer, its exhaust manifold temporarily functional thanks to Sam's inventive use of paper clips and solder, rolled through the streets of the narrow little valley headed west to New Brunswick.

Perfect Tommy, sitting in the shotgun seat, put his head out the window and enjoyed the breeze. The moist night air brought him a brief fragrance from an all-night diner.

"How about pizza?" he asked enthusiastically. "There's a place..."

"Nope," said Rawhide from the back seat. He and Buckaroo both appeared to be asleep, but now Rawhide half-opened his eyes. "A beer would go down good," he said, adding "at home" firmly as Perfect Tommy's enthusiasm began to reassert itself.

Perfect Tommy pouted for half a second, then remembered there had been extra chili left after dinner. He realized he was starving and anticipated getting back to the house and devouring the chili with great pleasure. His good cheer returned and he put his head back out the window.

In the meantime Reno, driving, reached into his jacket and pulled out a hip flask, offering it over his shoulder to Rawhide. "Try this," said the saxophonist. "Great stuff."

Rawhide took the flask, uncapped it, and sniffed gingerly. Reno had a liking for uncouth spirituous liquors, and the worst of them were usually, as this one appeared to be, transparent. The whiff decided him to look before he leaped.

"What is this?" Rawhide's voice was rich with the assumption that this brew's provenance was dubious at best.

Reno grinned in the rearview mirror. "It'll put hair on your chest," he said buoyantly.

A wicked smile curved Rawhide's lips. "In that case, pass it to Tommy," he said. Reno chuckled and complied. On the rare occasions that Rawhide made a personal remark, the youngest Cavalier was his infallible target.

Ever sensitive, Perfect Tommy rose to the bait, opening his mouth to defend his muscular but decidedly non-hirsute chest. What came out, however, was a suddenly barked "Stop!"

It took Reno an extra split second to realize that this was not, after all, an unprecedented howl of surrender from Tommy, and thus to brake. All four men were wide awake and not laughing; Buckaroo was raking Tommy with a questioning glance and Tommy was already halfway out of the car.

"A fight," Tommy said briefly. "Something weird. Just a glimpse."

All four were out of the car by now, headed back down the street toward the alley Perfect Tommy was pointing to. Reaching it, they fanned out with the wordless coordination of a team that has seen combat together many times. Rawhide, Reno and Buckaroo formed a loosely equilateral triangle with Reno taking point as they entered the alley, while Perfect Tommy, apparently immune to gravity, climbed easily up a tenement via its drainpipe and traversed the buildings above the trio as they moved forward.

The alley was full of strange echoes, a clashing noise that sounded in turn like primitive pot-mending and like the ringing of bells; all four men recognized these sounds as a fight between heavy and well-made blades.

Picking their way past dumpsters and an abandoned car, the three on the ground moved well into the alley before they sighted the source of these sounds: two big men, apparently locked in life-or-death combat, using as their weapons two swords. Rawhide looked to Buckaroo for instructions; his chief met the look with a quizzically raised eyebrow and a nod that meant 'keep going.' Rawhide relayed this to Reno, who was in his sightline but not Buckaroo's, and the three of them shifted positions to get closer, remaining silent and hidden from the combatants.

As they drew nearer, they were able to distinguish the two fighters, though the light was poor: a thickset, balding, working-class man armed with a silver-mounted medieval broadsword was fighting a leatherclad punk wearing black biker chaps and sporting a foot-long ponytail of glossy black hair whose weapon was a huge blade of no perceptible origin.

The balding man was over six feet in height and burly, but his opponent was a giant. The younger man had his advantage in height, muscle, reach, and, it rapidly became apparent, even in skill. As the blades sounded against each other over and over, the watchers realized that the bigger man was fighting not only to wear down his opponent but also, contrary to the usual practice in mortal combat, to achieve a particular opening.

Reno and Tommy were handtalking in the Institute's own code, both signalling 'non-intervention.' Whatever the quarrel between these men might be, neither of them was trying to run away from the outcome of their private war. Buckaroo and Rawhide signalled assent, and all four of them settled into places of concealment to witness the result of this improbable conflict.

It wasn't long in coming. Powerfully assaulted, the giant pretended to lose balance behind his guard and fell back a half-step, bent his knees and allowed his swordpoint to drop. The older man stepped into the apparent opening, lifting his blade for an overhead coup, when the giant, with a hip-driven twist that sent his long hair flying, whirled up to his full height and flashed his sword upward in a 'ground-to-sky' sidestroke that instantly severed his opponent's neck.

"Ahhh," said the giant, savoring his kill. He stood calmly over his decapitated enemy, almost passive now.

Buckaroo's face reflected intense curiosity; ten yards away, Rawhide grimaced with distaste at this killer's reaction to his victory. He could see Reno's end of a silent conversation with Perfect Tommy. Reno was spelling out p-s-y-c-h-o-p-a-t-h and Rawhide was inclined to agree.

"That was an elegant stroke," said Buckaroo Banzai, stepping out of his concealment. Rawhide cursed himself for being distracted momentarily and shifted silently into a hidden position near Buckaroo, noticing that opposite him Reno was doing the same.

From his vantage on a fire escape three stories up, Perfect Tommy rolled his eyes in disgust. Reno was right; this dude was on a bad wavelength. No matter how much he loved the arts of the blade, did Buckaroo really need to discuss the niceties of swordsmanship with this weirdo now? Besides, Tommy was hungry.

Surprised, the huge man spun, bringing his sword to a position of disengaged readiness, held away from his body. He advanced on Buckaroo slowly, unthreatened, his eyes gleaming. This close, Buckaroo could see that those eyes were a lurid blue and the personality shining out of them seemed not fully human.

"Thank you," he said with a wolfish smile, sketching a mockery of a courtly acknowledgement with a right arm that was bare but for a biker's fingerless glove compounded somehow out of black leather and scraps of chain mail. His voice was a bizarre cross between a growl and a gurgle that gave an evil lilt to the sarcasm of his answer. His words were slow, drawn out.

Buckaroo's medical instincts were awakened by this voice. Intrigued, he looked closely at the warrior who was approaching him. There was little light in the alley, but he was able to see that the massive man had pale skin against his black hair, and that this very white skin bore traces of a fighting history strangely at odds with the giant's apparent youthfulness.

There was a horizontal scar on the throat that might account for the voice. There could very possibly be permanent deformity of the larynx after a wound like that, Buckaroo thought. Strange scar-- fascinated, he focused on that scar, almost unconsciously taking a step forward as he peered through the alley's dim light at the man's neck.

The fighter's blade flashed up toward Buckaroo's face as he advanced, but when the sword reached its resting point, it was millimeters from Rawhide's throat, with Buckaroo recovering his balance some four feet away.

Rawhide found himself looking along the blade, splotchy with the now-thickening lifeblood of the headless man a few feet away. The man holding the blade was both larger and heavier than he, and Rawhide experienced a moment's perception that the .45 in his right hand, unflinchingly aimed at the swordsman's heart, was somehow irrelevant.

The giant laughed, a cruel sound, but there was genuine if cold amusement in his eyes. "Bravado," he said.

"No," said Perfect Tommy, twenty feet behind him.

The swordsman turned without hurry to look at Perfect Tommy where he crouched at the foot of a fire escape, his Uzi nestled comfortably along his right forearm and bearing precisely on the huge man in black leather.

The massive fighter laughed again, longer. Tommy didn't bother to react; laughter at such moments was no more to him than another tactic, a distraction to a better-armed opponent. He himself had employed numberless times-- his use of wishes made on daisy petals to fatally distract Hanoi Xan's five gunbearing bravos on a spring afternoon in the Tuileries was a legend at the Institute. For similar reasons, he showed no reaction as the warrior advanced on him, until the big man whirled the sword around Perfect Tommy's head so rapidly that drops of blood were hurled off by centrifugal force.

Perfect Tommy's fire discipline was absolute, and besides, he understood that this lunatic was playing. His patience where his clothing was concerned, however, was limited. "Don't splash me," he said irritably.

The giant's eyes flared wide with amusement and challenge. Perfect Tommy read the man's intention to wipe the blade on his linen jacket and, despite the fact that the fibers were already hopelessly besmirched from contact with various drainpipes and window ledges, decided not to permit it.

Buckaroo Banzai, prescient as usual, quietly said "Do not fire" just as Tommy reached his decision. The giant's blade wiped itself on empty air as Perfect Tommy, complying with Buckaroo's wishes, simply shifted position with his customary blinding speed and brought the Uzi to bear once again.

Balked in his game, the dark warrior turned back to Buckaroo, who was standing with his hands in his jacket pockets. "We'll be calling the police in a minute," Buckaroo continued in his cool way.

The killer's amusement returned. "To report a murrr-der?" he mocked. He laughed contemptuously.

"A death," Buckaroo said in the same soft voice.

A shrewd intelligence glittered momentarily through the demented humor in the swordsman's eyes. Buckaroo knew his measure was being taken.

It was surprising to see that look in this leatherclad sociopath; he was accustomed to seeing it from the kind of men and women he liked, the kind who did not extend friendship easily but once bound would never back away, the kind would go into battle with just that clear-eyed appraisal of their enemies. All of Buckaroo's instincts told him there was nothing that sound in this man's character; expedience and a vicious carelessness were already written deeply into his face, no matter how young he was.

Buckaroo returned the giant's stare with an equally intense appraisal of his own, and the two men locked into a taut moment that stretched out and filled the alley with a sense of impending explosion. Perfect Tommy and Rawhide, still holding their weapons at the ready, found themselves tightening their grip fractionally.

It was Reno, the last of the Cavaliers to leave his cover, who broke the tension. He stood up and offhandedly began riffling through the dead man's jacket, which lay on the ground as if it had been hastily thrown aside at the start of the fight. Ignoring the frozen figures of his chief and the killer, he began announcing his discoveries to the general air.

"This guy's carrying a Polish passport," Reno said. "Osta Vazilek. Port of entry, JFK, three days ago. Big roll of dollars, also some zlotys. Purpose of visit: business."

At this last, the giant stirred, laughing again. He moved to stand over his victim, his eyes wide and vivid with pleasure. A smile of satisfaction stretched across his face. "Now his business is finished," he said in a near whisper, the curious elongation of his speech giving the words extraordinary emphasis.

Buckaroo inclined his head to indicate the alley, the battlesite. "Was this his business?" he asked quietly.

The giant's thin black eyebrows quirked at the question, first annoyed at the correctness of the guess, then pleased by it. "Yes," he said sharply, with an oddly proud lift to his head. "We gather for this."

Ten feet behind the swordsman, Perfect Tommy made an impatient face. His hands said to Buckaroo, Let's go. He'd come extremely close to unloading a clip into this psychotic D'Artagnan twice already, and doubted seriously whether they'd manage to leave the alley without having to kill him. What Tommy wanted to do was go home and raid the fridge, not spend the next twenty hours explaining to some Hoboken detective bucking for lieutenant why he'd had to waste this crazy biker.

Buckaroo glanced at Perfect Tommy for a split second that sufficed to tell Tommy that his chief had not yet satisfied his curiosity. He resigned himself with ill grace to staying a while longer, watching as Buckaroo walked forward to take a closer look at the corpse.

The giant backed away as Buckaroo moved closer, then turned aside and, with nearly invisible speed, used his sword to flick the dead man's jacket out of Reno's hands. Shifting the sword into his left hand, he cleaned the clotting blood off the blade with the skill and care of long expertise. Reno shot an exasperated look at Rawhide, who merely shifted his weight from one foot to another, content to let Buckaroo indulge his interest, at least for the moment.

Buckaroo, running a swift medical eye over the corpse, was fascinated to find that this was a second remarkably scarred body. He squatted down to lift the man's shirt for a look at his torso and felt a moment's strange tingling climbing his arm.

In that instant, the man's killer hurtled across the intervening space and slammed Buckaroo backwards with a one-handed push. The Cavaliers pivoted to fire and then held their fire, reacting instantly to both the assault and the fact that the huge warrior deliberately held his sword well away from Buckaroo.

The killer's figure loomed over Buckaroo. He raised his right hand, tendrils of chain mail dangling down from its glove, and shook an admonitory finger at Buckaroo. His voice came in a low, slow growl. "Do not touch him. He's mine."

Buckaroo rose calmly and dusted himself off.

"As you wish," he said. It was a fearless statement, a courtesy rather than a capitulation, and it restored the giant's good humor.

"You," he said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Buckaroo Banzai."

This answer produced an astonishing effect. The huge killer threw his head back and laughed with the simple pleasure of a child. "Comic books," he said, and laughed again. "I like them."

In the next instant, his face was serious, deadly. He extended his sword toward Buckaroo as if pointing a finger. "You have fifty years," he said in his peculiar, extended diction. His eyes flashed wide then narrowed with emphasis. "Enjoy them."

"Thank you," said Buckaroo. Was that a sentence or a reprieve? Either way, this man was an executioner and it was time to go. He nodded a farewell at the warrior, turned his back, and walked away casually.

Rawhide stayed where he was, watching the swordsman. Reno started after Buckaroo, as did Perfect Tommy, who had to walk around the huge fighter to leave the alley.

As Tommy passed him, the giant laughed jauntily and tossed his head. "Yes, you can go now," he said.

Perfect Tommy flinched microscopically and recovered. He curled his lip disdainfully and surveyed the man head to toe as he finished walking by. "Nice leathers," he said sourly.

The giant laughed at him and preened, settling his scalp-tasseled vest more squarely on his shoulders. "Kind of neo Attila the Hun," Tommy continued. The warrior's eyes lit up with a private joke. "No," he told the Cavalier with mock gravity. "He liked furs." Tommy kept going.

Rawhide fell into step with Perfect Tommy, though walking backwards for the first few yards. His sixth sense said the giant was a threat even well out of sword's reach. As he finally began to relax and turned to face out of the alley, the swordsman had long since turned his back on the departing men and moved to stand over his victim again.

Buckaroo and Reno were waiting at the mouth of the alley. "Weird, weird, weird," said Perfect Tommy. "You said it," muttered Rawhide, looking around to make sure the street and the car seemed normal. the four men started for the car.

"What do you think, have we just seen the tac. squad from the Society for Creative Anachronisms?" Reno's joke lacked conviction. He shook his head and said without humor, "That's one scary punk."

"No way," said Perfect Tommy. "Worse. Seriously foul. Did you see his eyes?"

"Did you see his face?" Reno countered. "And his neck? That guy's been through a windshield."

"Not in the last eighty years," Buckaroo murmured. He seemed distracted.

"You're crazy, man. That guy's twenty-five, thirty max." Perfect Tommy spoke sharply. Buckaroo's tone, let alone what he'd said, gave him the creeps.

"That scar tissue," Buckaroo said deliberately, "was old, as old as any I've ever seen. Childhood wounds on geriatric patients looks something like that.

"There's more. That wound on his throat bore every appearance of a severe, deep cut, deep enough to sever the carotid. Anyone would bleed out before such a cut could close itself-- the mere idea of a wound like that closing itself is hypothetical. It can't happen." He paused. "Then there were the stipples along the supraorbital ridge and the lateral aspect of the orbit. They are consistent with a blow from a mace. A lethal blow." He pursed his lips.

"There were no suture marks anywhere around those wounds. The other man was the same-- old scars, deadly wounds, no sutures. I saw a cranial bullet entry wound on the man's head. Absolutely fatal, no way around it."

"So what?" challenged Perfect Tommy, rude to conceal his uneasiness. Reno and Rawhide were also listening intently to this eerie disquisition.

Buckaroo spread his hands. "So I can't imagine an explanation that makes any sense. The ones I can imagine..." he drifted off. "I don't think I'd want that man's life," he said softly.

"What?" snapped Tommy. "Tune in, will you?"

Buckaroo snapped into the present suddenly, and grinned at Perfect Tommy. "The ones I can imagine are pretty entertaining, that's all."

"Like what?"

"Think about it. We saw a superior combatant who survived a very deep slice to the throat fight with an inferior opponent until he could achieve decapitation. And that same man was notably unimpressed by our firearms." Rawhide nodded, remembering the eyes of the man who'd held a sword at his throat.

"No," Perfect Tommy was shaking his head, "you're out in space, man. This is just your basic psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est. Don't turn it into some--"

Behind them, there was a terrible yell from the alley, a cross between agony and ecstatic release. And then a sound of exploding glass and the splashing of shards down to pavement.

The men whirled and ran back to the alley, turning just in time to see a wild blue light fade and vanish from its walls. Crunching through the broken glass, they found the battle scene changed.

"He moved the body," Rawhide said. There was no sign of the giant warrior, though only seconds had elapsed since his great outcry.

"How'd he break the windows?" marvelled Reno. Not a single pane of glass was intact in the buildings facing onto the alley.

Perfect Tommy looked thoughtful. This was the sort of problem he could enjoy. "Ultrasound, maybe, but he'd have to localize the effect, scale it to confine it to the alley. If it went berserk on him, that would explain the scream: exploded eardrums."

"Blue light," said Reno.

"Could be anything, including the ultrasound device going haywire and putting off a little glow."

Rawhide looked at the two of them impatiently. "Why?" he bit off the word. "Forget the high tech, think about motive. Why blow all the windows out of an alley in Hoboken?"

Tommy turned surly. "Can you explain anything we've seen tonight? Any small single thing?"

Rawhide snorted, acknowledging the justice of this objection. "Nope." He looked at Buckaroo, who was stooped over the body again.

"It's cold," he said, rising to face them. His expression was puzzled. "Cold as if he'd been dead for hours."

"Let's go," said Rawhide. When Buckaroo got abstracted enough, he could forget to move, but they'd seen all there was to see and Rawhide had had enough of this place. The four men retraced their route out of the alley and walked to the car. On the way, Buckaroo roused himself out of his thoughts, looked back, and shrugged.

"Every question has an answer," he said, "but we may not be the ones to find it." He seemed suddenly to find the situation humorous.

"Swordfights, eighty year old scars on twenty year old guys, windows blowing up, blue light out of nowhere-- if you ask me, this whole thing sounds like science fiction," said Reno.

Buckaroo grinned. "It would make a great movie, anyway."

"Nah," said Reno. "Movies are made by committees. Better a book."

"Why don't you write it?" Buckaroo smiled. "It would be a break from the non-fiction."

"Movies," said Perfect Tommy. "Popcorn. Mars bars." There was a terrible urgency in his voice.

Perfect Tommy was the first to reach the car, and climbed into the back seat, followed by Reno. Rawhide moved to the driver's side and picked up the mobile phone to notify the Hoboken police. Buckaroo moved to the passenger side and started to get in, then paused as if he'd remembered something.

"You know, pal," he said to Rawhide across the Pacer's roof, "you've got to stop pushing me around."

Rawhide nodded. "I'll give it up," he said. "In fifty years or so."

 ~~~

... the origins of the Buckaroo Banzai videogame upon which quarters have been so avidly lavished in pinball parlors not only in this country but across the European continent and the Japanese islands. It was invented in a moment of frustration by Perfect Tommy, whose quicksilver reflexes proved more than a match for each commercial computer-assisted game he attempted. Thus, one rainy afternoon when he was prevented from free-climbing the World Trade Center as he'd intended, he devised a videogame both quick and multiplicitous enough to beat him at least some of the time.

We found that, with 75% of the variables and 80% of its speed removed, this game held a powerful attraction for those young and not-so-young members of the public who yearn to join, even if only vicariously, in B. Banzai's ceaseless quest to shield the world from the evil designs of Hanoi Xan. Indeed, this game has proven even more popular than Tommy's other idly-designed toy, the 4-dimensional cube game that can only be solved for 10 seconds at a time before its facets change color, which we...

excerpt from Extradition from Hell, Reno Nevada, Granite Press (1982)

reprinted by permission

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