World Watch OnLine: The Buckaroo Banzai Mailing List
#  24 
Submissions: WWatchOne@aol.com
Editor: Banzai88@aol.com (ArcLight)
Archives: http://members.aol.com/wwatchone
                ftp://members.aol.com/wwatchone/download
FAQ: http://www.slip.net/~figment/bb/bbindex.shtml


Number of subscribers:
(NOTE: anyone who doesn't have an "@something" behind their name is
from 'aol.com.')

Contents:
Greetings
Lewis Smith (Perfect Tommy)
Banzai book at Barnes &Nobles?
Harley Davidson
Station Under Attack!
Shaggy/ Boombastic and Buckaroo Banzai
"Help" part five (and, by the way, the final part, so someone else send 
                       something, 'kay?)

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Greetings folks,
Welcome to the All Relayer Issue. <g>
Hope all are well. Melting here, with record setting temps about 20 degrees
higher than the norm. 
For the new folks, hearty welcome as always. If you haven't yet, please hit one
of the sites up top and check out the Freqently Asked Questions file, and the
other various and sundry stuff. Hopefully it's of some interest.
Suggestions/requests are always welcome.
Just realized recently that our favorite mental hospital orderly, Jonathan 
Banks, is on the NBC series "Fired Up" in case anyone's interested.
This time I have a request for y'all:
On the Internet Movie Database, TABB currently has a rating of around seven
on a scale of one to ten. Quite frankly, I think it should be a bit higher 
than that. So if you happen to be surfing the web, mosey on over to
http://www.imdb.com pull up the flick and give it a 10. Just a thought.
Besides, the IMDb is a cool place to check out.
So that's about it for me.
Enjoy life,
ArcLight


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Subj:	Lewis Smith (Perfect Tommy)
Date:	97-05-06 17:42:20 EDT
From:	classic1@airmail.net (Matthew R. Hinman)
Reply-to:	webmaster@classic-cable.com

You wanted more about Lewis Smith (Perfect Tommy), here it is:

   1.Texas Justice (1995) (TV) .... Dennis 
   2.Wyatt Earp (1994) .... Curly Bill Brocius 
   3.In the Line of Duty: Ambush in Waco (1993) (TV) .... Robert Williams 
   4.Diary of a Hit Man (1991) .... Zidzyck 
   5.Fulfillment of Mary Gray, The (1989) (TV) .... Aaron 
     ... aka Fulfillment (1989) (TV) 
   6."Beauty and the Beast" (1987) TV Series .... Mark (1989-1990) 
   7."Karen's Song" (1987) TV Series .... Steven Foreman 
   8.Man Who Fell to Earth, The (1987) (TV) 
   9."North and South II" (1986) (mini) TV Series .... Charles Main 
  10."North and South" (1985) (mini) TV Series .... Charles Main 
  11.Heavenly Kid, The (1985) .... Bobby 
  12.Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension, The (1984)
      .... Perfect Tommy 
     ... aka Buckaroo Banzai (1984) 
  13.Kentucky Woman (1983) (TV) 
  14.I Ought to Be in Pictures (1982) .... Soldier 
  15.Love Child (1982) .... Jesse Chaney 
  16.Final Terror, The (1981) .... Boone 
     ... aka Bump in the Night (1981) 
     ... aka Campsite Massacre (1981) 
     ... aka Forest Primeval, The (1981) 
  17.Southern Comfort (1981) .... Stuckey 

Sincerely,
Matthew R. Hinman
webmaster@classic-cable.com


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Subj:	Banzai book at Barnes &Nobles?
Date:	97-05-08 09:00:11 EDT
From:	nelsonf@interport.net (Nelson Fernandez)

Have you used the AOL Barnes & Noble store on AOL, keyword books and try it
out. They claim to have the Buckaroo Banzai book for $4.95. I ordered it,
let's see if it ships.

Devo, Music Videos, Nintendo 64 and a whole lot more at 
http://www.users.interport.net/~nelsonf/nwhere.html

<<WW1: if folks want to give it a try, it's http://www.barnesandnoble.com >>


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Subj:	Harley Davidson
Date:	97-05-10 19:31:30 EDT
From:	mscak@worldnet.att.net (Mark Balascak)

Greetings fellow BBI's
 As a BBI and a rider of a Harley Davidson I thought
it would be interesting to point out that the motorcycle
Buckaroo rode in the film was a Harley Davidson XR1000.
This bike was a special production with the intent to help
rejuvinate the (at the time) ailing Harley Davidson Motor Co.
Not many were made and today this model is very collectable.
The XR1000 was at the time the fastest and baddest model 
that Harley offered. It figures that Buckaroo would ride such a cool 
bike in the film.
" 86 Whorfin"                                                              
                                   BBI Big Duke Six


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Subj:	Station Under Attack!
Date:	97-05-10 13:53:57 EDT
From:	relayer@annex.com

"Friggin' Lectroids. Just as soon crash your site as go fishin'." - ArcLight

Blue Blaze Station #23 has moved!

Under massive attack from death-dwarf hackers, the Station was forced to
move to a more secure server. The new URL is:

http://www.annex.com/relayer/bbanzai.htm

however, this server is much improved and should offer faster and more
stable transfer rates.

Buckaroo was unharmed. Rawhide was heard to mutter, "If it ain't one damn
thing it's another."

ADDENDUM:

"Ewwww... spiders!" - Rawhide

It appears as if the Station was attacked by a lectroid 'bot in an attempt
to penetrate the email database. Said ill-behaved 'bot appears to have
issued from a company that shall remain nameless, save to reveal they
recently lost 2 court cases regarding aggressive spamming and list-slurping
and had the initials CPI... Both Relayer and Billy Travers are confident
that this assault was unsuccessful, as a server firewall module took the
heat of the 'bot attack and broke down before database penetration could
occur. This is what has necessitated the change of address for Blue Blaze
Station #23 and prevents signposts or other relaying data to be posted at
the old bbs. address. Please spread the word that the address has changed to

http://www.annex.com/relayer/bbanzai.htm

To address this problem, ALL  edresses have been deleted from the public
access database in the Registry. The Banzai Institute will keep all email
addresses confidential unless specifically requested; there is a new option
on the Registry to that effect.

"Identify yourself, no?" - John Parker

on a higher note, Rafterman's most excellent bio sheet inspired me to do
one, and in the making of it, a Banzai Institute ID card that is now
available for downloading at the Station. You may get to the ID page by
going through the Registry or by going directly to:

http://www.annex.com/relayer/bbids.htm

Banzai reference?
In the new Lexus commercial, the car is shown in a fantasy, racing between
two trains; it pulls ahead, and the camera goes into the cockpit, looking
out the windshield. Coming at the car are large seedpods with an abstract
background; an almost identical shot to Buckaroo's perspective inside the
mountain...

enjoy!

regards,
relayer


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Subj:	Shaggy/ Boombastic and Buckaroo Banzai
Date:	97-05-13 18:29:43 EDT
From:	deruiter@scf-fs.usc.edu (deruiter)

	For some reason unbeknownst to me I wanted to listen to Boombastic
by Shaggysome time last week, so I grabbed the CD from my roomate's shelf. 
Much to my surprise was that the CD art is unmistakeably the BB logo.
Black background, yellow back to back B's, yellow circle. I guess he's a
fan. If are so desperate to obtain any BB merchandise you can even if it
is incidental, the album is called: "Boombastic: Full Length Album". It
has a picture of Shaggy on the cover as well as a smaller BB logo in
green. Later,

		-Ed 


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"Buckaroo Banzai" and related characters and concepts are copyright
Credit Lyonnaise.
The story itself, however, is copyright 1985 our very own Apache (lf@cais.com), 
and can not be re-distributed or archived anywhere without her express permission.
For those that missed previous parts, email WWatchOne@AOL.COM and 
I'll get it out to you.
**Be aware** There's some language in here that wasn't in the PG rated movie.
Not much, but it's there. Also, a bit of violence. 

"Help" pt 5
-- Apache (lf@cais.com)

	"So what do you know that I don't know?" said Rawhide.  The cowboy
was driving the pickup as fast as it would go over open range.  He swerved
to avoid a prairie dog hole, and the truck bounced. 

	"Two sets of bad hats from Malaysia want to see Cody, Wyoming, and
then some old guy flies in from Kuala to Hong Kong to L.A. to here on a
private jet with diplomatic clearance last night.  Inquiring minds want to
know, you know?"  The jouncing, jolting ride was worse than being in a
Zodiac on a choppy sea, and it had been several years since Spicer was
last in a Zodiac.

	"What old guy?" growled Rawhide.

	 "Howard fucking Hughes, maybe," he snarled back.  Spicer was
regretting not only his breakfast but also the dinner before it, and his
mood was not sweet.  "You have a plan or are we joyridin'?" 

	Rawhide's foot eased off the accelerator for a split second, and
he shot a glance at his passenger.  "We're gonna head 'em off at the
pass." 

	Spicer had to laugh.  "OK," he said.  "Sure."  The pickup went
airborne over a little gully and slammed back to the ground. 

	His stomach suddenly settled itself.  Battle-happiness rose in
him.  So, OK, this big cowboy didn't know how to kill yet, but he was
driving like a madman.  Yeah, with just a little more training this dude
would smoke good, like a psycho Frog should.

	"That's it," said Spicer.  The pickup was following the rim of a
mesa, angling toward Route 120 below, and plainly visible on the road was
the blue panel truck. 

	Rawhide nodded.  "We'll come out from behind that butte," he
pointed, "and block the road."  He swung away from the mesatop, down the
slope of a dry watercourse, pounding over rocks and brush that punctuated
the wash.  They swung around behind the promon tory Rawhide had pointed
out, angled out toward the road -- and suddenly the entire horizon was
metallic blue -- and --

	"Damn!" said Rawhide as they rammed the panel truck.

	The impact carried the panel truck clear off the road, with the
pickup pushing it along at a neat perpendicular angle.  A few seconds
later, both trucks came to a stop, the panel truck jammed up against a
boulder and teetering on two wheels. 

	For Spicer, training took over.  "I got the front," he said, and
was out of the truck with a drawn knife in mere seconds.  Rawhide took the
cue and ran to the back of the panel truck, where the doors were swinging
open and two men, slightly dazed, were emerging.  Rawhide took one of
them at a jump, ramming him against the boulder and scoring a quick
knockout.  The other man jumped him just as quickly, landing a hard hit to
the kidneys which took a lot of the fun out of the occasion for Rawhide. 
He ducked the next blow and grappled the man, using his advantage of
height and weight to swing his opponent onto the rock, only to find the
other man taking advantage of being lifted by slamming his foot into
Rawhide's knee.  Rawhide dropped his hold and brought up his fists.   

	Spicer came around from the front to find Rawhide breaking an
antagonist's shoulder and trading a few broken ribs for the advantage.  He
left them fighting, and jumped into the back of the panel truck.  Inside
were a bound man hanging upside down and unconscious, and a guard with a
naked machete.  In the close confines of the truck, the machete could only
be threatening for one stroke, and the man muffed it, with a little help
from the SEAL.  A second later it was hand-to-hand, with both men reaching
for and finding chokeholds on each other's throats and blocks on each other's
knives, dancing around on the wobbling floor of the truck and groping for
an advantage.

	Buckaroo Banzai, stunned in the collision, regained consciousness
at this moment and assessed his situation.  The truck had stopped.  A
stranger and one of Xan's bravos were locked in a death grip in front of
him.  Banzai had never had trouble choosing sides and now, still trussed
and hooked, he arced his body over to the combatants and clamped his teeth
into the bravo's neck as close to the carotid artery as he could get. 
Then he slumped, pulling backwards.

	Spicer instantly took advantage of the new momentum; a second
later it was over, the bravo slumping to the floor with a pierced heart
while the captive was still spitting out bits of his neck. 

	"Excellent move, my man," said Spicer to the trussed stranger.  A
couple swift strokes of the knife loosed his bonds, and the man fell to
the floor of the truck almost like a cat, landing four-footed.  He dusted
himself off a little as he stood up on the crooked floor of the truck and
stuck out his hand. 

	"Buckaroo Banzai, glad to meet you."

	"Jack Spicer," answered Spicer, but Banzai was already moving past
him out of the truck.  "C'mon, we've got to hurry." 

	Outside, Banzai found Rawhide, who was wheezing but victorious. 
"It's him," Banzai said urgently.  "He's here." 

	"The old man?" said Spicer.  "You know him?"

	Banzai whirled.  "It is my destiny to kill him," he said.  "Let's
go." 

	The pickup's engine was smashed; the panel truck's engine coughed
for them but refused to turn over.  Hastily, the three men raised the hood
and started looking for reasons. 

	"Try it again," Spicer yelled to Banzai in the cab.

	But a different sound caught their attention.  The old
dispatcher's radio in the truck's dashboard crackled to life in a wash of
static, and a whispery voice hissed out at them from its speaker. 

	"Goodbye for now, young Buckaroo Banzai," said the voice.  "I
shall have you under my hand another day." 

	Buckaroo picked up the dispatch mike, and keyed it.  "That day
will be your last, Xan." 

	"Until then, know that my curse shadows all your journeys," came
the reply. 

	"Dude talks like a movie," Spicer muttered to Rawhide.

	Less than a minute later, a LearJet screamed overhead, low enough
to deafen them and shake the trucks with the force of its passage.  The
airplane bore no markings and flew with no lights. 

	Each man stood frozen in his thoughts until even the echo of the
jet had faded from the hills.  Then Buckaroo Banzai began to move around,
casually taking command. 

	"Whaddya got?" he said to Rawhide.

	Rawhide understood.  "Some ribs and the same knee, nothing more. 
How 'bout you?" 

	"What you see is what I got," Banzai smiled.  He was all but
insouciant, despite having been so near death minutes before.

	Baffled, Rawhide shook his head again.  "This is Spicer.  He's
some kind of Fed." 

	"Call me Jack--"  Spicer started again.

	"What kind of Fed?" asked Banzai.

	Spicer tensed, but went with the truth.  "A Customs inspector."

	Buckaroo Banzai was bemused.  "You've had some interesting
training for a suitcase shuffler," he remarked. 

	"Before that, I was with the Teams." Seeing incomprehension, he
amplified, "Navy SEALs."  Banzai was nodding with apparent pleasure. "So,
how 'bout you, where'd you get your moves?" Spicer asked Banzai. 

	"Oh, Mom and Dad, mostly," said Banzai.  

4)

	The three men made camp more or less at random, simply stopping at
the first water they found, a little creek.  They scrounged enough wood
and brush to get a fire going, and Rawhide reached into his knapsack to
pull out a bottle from the case of Jim Beam he'd picked up in town.  The
whiskey was all they'd bothered to pack before they started walking home.

	They started drinking somewhat before sundown, and continued
steadily as the stars came out.  Nobody spoke for hours, as if getting
drunk on this night was much too serious a business to clutter with
conversation. 

	Moonrise, and the ceremonious opening of the fourth fifth, finally
loosened their tongues. Questons and answers flowed freely, while the
soothing warmth of the alcohol numbed their bruised bodies into a
semblance of comfort. 

	"Lemme see if I got this straight," said Spicer, somewhere around
midnight.  "This dude's biggest ambition in the world is to wax your ass,
and you wanna start some international scientific shindig so he can just
look up your address in the phone book." 

	"I think I would have to say that Hanoi Xan's biggest ambition is
to rule the world," Buckaroo said professorially, "and the Institute's
telephone listing would be a secondary effect rather than a principal
goal, but otherwise your summation is correct in its essentials." 

	"And this research deal is just gonna be a do-whatever kind of thing."

	"Correct."

	A side issue distracted Spicer.  "What about making plastique out
of toothpaste and...  nah."  He reached for the bottle. 

	"Nah?" said Rawhide, passing it.

	"Nah," said Spicer, and swallowed.  "Well ... maybe.  You know, an
awful lot of things in this world will go boom." 

	"Plastique?" filled in Buckaroo, taking a swig.

	"Check," said Spicer.  "Why not?  I sure could groove on seeing
that old guy go boom." 

	Rawhide thought about it.  "I'd rather shoot him."

	"I'd rather disembowel him with my grandfather's sword," Buckaroo
Banzai said levelly. 

	A long pause followed this remark.

	"Yeah, that'd do it," Spicer agreed at length.  "But I guess I
jus' like to hear them booms."

	"Armaments?" said Rawhide.  This vision of the Institute was new
to him.  He decided to drink on it. 

	"You've seen the consequences of defenselessness," said Banzai. 

	Rawhide had to allow that he had, but it still stuck in his craw. 
"Only kind of bomb might interest me is one that'll kill the buildings 'n
leave the people standing."  He passed the bottle to Spicer. 

	Spicer was looking at Banzai fairly seriously.  "We used to talk a
lot about limited-range, shaped, target specific, and especially quiet . .
. . that was our wish list.  Quiet booms." 

	"Right up our alley."

	"But this Hanoi cat's gonna be out there the whole time takin' pot
shots at you?" 

	"If bees be."

	Spicer took a long pull on the bottle.  "Sweet Jesus, man, that
ain't no way to live.  Why don't you just dig a hole somewheres and
pull the daylight in after you?" 

	"Because I don't want to," said Buckaroo.

	It took the others a minute or so to realize that these simple
words were, in fact, a complete and serious answer.  Silence wrapped the
group. 

	Finally Spicer spoke.  "Well, I guess I know a Team when I see
one.  But my Mama sure didn't raise me to die in no New Jersey." 

	Banzai smiled.  "Glad to hear it, Sluggo."

	"What?"

	"No." Buckaroo waved the bottle back and forth slowly. "Who."

	"Who?"

	"You."

	"Sluggo was bald," Spicer pointed out.  It was simply the first
objection that came to mind. 

	"He was white and bald," he added a minute later.  A trifle
ponderously, Rawhide nodded agreement. 

	"Ends in a vowel," Buckaroo said with a persuasive lilt.

	Spicer looked at Banzai long and hard, then shook his head. 
"You're a crazy man, so I'm gonna humor you," he said.  Then, "pass the
whiskey." 

	Buckaroo sent it the long way, by Rawhide.  As he let go the
whiskey, Rawhide gave Spicer a considering glance.  "Sluggo," he nodded,
straightfaced.  Spicer nodded back at him, and then at Banzai.  "Sluggo?"
he queried, solemn as a gravedigger. 

	He lifted the bottle to the moon.  "Yo, Sluggo-o-o-o," he yelled. 
He brought his gaze back down to earth and nodded at his two cohorts. 
"How I spent my summer vacation," he said in salute, and drained the
bottle. 

	Sheriff's deputies found them at first light; Aunt Betsy had
raised an alarm upon coming out of church and finding neither her nephew
nor her nephew's friend nor her husband's truck. 

	Of the panel truck and the five defeated bravos, there was no
trace, though skid marks and the teenage hotel clerk's story made clear
that events had befallen as they described.  Banzai seemed unsurprised,
and Rawhide was learning to be; Sluggo took his cue from them and was
mainly grateful that he wasn't being arrested for impersonating a Federal
officer. 

	When the sheriff's office was done with them, Rawhide went with
Old Joe to tow the pickup home.  Buckaroo was taken to the hospital to be
checked for a concussion and would catch a lift from the deputies if the
doctors okayed him to leave.  Sluggo, who was unscratched but somewhat
hungover, went back to his hotel room to call his boss and attempt to
explain that he and his flu germs were moving to New Jersey.

	Sluggo shook Rawhide's hand as they parted, jiggling the cowboy's
freshly taped ribs.  "I'll see you back at the ranch," he told Rawhide. 
"Damn, I've always wanted to say that." 

	Away from Banzai, and with the artificial cheer of the whiskey
wearing off, Rawhide brooded:  I left him alone.  The sight of Banzai in
the morning light, with a face beaten pulpy and wrists almost skinless
from the scraping of the rope that had bound him, had jolted him to a
deeper awareness of the danger his friend lived with.  And that's just
what shows, he thought.  In less than a month, I got lax.  He shook his
head slightly. If it hadn't been for the intervention of Sluggo and his
special talents, Buckaroo would be dead or on his way to Malaysia...  I
make a speech about licks and then I let him walk right into their hands. 
Shoot the piano player, he thought, disgusted with himself.

	He was in the kitchen pensively swallowing a Bud when he heard the
crunch of a car arriving on the gravel drive outside.  It could only be
Buckaroo returning, and when no one came into the kitchen, Rawhide poured
down the last of his beer and walked out to the bunkhouse. 

	He found Buckaroo Banzai loading his rucksack and rolling up the
mattress on his bed.  Muscles tightened in Rawhide's jaw as he clenched
his teeth over the words of dissuasion he wanted to speak.  I shoulda been
there.  Period.  He leaned in the frame of the bunkhouse door, watching
the caution of Banzai's movements, dictated by his battered, stiff and
sore body.  Rawhide shook his head.  He's got every right to go.  He
studied the grain in the floor's planking, but didn't leave. 

	Buckaroo turned around and looked at him; Rawhide looked up and
met this scrutiny candidly, all his regret and sense of responsibility
plain in his face.  Buckaroo Banzai reached into the inner pocket of his
jacket, and dropped a ticket folder onto his bed. 

	"What's that?" Rawhide asked.

	"Ticket to Hikita-san's lab in New Brunswick," said Buckaroo. 

	Rawhide clenched his teeth again, and looked down, shaking his
head.  I shoulda been there. 

	Something slapped at his arm.  Buckaroo was holding something out
to him, also a folder.  Rawhide took it.  "What's this?" 

	"Same thing." 

	Rawhide took the envelope, but shook his head.  "Don't know if I
should do this."  It was an appealing image, building something out of
nothing, a research facility that wouldn't be tangled up in red tape and
blue pencils.  A place that would have stock and music and good company
and high standards.  A place whose focus on results wouldn't secretly
really be about getting tenure or attracting money from the NIH or the
Departments of Agriculture or Defense or Commerce.  Just do the work. 
That, and worry about keeping Buckaroo alive.  "Not sure I can." 

	Buckaroo frowned, genuinely puzzled.  Rawhide explained. "You
could be dead.  I didn't have much to do with it that you aren't.  He's
good; y'all won't need me." 

        The frown cleared.  "Of course I will. You're Rawhide."  

	Rawhide shook his head.  All that responsibility; all that future. 
"Not sure I can." 

	Buckaroo Banzai strolled into the ranch kitchen, where Old Joe
handed him a beer without asking.  Aunt Betsy had floured up the
drainboard and was rolling pie crust, with a sack of California peaches
standing by.  Joe and Buckaroo popped their beers, and went out on the
porch to drink them in the late afternoon sun.  Aunt Betsy came out, and
the three of them leaned on the porch railing and watched the slant light
turn the plains gold. 

	Buckaroo turned to Rawhide's aunt, a playful lilt in his voice. 
"Betsy tell me true, wouldn't you leap at a chance to leave all this
behind and come live in an industrial park in New Jersey?"

	She gave him a roguish smile.  "Well, sugar, if it were you that
was askin', I just might.  I just might at that."  But she threw a wink to
her husband. 

	Old Joe glanced up at Buckaroo with no visible concern that the
man was about to elope with his wife.  From Buckaroo's face, still swollen
from its battering, Joe's eyes travelled over to the ranch's small
bunkhouse. 

	The bunkhouse door darkened.  Rawhide, mending a snagged saddle
blanket, looked up expecting Buckaroo and found Old Joe bearing down on
him, carrying the ancient silver-mounted Henry rifle that reputedly had
won this land for the family. 

	"I want to talk to you, boy," said his uncle.  "Hard talk.  And I
mean to make you listen." 

	"Shoot me?"  Rawhide gestured at the Henry. 

	His uncle ignored this.  "What you got, son, is a lotta degrees
and nothin' to do," he said firmly. Rawhide grew restless and stood up. 

	"Your foot, if I have to," said his uncle.

	"Take m'whole leg," Rawhide said, half incredulous.  A point blank
hit from a Henry would knock down a buffalo, which was what they were
intended for. 

	"It ain't loaded," said Old Joe, disgusted.  "Don't turn stupid on
me.  Point is, I want your attention." 

	Rawhide sat down, and set his jaw.  "Shoot," he said humorously. 
But he fixed his eyes to the floor, shy of what was coming. 

	"You're getting to the age where a man should do something with
his life.  You've been in school, so you know about bugs and Arabs and the
criminal mind."  Sic transit ent., anth., and psych., thought Rawhide. 
"You left out biochem," he said. 

	"Bug juices," grinned Old Joe.  "And baseball.  Damn near broke my
heart when you quit playin'."  He paused.  "And piano playin'.  And stock. 
Fact is, you're good at a lot of things and it don't matter a damn 'cause
you got no purpose." 

	Rawhide's temper flared.  "And you're gonna give me one?" he
growled. 

	Old Joe was unimpressed.  "Don't bare your teeth at me, boy.  You
turned down what I offered years ago, and you were right to.  You could
run this place in your sleep but some part of you would always be wanting
to be elsewhere. 

	"Now look at yourself, sittin' out here in the shadows and
thinkin' you're not good enough to watch his back, well, that's just
pitiful, ain't it?" 

	Rawhide moved to rise again.  His uncle slammed the butt of the
rifle onto his foot, and he sat down hard. 

	Old Joe continued, "Get good enough.  You don't need me to tell
you that.  Now here's what that part is:  this Buckaroo Banzai has big big
ideas -- ideas that are too big for him, and he has sense enough to
suspect it.  But two of you might could do some of those things." 

	"His things," said Rawhide.

	His uncle shrugged.  "You got plans of your own, walk away
anytime.  Put yourself together a band and hit the road.  But just now you
don't got those plans, besides which you like this Banzai." 

	Rawhide's eyes flashed up from the floor to stare at his uncle. 
Old Joe met the challenge impassively. 

	"You like him a lot," Old Joe said.  "Otherwise you wouldn't have
helped him plant those two reprobates in Hat Creek Canyon without a word
to me." 

	Rawhide's head dropped and the breath whistled out between his
teeth.  For a long silent minute he shook his head back and forth
disbelievingly.  "You got a lotta moves for an old-timer," he said
finally.  His voice was low and shamed. 

	"My goddamn land, boy," said Uncle Joe.  "You think I don't know
what happens on it?" 

	Rawhide snorted, and sighed.  "Guess you do."  He sighed again,
and raised his head to look his uncle in the eye.  "I'm sorry."  He pulled
a thin smile.  "Guess the damn coyotes tell you everything." 

	"Them and the buzzards."  Old Joe moved forward and caught
Rawhide's head in the crook of his arm, drawing the young man's face to
his chest for an instant.  Rawhide accepted the embrace, even leaning into
it as the old man ran thick fingers across his nephew's mat of coppery
hair.  Uncle Joe smacked Rawhide on the top of the head for emphasis as he
pulled away.  "Go found yourself an Institute, y'hear?" 

	Rawhide watched in silence as his uncle stumped through the
bunkhouse door.  The silver of the Henry rifle blazed suddenly with
reflected sunshine as the old man moved out into the daylight.
         
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