Buck the Bodyguard

I first learned of Buck Brannon from an article in the Atlanta newspaper. An article describing how Buck had gotten in trouble for ripping the heads off three men and how his charges were being dropped on a ruling of self-defense. Without hesitation, I hired Buck to be my bodyguard.

An upcoming trip had me traveling into a wilderness area rumored to be rife with dangerous beasts. That’s why I needed and wanted a guy like Buck. He’d be there to rip the heads from rattlesnakes, wolves, mountain lions, and who knows, maybe even Sasquatch. Buck doing all the fighting while I watched from a distance. Nothing could get me. I’d be safe with Buck around.

Buck was not a huge man by any means. He was small, especially by bodyguard standards, only standing 5’ 11” in his stocking feet. Was he good-looking? No. Did he have broad shoulders? Sort of. Square jaw? Not really. Muscles? A few. Quick? Quicker than greased lightning. Ferocious? A mob of wolverines whimpers in his presence. I couldn’t wait to see Buck in action.

Buck and I drove to the wilderness area rumored to have such dangerous beasts, traveling in Buck’s car because it was a station wagon and could hold more stuff. Up and down and north we traveled into the hills of Georgia, Buck doing the driving.

Just shy of dusk we came across a nice camping spot, so we stopped and began the fun tasks associated with the establishment of a camp. I gathered the sticks because it was my job to build a fire. Buck was in charge of erecting the tent. And right about when I had a fire going good and Buck had the tent somewhat standing, Buck started screaming and running in circles and slapping himself all over.

“Get them off me! Help me! Get them off me now!” Buck hollered. “They’re biting me! They’re biting me all over!”

“Fire ants, Buck,” I said calmly. “They’re fire ants. Georgia’s notorious for them.”

“Dang things hurt!” Buck exclaimed.

I  helped Buck finish the tent and we stowed our sleeping gear inside. Out around the inviting fire, we cooked our supper, ate, and about the time I was going to smoke my pipe and relax, Buck started asking a bunch of questions.

“What if it’s a raccoon?” Buck asked. “With rabies. What if it’s a bear? Or a panther? Is it gonna get us?”

“I thought you were supposed to be a tough guy! I thought you were going to be my ever-vigilant protector.”

“I am a tough guy,” Buck answered. “Ants and raccoons just aren’t my strong points.”

We both fell asleep that night with the assumption our combined snoring would scare away a majority of the night creatures. Then, at 2 am, Buck shook me awake.

“Byron, wake up,” Buck said, his voice barely a whisper. “I think I hear something out there crawling around. Do you think it will get us?”

We hadn’t even gotten near the wilderness area rumored to have dangerous beasts and already Buck was acting like a big chicken. I seriously was beginning to question my decision to hire Buck Brannon as a bodyguard.

“There it is again,” Buck whispered. “Something is out there.”

I stormed out of the tent, flashlight in hand, and there the something was. An opossum. Digging around in the leaves looking for bugs. I crawled back into the tent, held my breath, and counted to ten.

“It’s an opossum, Buck,” I said. “They’re harmless. Now go to sleep.”

Morning came. Coffee was consumed. And Buck and I set forth with Buck doing the driving again. Me? It was time to assume the role of navigator. I’d never been to this particular wilderness area rumored to have dangerous beasts, so I was keeping a keen eye on the map and the various physical features as we drove along.

It wasn’t far up the road before Buck began screaming. He’d ran over a rabbit with the right rear wheel. We both heard the sickening thump and I could see in the passenger’s rear view mirror the critter twitching alongside the road. Buck jerked the wheel to the right and skidded to a stop, turned off the motor, and started crying. There we sat, never leaving the car once, never checking on the rabbit, while Buck cried his heart out for fifteen-minutes. Then Buck drove on.

It was early afternoon when Buck and I arrived at the wilderness area rumored to have dangerous beasts. At first glance, there was not a dangerous beast anywhere. Instead, we saw deer, dozens of deer. And swans. To our right eight gorgeous swans floated peacefully on a gorgeous pond. And woodchucks. To our left four rather large woodchucks smiled from the wood line as they chucked wood. I thought to myself, hmmm, where are the dangerous beasts?

Buck and I put our packs on our backs, locked the car, found the trailhead, and started walking the trail. Up the narrow path we went, moving at a snail’s pace, on the lookout for dangerous beasts. It wasn’t long before they appeared. There they stood, blocking our path. Some hissing and swaying. Armed to the gums with shotguns and pitchforks. Six ornery-looking men, not a one with a tooth in their mouth.

I turned to Buck and taunted, “Well, bodyguard, what are you going to do now?”

Buck didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at me. I reckon he was too busy staring at the six men, sizing them up. All at once, without warning, a skinny guy with a pitchfork lunged at Buck. Big mistake. Buck shoved the fork’s tines into the man’s stomach, twisting until the man was dead. Holding the man high in the air, Buck flung him into the branches of a sizeable oak. Buck looked back at the remaining men with a vicious glare. All five at once charged Buck. Pulling out his .357 revolver, Buck in five shots shot four completely dead. A tall, ugly man, the lone survivor, writhed on the ground, pleading for Buck to shoot him, to put him out of his misery. With a sixth shot, Buck blew the man’s brains out. We covered the five fellas with leaves, hiding them good as we could. The pitchfork guy we left hanging in the tree. Dang Buck was something else.

Onward and up the trail we went passing vacant camping sites until we came to Camp Site #7, advertised in a brochure as an exquisite place to spend time in the woods. Wrong. It had to be the nastiest camping spot I’d ever seen. Trash, cigarette butts, beer cans, and used toilet paper were scattered everywhere. And everything, including the smoldering fire, was fresh. Like recent. Like today. Off in the distance we heard a rumbling, a loud rumbling, a rumbling getting louder by the second. And then the rumbling was upon us. Eight nasty-looking, long-haired dudes on motorcycles pulled into the site and parked and dismounted next to the smoldering fire.

“What you two doing here?” a man inquired, obviously the leader. “You come to rob us?”

“No sir, we didn’t come to rob you,” I explained. “My partner and I have no need for trash, smoked-down cigarette butts, empty beer cans, nor used toilet paper.”

Apparently the guy didn’t think too kindly of my statement because before I could blink he was holding a Bowie knife to my throat. I stood there not moving a muscle and that’s when Buck took off running, zigzagging through the woods. Where the heck was he going? What a time to disappear. Especially when I’m having a terrible time with a dangerous beast.

“Let the chicken run to his mommy.” The man pressed the knife tighter against my throat. I could feel a trickle of blood and nearly fainted. “You, my little friend, you ain’t going nowhere.” The man’s breath was horrible.

Arriving at the station wagon, Buck quickly unlocked the doors and reached into a bag and pulled out three hand grenades. Going faster coming back, he swiftly evaded his way to the edge of camp. And there he sat and watched. Soon he realized his predicament. He couldn’t throw the damn grenades because of me standing smack-dab in the middle of the bikers.

Then, I caught a glimpse of movement and seen Buck sitting there in the woods. Hot golly damn, ol’ Buck didn’t run away. He was nearby and everything was going to be alright. Buck was holding something up so I could see. And that something was a grenade. I immediately got the hint. Buck needed me to move. And that’s about when eight more nasty-looking, long-haired dudes showed up. Coming in quiet and hot. On bicycles.

The group slid-in like a precision drill team, parked their rides, delicately lowered their kickstands, and dismounted. Several of the men reached over and gently patted their bicycle seats. Some offered soothing words. Then, with faces of stone, the new arrivals stood tall with their hands on their hips and eyes straight ahead. All except one, a man at least six foot six, who walked with purpose toward me and the man holding the knife.

“Let him go, Clive,” the tall man ordered. “He’s got no dog in this fight.”

“Okay. Sure, Percy, no problem. I was just having some fun.”

The knife slid away from my throat and that’s when I stomped on Clive’s foot and started running as fast as I could in the direction of a dirt embankment. I dove up and over like a running back into a rather thick bush. From the darkness I heard a KABOOM! Followed by two more. KABOOM! KABOOM! Buck had thrown the grenades! I peeked carefully out of the bush to see what I could see and boy did I see a mess. And what a mess it was! All sixteen nasty-looking, long-haired dudes were dead and pieces of them and their bicycles were all over the place.

Buck and I met up and took a minute or two to look around. Our backpacks? Blown to smithereens. Our gear - the tent, sleeping bags, clothing, and other necessities? Nowhere to be found. We agreed it was time to call the trip quits and head on home. Buck and I took one last look around and headed down the trail.

“Buck,” I said while walking along. “Did you know that during this brief adventure you killed twenty-two dangerous beasts, as well as a rabbit?”
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 “Seriously, Byron. Did ya have to mention the rabbit? Did ya?”

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