lasher

The Old Buzzard

“Ha! Ya old buzzard, I can’t believe some of the stories ya come up with in here. I swear you’ll tell anybody anythin’ just to get yerself a pint of stout. Everybody knows there’s no such things as ghosts,” says Jim as he’s rinsing out glasses at the bar. “Besides, what did I tell ya about comin’ in here spongin’ off my hard workin’ cli-en-tel?”

“Hey.. Hey, I’m not drunk and I got me some money too,” rasps the old buzzard. “I could buy this place out from under ya, and those ain’t just stories, I’m tellin’ ya it really happened. C’mon, set me up a pint o’ that stout.” Ben Dover, more commonly known as the old buzzard, was sort of an enigma in the town of Elkin. It was common knowledge that he owned and lived at the long defunct auto salvage yard on the outskirts of town, but what the townsfolk didn’t know was how long he has been a resident and just how he made his income.

The scuttlebutt was that he had money, family money buried here and there about the junkyard, but a pair of mean and hungry Rottweiler hounds lurking about the premises discouraged any attempts at illicit withdrawals. Old Buzzard made his way into town now and again to imbibe the local hooch and to do some chatting with the town yokels. If Old Buzzard could do anything, it was talking. Living alone on the outskirts of town was good for most of the time, but even old timers like Buzzard needed some conversation every so often.

Jim looks over at Moose as he was setting a tray of cleaned glasses off to the side bar so as to be near to hand and says. “Hey, Moose, whaddya think, should I serve the old coot or toss ‘im outta here on his ass? He’s just gonna get drunk and blabber on like he does.” Old Buzzard feigned a look of hurt and was going to reply when Moose ambled up to the bar.

“Hey, why ya always bustin’ ‘em on ‘im for? He don’t cause no harm, hell, we all get drunk and babble on in here, that’s what this place is for. He’s done his time in life, shit Buzzard, you tell me that story ‘o yours and I’ll buy yer pints fer ya fer as long as yer flappin’ yer gums. And I don’t wanna here no more crap flushin’ from yer mouth about this: ya do it all the time. Now get us a round ‘o pints afore I really get sore.” Jim knew not to push Moose, it was apparent he was in no mood to be trifled with. It just didn’t make sense to Jim to instigate a man called Moose; reluctantly, Jim poured the pints. At six feet, eleven inches, three hundred thirty three pounds, pouring the beer and keeping the peace seemed to be the right thing to do.

A smile formed on the old man’s lips as he realized what just went down. “Well now, Moose, let’s go sit yonder. I do just happen to have a tale to tell in me, so keep thems brews acomin’ ‘cuz story tellin’ builds me a powerful thirst.” He gives Jim a wink as he shuffles off to a table with Moose. Old Buzzard knows this is going to be a great night tonight, he’s about to sit down and do the two things he likes best in the world, drinking and talking. And the best thing is; it’s free. “Okay, Moose, I’m gonna tell ya a tale that happened right here in this very town. This story goes back a ways, long afore I was born. It was passed down to me from my Pappy, so I knows it’s gospel.” Old Buzzard hunkers down into his chair and raises his glass to his mouth. “Afore I start I has to re-ju-ven-ate my memory, here’s to ya.” He raises his glass in salute to Moose and promptly inhales a third of the glass.

“Ahhh, ok, where was I? Oh yeah. Back in the beginning of time, the 1800’s, 1888 to be exact, there was a family who had themselves a little place right where that new school is being built as a matter ‘o fact. Ya know; the town was a lot different back then. It didn’t have all these houses and paved streets and such. Anyway, there was two little boys, a Mammy and a Pappy all living in this little shack. Always had animals loose scurrying about, trash everywhere and just didn’t have no regard for the townsfolk a’tall. Now, these two young’uns must’ve always been doin’ somethin’ wrong ‘cuz they was always getting’ a beatin’ fer somethin’.” He paused for another third of his pint. “Ahhh, now where was I?”

Moose looks over to the bar and signals Jim for two more pints. “Wha? As if I don’t got enough to do I gotta play hostess now?” Moose looked back with a look only a Moose could give and without a word resignaled for the pints and then gave his attention back to the Buzzard.

“Oh yeah, they was mean to them young’uns, plum mean. Never let’em be playin’, no friends – it was always work, work, work. It was told that the townsfolk never heard ‘em utter a single word to anyone, ‘cept each other. Work, work, work and more beatin’s, them kids had a miserable life. Well, you know how people can get, with one rumor there’s sure another to follow. They also said tell that the Pappy weren’t content enough just lyin’ with the missus at night – if ya know what I mean. Imagine that, somethin’ like that happenin’ an even yer own Mammy won’t do nuthin’ fer ya and then late one night, as I hear tell, there was a great ruckus a comin’ from the little shack – smashin’ glass, yellin’ an screamin’, screams of pain; screamin’, mind you. And then, after a spell, all was quiet, and the next day, well, there was nary a noise nor movement a come from the little shack. Hey, Jim, where are those there pints, my throats raspier than an emery board, c’mon now.” Old Buzzard drains the last bit of stout from his glass and looks around the room, there’s still only him, the Moose and Jim there; a slow night at The Smokin’ Pistol. He usually loves a bigger audience, but if there not there – there not there. He did notice that after the brews were delivered Jim settled at the end of the bar – within earshot. He knew he couldn’t pass up a good story.

“Aaah, okay, where was I? Oh yeah, finally, days later, the Mammy an Pappy were seen out in the back yard – neither lookin’ none too happy and maybe even bruised a bit. But, the queer thing of it is, the young’uns were never seen of nor heard of again. And any attempts of approaching the property was quickly met with the business end of a double-barreled scattergun. Well, life went on, ‘cuz in those days the law just weren’t what it is today. Well, much to the townsfolks dismay, the Mammy and the Pappy stayed on, and they became even more secluded than they were, if that was possible. Rightfully, the townsfolk gave ‘em a wide berth, they didn’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em, no sense in stirrin’ up trouble I suppose.” Here, he took another long pull from his stout and licked the foam off of his lips. “I am much obliged Moose, I get so dang thirsty telling these stories.” He swallowed another mouthful of the nectar of the gods. “Aaah, where was I? Oh yeah, and then, well, great horny toads, wouldn’t ya know it? One year later the townsfolk found the Mammy and the Pappy hung out in the fields staked up as scarecrows, naked as bluejays. Their throats cut, theys hands cut off and the name ‘o each young’un burned into their chest – and the bones of each little boy was on the ground at their feet. If that weren’t enough, the crows weren’t scared of ‘em neither, no sir, they was seen a peckin’ the eyes out ‘o the pair. Wow, am I parched. It was believed the Mammy an Pappy died on the same day their young’uns disappeared so long ago. Well, people bein’ people, the rumors have it that the ghosts of the young’uns had done come back and wreaked their vengeance upon their Mammy an Pappy. The townsfolk also say that on the anniversary of the murdered Mammy an Pappy, which is also rumored to be the anniversary of the young’uns, that upon the whisperin’ autumn winds children could be heard a laughin’ an a playin’. Now, keep in mind, I’ve never heard it myself, but there’s been a plenty ‘o folk since that’ll swear to hearin’ the young’uns at play, maybe they all be dead now, I don’t know, but, to this day, you can still hear the laughter of children at play when you listen to the mournful winds of October wispin’ across the plains.” Old Buzzard, happy with his tale, picked up his fresh stout and took a long, hard gulp. Moose, sitting quiet, seemed to be taking in the story. He looked pleased and was about to say something when Jim distracted him as he left his perch at the end of the bar.

“Why that’s just pure nonsense, I told ya there ain’t no such things as ghosts. That just couldn’t a happened.” Jim went to the far end of the bar as the Old Buzzard sized up the Moose and said.

“Well, I hope ya liked that one and I hope yer wallets good and fat tonight ‘cuz now I wanna tell ya about the retired sea captain and his dead wife………..

Amzy

An interesting tale, Lasher. I like your writing style, and you maintain it consistantly. However, your character's name takes credibility from the story (Ben Dover). It's out of place, the story is not a comedy. And a pet peeve ... "there not there – there not there." should be "they're not there – they're not there."

Now...when can I read about this sea captain?

lasher

Hey now, Amzy. Thanx for reading and your input. Yeah, I was wondering about ole Ben, maybe I should change the name - you are right, the rest is not a comedy. And ya know, I read this again and again to find the typos and wouldn'cha know it - there it is - good eye!! I understand the peeve part, sorry, it got away from me. Thanx again Amzy.

Does anybody know how I can get in there and edit??