The Humble Beginnings of Young Buck.
This all happened back when our hero, Crispin Buckminster, was only a youth. He used to be member to a juvenile posse of sorts. They called themselves the Order of the Purple Paw. Young Buckminster – or YB, the Young Buck, as we’ll call him – was chief officiate and head coordinator of this group. They would walk the campgrounds together as a band of rebels going against the grain. Quite the exclusive crew. Often trailing along the outskirts of their summer camp, they would be bolder and go further than other kids. Typically their journeys traversed down to the dumpster by the ravine, behind which the league of little leaguers had stashed their very own treasure trove of cannabis and related paraphernalia. During their post-lunch recesses they would sneak off to it and indulge in secrecy. The gang was a really angsty bunch and so they channeled their pubescent stress into constructive solitary tasks like carving and whittling. This would all be practiced as part of their daily ceremonies, of which they packed many other testosterone reinforcing activities. They would go about completing these events as rites of maturity, with devotion to seriousness and ritualistic reverence. This united them but they spent much of their time independently drifting into reverie, each dreaming of something more interesting than the present.
But they were not solemn. No, they were a raucous and excited bunch, all clamoring for acceptance and friendship. They spent much of the summer collaborating on their masterpiece – a makeshift hut fashioned from twigs, bamboo stalks, and plastic bags – on the far side of the southernmost hill in the camp. It was big enough to hang out in and even had three chairs and a couch, made from pilfered hay bales. They would whittle the afternoons away by singing with each other and smoking pot, all with confidence that they had free range in their secluded home away from home. Loftmates and bunking bedfellows, they had shared barracks enough times that the four of them would even stay overnight on the weekends, when they knew counselors wouldn’t be worried about them. Dancing and cavorting late into the night, Young Buck regaled his subjects with wondrous ghost stories and funny jokes, ending every night by leading his pack through feats of articulation and occult chanting. He lit a path towards manhood and the Purple Paws followed him on that path like moth to a blazing flame. He was young, but YB had more wisdom than the rest combined. And that would come in handy…
Forlorn and running – Saul Gainsboro had been running all his life. At the ripe age of 55, he set off running for his final race. He had always seen everything as running. From teenage track prodigy to getaway driver, Saul had spent his life running from one place to another, running from anything and everything he could. He feared what fate had in store for him and so he tried to run from that too. Saul took his chance when he was being loaded off the bus and the guards were switching handcuffs. He jerked to sneeze and made a break for it. He took the guards by surprise and bulleted out of sight in a flash. He ran for days - like a madman – until he found respite in a mild enclosure some 2 states, 18 days, and 1200 miles from where he made his escape. He had chanced upon the little hut too small for his 6’3” frame and settled in for the night. As he rolled down to sleep, he resolved to never run again. His past was far behind him and he wanted nothing of it. He resigned to face his future like a man, however it would come to him.
The next afternoon, Bucky and the boys were gallivanting through their typical territory on the foggiest day of their camping careers, high as balls – when they noticed something amiss. Had one of the counselors stumbled upon their illicit hideout? No. Breaching forth from their debris fort was none other than Saul G. In the nude.
Dead silent, the fog was thick with palpable tension. Saul was the first to break the standstill as he swiftly grabbed Jimothy Barns by his neck and held to it a wooden dagger one of the boys had left there last week. Jimothy struggled but was unable to break free. The only thing Jimothy could see through the mist before he blacked out was the ember in Young Buck’s pipe.
Aloof and calm, YB advanced toward the naked madman, all the while expertly handling his puffs with unfazed regularity. The bowl, affectionately termed Scooby for the tendency of occasionally giving its smokers unwanted bits of ash in their mouths, had a full pack and a glowing cherry. The stage was set and Crispin Buckinwald made his move. His voice raspy from the Sour Diesel fumes he’d been inhaling, his voice sounded just like that of Javier Bardem.
What are you doing?
What I have to do.
Why are you doing this?
I have to do it. I am a man.
We are all men. You will not change this.
There is no choice in the matter. He must die.
He is innocent. You are a perpetrator. Is this right?
That is right. The weak have no right to encroach on the strong.
But who is weak?
Those who have been set to lose.
No. The weak are those who do nothing.
Those who do not try?
Yes. Them.
You are weak then. What have you tried?
I am always trying.
Even now? In murky times like this?
Of course. Trying in the throes of chaos is the only true attempt one can make. The shadow of doubt is in every choice. Nothing is clear to those who try. Yet they choose to continue.
What if one was not given a choice? What then?
We are all given choice. Without choice we are nothing.
But if someone truly had no choice? What then? Are they exempt?
They are an actor with no script. They are empty and will feel no freedom. Ever.
Then I am not free. I am weak. I have no recourse.
Look -
During the confrontation, YB had been making quiet steps nearing ever closer to Saul in the fog and taking huge hits off of Scooby. Dropping the demeanor Buck had taken on just then, he blew with all his might outwards. The now fiercely burning coal flew into the eye of the convict.
Tossing and turning on the ground, Saul had only this to say:
I am blinded. I would have gotten away with it too if it were not for you pesky kids.
A single downward strike pierced through the temple of Saul Gainsboro, skewering both his eyes. A final retort from Young Buck followed:
