quote:

Hey, guys. Sorry to bring this back up, but I read Totoro's post this AM, and it's been buzzing around in my brain all day.

So here. Not Nipsy Russell and Conoco Oil present:

"The Death of Buddy Holly"
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When Big Bopper finally opened his eyes, he wished he'd kept them closed. The darkness was unbearable, suffocating; worse even than the piercing cold. Under the cold, a dull, pulsing pain all over his body. He panicked for a moment, not realizing where he was. Iowa. Airplane. Snow. He was in snow. No, he realized, his senses returning, he was under the snow. Slowly, Bopper sat up, clearing the snow from his face, and looked around.
It should have been pitch black: the plane had taken off just short of one A.M. However, the air was filled with strong gusting snow which caught the moonlight and filled the sky with a thin, grey glow. Looking to his left, Bopper saw that the glow was much brighter. It had to be the plane. The snow was blowing too thickly to see much, but he could see from the glow that he was in a wide, open field.
Iowa.
Cornfield.
They couldn't have gotten very far; they'd only been in the air for about an hour. Half an hour too long, thought Bopper. He'd gotten cold feet, and they were in the air too long. He'd screwed up the plan. Despite the storm, despite the hour, there would be people coming. There had to be people coming. This thought steeled him. He had to act now; there was still a chance he could make this work. As Bopper stiffly tried to rise, his left knee suddenly buckled with stabbing pain, and he dropped down on his right, catching himself in the powdery snow. Slowly, Big fella, slowly. Bopper stayed upright this time, the wind now whipping the thin cotton of his slacks against his legs. To his left, the fiery remnants of the plane were no more than fifty yards off, the billowing smoke mingling with the blowing snow. Bopper was also surprised to see the pack and parachute a few yards away. The snow covered the silk, anchoring it. He did not remember taking the pack off, but he must have. Seeing it so near, he wondered where Valens could be. Big Bopper wrapped his leather jacket around him against the knifing wind, and started limping towards the glowing wreck.
Valens. Jesus that guy never shut up. He wasn't even supposed to be on the plane. No big deal, though. Not much of a loss there. Guy only really had the one song. Jesus, what the hell did that song even mean? Big Bopper knew enough Mexican; hell every good Texan did, but La Bamba? The thought of the song title made Bopper giggle a little. No doubt, that little wetback sure did a “La Bamba” right out the side of that plane, that's for sure. Or a swan dive, or something. He remembered the plane diving and bucking like mad, and standing in the doorway putting the chute pack on. He'd started to jump when Valens grabbed him, snarling. “There's only one, man! No voy a morir, hijo de puta!” Bopper had jumped, Valens clinging to his legs for a few seconds of falling. Bopper had been terrified that he was falling too fast, but couldn't shake Valens off his knees. Bopper remembered considering going for the gun in the pack, but that's when Valens suddenly fell free into the churning snow-filled void below.
The gun.
“Son of a bitch. The gun”.
Bopper had forgotten it in the pack, now several yards behind him. Wincing from the pain, Bopper turned into the wind, and went back for it. By now, his hands were raw and aching; his face stinging. In the side pocket, he found it. A 1932 Colt Woodsman, with a full magazine of ten rounds, a five inch barrel, and adjustable rear target sight. He tucked into an inside pocket of his jacket, its firm weight filling him with renewed confidence. He still felt this had gotten way over his head. But no matter what, Big Bopper was going to finish the job. And right now, the job was Buddy Holly.
By the time Big Bopper reached the plane, the storm had died down considerably. He could hear his footsteps in the snow over the breeze. He did not hear sounds of rescue, which both reassured him and worried him. It meant there was still time to do what he'd promised. But Bopper was also ready to be finished with the whole thing. I'm a singer, for Pete's sake! An entertainer. I'm no killer. But he'd made a solemn promise. And above all, he thought, I'm a Texan. A Texan does as a Texan says. If killin's what I talk, then killin's what I walk. He'd just made that up, and the songwriter in him was very pleased. His newfound confidence made the pain in his knee, his face and his hands more bearable. His walk to the wreckage of the plane went faster than he thought.
Bopper did not have to look long before he saw him. Holly had somehow managed to pull himself to a sitting position against a large section of fuselage. The fire was close enough that it was reasonably warm, and the smashed wall of the plane blocked most of the wind. But, Jesus, Holly was a mess! Both of his legs were bent completely wrong. His bloody and torn pants appeared to be the only things holding his lower body in one piece. Above the right knee, Bopper thought he saw the dull white end of bone sticking through the gabardine of Holly's slacks. He wasn't sure; he'd looked away quickly, fighting down the urge to puke. All the snow around him was a deep wine red. Bopper couldn't see Holly's wounds, but from the looks of things, there were many, and they were deep. Holly's face was the worst, though. The right side was a shocking welt of bright tomato red blood and pulped flesh. Strangely, Holly's thick rimmed glasses had not come off. Rather, they were broken in half, with the left side still perched between his ear and nose. The right side was completely gone, as was the eye underneath. Only a ruin of bone and tissue marked where his other eye had been.
Oh, God, thought Big Bopper, thank you. He's gone. Nothing to do but walk out, and tell my miracle story. Standing there, in the cold, looking down on the shattered remains of the writer of such hits as “Peggy Sue”, and “Oh Boy!”, Bopper imagined what would come next. A rescue. Recovery in some Iowa hospital. A nation in mourning. And then, the tour! THE tour! The Buddy Holly Memorial Tour, featuring J.P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson. And best of all, he'd sing Buddy Holly's songs! Finally, no more “One hit Wonder” crap! No more of Holly's mocking little poo poo voice singing, “Oh Baby, That's all You Write”. It was turning out just like he'd been told. Hell, he'd even sing “La Bamba!”
At that thought, Bopper snickered.
Holly stirred,
Holly groaned. Oh, Christ, thought Bopper. It's never that easy
“Hey! Hey, Buddy!”
Holly groaned again. Bopper leaned in close. He could see Holly's good eye, shooting left, right, up down.
“Buddy! Can you hear me?”. Bopper leaned in close now, kneeling on his right knee in the snow, next to Holly.
“Bop-p-per? Oh God, I can't see. I can't see! Bopper, is that you?”
“Its me, Buddy! I'm right here. There's been a plane crash. You're, uh, you're safe for now”. Bopper was surprised at how easily the lie came to him.
“Bopper. Where did you go, Bopper? I saw you leave the plane. With Ritchie. Where's Ritchie?”
“Ritchie... Ritchie didn't make it”.
“Oh, God. Oh, Lord. Bopper, what did you do?”
This puzzled Big Bopper. “What do you mean 'what did I do”?
“The plane. You did it. I know you did. You've always hated me”.
Bopper stumbled for something to say. Holly was right, but he didn't want to admit it. It was, after all, why he'd agreed to do this whole thing. But the plane crash?
“Not my doing, Buddy. I don't know what happened”. At least that much was the truth.
“No way. You had 'chute. You knew.”
Bopper stood back up, and looked down at the slumping Holly. He found his hand reaching unthinkingly to the gun in his jacket.
“You just wait a minute, Buddy. That's a hell of a thing to say. Just like you, I got a career to think of, I ain't got no reason to crash my own plane.”
Holly gurgled. It took a second, but Bopper recognized what it was, and it immediately filled him with rage. It was laughter.
Bopper exploded.
“You listen to me, you cardigan-wearing gently caress! I've taken enough of your poo poo for too long. You take a crap, and out pops a new hit single. Well, I've got news for you, Buddy loving Holly, Some of us actually have to work at this job.” Bopper had the Colt in his hand. Without thinking, he had slid the safety off, and pointed the pistol one-handed at Holly's chest.
“Bopper. Bopper. Calm down. We can talk. Sorry for laugh-”
“You ain't half as Goddamned sorry as you're going to be, you son of a bitch, you!” Without thinking, Bopper fired the gun. The little hollow point .22lr round flew from the barrel at an approximate sea-level velocity of 1040 feet per second, piercing the snowy night with a crack. In a few short feet, it hit Holly off to the left of his sternum, the hollow point expanding. As it did so, the deformation of the bullet caused it to yaw, forcing the bullet to turn almost at right angles to its original entry path. The rotation of the bullet, imparted by the 1 in 8.25 inch rifling in the Colt Woodsman's barrel, caused the bullet to continue its yawing and diverting throughout Buddy Holly's chest and abdomen. Though Buddy Holly's torso was only about eight inches from front to back, by the time all of its deadly energy was expended, the little .22lr round had travelled approximately a quarter mile, coming to rest against Buddy Holly's spleen.
“gently caress. Oh gently caress, Bopper. Your song. I like your song. Don't shoot me. Like your song”.
Bopper was trembling with rage, the pistol still trained on Buddy Holly's chest. “You like my song so Goddamned much? Sing it then, you curly-haired freak. You always loving said 'Everyone's got one good song in 'em'. So sing my loving one hit song!” Bopper stood over Holly, panting slightly, his breath coming in puffs of white. He waited for a response. “Sing it, you dead motherfucker!”
Holly's voice was now faint. “Closer. Closer.”
Bopper, hesitated, unsure. He kneeled, wincing at the pain shooting through his left knee. He finally got down even with Holly's tortured face.
“Closer.”
Bopper leaned in, his ear inches from Holly's wet red lips. “Let's hear my song, Buddy. Sing it”.
“Closer...Every.. Day. It'sa gettin' … closer.. faster … than ..roller coaster.” Bopper's face turned an ugly purple. He stood straight up, his face twisted with fury. He gripped the pistol with both hands now, aiming it directly at Holly's good eye, and jerked the trigger. A gout of flame erupted from the tapered, weighted barrel, sending a second forty grain hollow point into Buddy Holly. This time, the yawing, twisting bullet wreaked havoc in Holly's head, caroming off the inside of his skull, utterly destroying the mind responsible for so many safe, parentally-approved pop songs.
“You don't even know my song, you cocksucker! You don't even know it! It's Chantilly.. <BANG>...loving..<BANG>...Lace<BANG>... with a ponytail<BANG> Hanging down<BANG> you hip gently caress! You goddamned pinko beboping gently caress<BANG>. Well guess what? I'm American Rock and Roll now, and there's not a loving thing you can do about it! At this, Bopper yanked the trigger spasmodically, until the little gun's magazine was empty.
Big Bopper stood in the snow, spent. His arms fell to his sides, the pistol dropping into the snow by his feet. There was no question. Buddy was dead. Fame was coming. Bopper felt empty.
He was still standing there minutes later, illuminated by the now dying flames all around him. He was gathering the courage to walk out to a road to find help. It was still dark, but the storm had died almost completely, and he was pretty certain he knew what direction the nearest town was in. Bopper sniffed, wiped his nose, and turned to go. His ears were still ringing from the gunfire. He was therefore surprised as he turned to see a man on a motorcycle behind him at the far edge of the field of still smoldering debris. The bike's engine was still, the headlight off, but by then the skies had cleared enough for moonlight to bathe the bike, the rider, and the rest of the field in a pale blue-white glimmer. The rider swung off the bike, and walked towards Big Bopper. Bopper couldn't see the rider's helmeted face. However he could see a long rifle slung diagonally across the rider's back. Bopper stiffened; he wasn't ready. His story wasn't going to explain the bullet-ridden body of Buddy Holly behind him. Bopper patted his coat for the gun, and realized it was at his feet. He froze, not daring to stoop down and pick it up.
The rider stepped into the ring of orange light cast by the embers of the fuselage behind Bopper, and removed his helmet. Immediately, Bopper relaxed.
“Goddamn, son. You gave me a scare. We need to get the gently caress out of here, and drat quick. Maybe there's still enough of a fire to toss Holly in there so they don't find all the bullet-”
“You hosed up, Bopper,” the rider said quietly. Bopper's mouth snapped shut.
“You were supposed to do Holly, Valens, and the pilot no later than half an hour after takeoff. You hosed it up,” The rider let the rifle sling slip down one shoulder, catching it with his left hand.
Bopper found his voice. “Half an hour's too quick. I needed time..”
“Time you weren't given. I had no way of knowing if you would even come through. The 'Winter Dance Party' Tour could never be allowed to reach Appleton, Wisconson for reasons way beyond your thick Texas skull. I relied on you. I set it all up for you. But you... needed more time,” the rider pulled the bolt back on the rifle briskly, sending a glinting brass shell into the sky over his shoulder. “I had no choice. I had to take action.” He snapped the bolt back forward, the muzzle of the rifle now pointed directly at Big Bopper's chest.
Bopper's jaw fell open. “No way. With that?” Bopper pointed at the wood and steel rifle.
“God you're thick, Bopper. For a Texan, you know jack poo poo about guns. This is an Arisaka Type 99 chambered in 7.7x58mm Arisaka. You can see the intact mum, even in this light. While not an ideal caliber for shooting down airplanes, the 7.7x58 has a muzzle velocity of just over 2400 feet per second.” He gestured at two tiny arms, extending to either side of the rear sight. “These make it much easier, though.”
“My God,” said Bopper, taking a step back. “Oh my God.” Bopper paused, and then, “We can still make it work. Help me with the body. The plan can still work.”
“Bopper, it's over. Everyone's got one good song in them. You had yours. Now I need mine”
Big Bopper's face brightened for a moment. He stepped around Holly's shattered legs, closer to the rider. “Hey! Great idea! You can tour with me. It'll be Bopper and McLean! We can both sing Buddy's songs! Then after the memorial tour, we can write new ones together! Whaddaya say, Don? You and me!”
Don McLean brought the rifle up to his shoulder. Even in the flickering ghostly light, Don could see how white Big Bopper had turned as his finger tightened on the trigger. “Sure Bopper. That'll be the day.”




Fin.