For those who do not know, the Buzzard Man likes to pretend that he can tell a good story.  Unfortunaltly, this page highlights this fictional notion.   So enjoy and e-mail The Buzzard Man with your thoughts, input and critisism. (unfortunatly, the paragraph indents have gone MIA in the transaction between the word 2000 program and this website, please excuse this atrocity!)
“Dust was everywhere, fly’n all around, up’n down the street, as I remember it.  You know, one of them typical late fall dirt-devil shows we get when the wind really picks up?  Anyways, Jack LaPointe and I were sit’n here on the porch play’n chess that day.  O’curse, the porch was screened-in back then, you see, so we weren’t in no danger of get’n blasted by anything.  If memory serves, I was just about ready to shove Jackie’s rook right up his ol’ wazoo and yell ‘Mate!’ into his dumb, Franco face when I first get a look at that little som’bitch come run’n round that corner over there.”  Bruce pointed a gnarled, wrinkled finger toward the small, dilapidated white house across the street from the porch where he, Peter Holms, Tom Roberts and Agnes Youly sat eating dry tuna sandwiches and thin tomato soup. 
     No crackers. 
They all gave a studied look to the place he was pointing to with looks so awe-inspired you’d think that Christ himself was pitching horseshoes in the rundown field across the street.  “He wern’t nothin’ but maybe twelve at the time, but I could see from the very first that that boy had the devil in him.”  He put a finger to the side of his nose and nodded with a wink as if to say, I may be old and I may be as grizzled as a burned slab of moose meat, but I ain’t no liar! 
     Bruce looked from one face to the next and realized that he could read doubt stamped on every single one like paper in a type press.  He was suddenly hot in the face with anger.  How dare they doubt him!  He who had been the only man in Durham to have fought in WWII.  To have faced the blood, shit and bullets of Omaha Beach and walked away suffering only from swollen ego.  He was a man of respect, and Goddamnit, he wasn’t getting that respect!  How dare they!
     “You don’t believe me, eh?  Were you here?” He spat.  “Were you?”
     “It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Agnes said shyly. “It’s just that-”
     “What, Agnes?  What kind of name is that anyway?  Agnes.  Sounds like something you name a cow!  Black Agnes, browned with onions and a dab of A-1.  You think I made it up?  I was sit’n right here when that little bastard (pronounced bas-ted) and his mother and brother moved across the street.  Come over here askin’ me for a dollar.  Can you believe that?  A dollar!  That was still a lot of money back in ’57.”
      “Sure was.”
      “Shut up, Tom!” Bruce barked.  He ripped another bite out of his sandwich and chewed angrily, a gesture that said, That’s that and I rest my case!
      “As I was saying,” Agnes ventured, throwing a sympathetic look to Tom, “It’s just that we’ve never heard you ever tell that story before, Brucy. And frankly, we’re shocked.  What was he like?”
      “Yea, what was he like, Bruce?” Peter added.
      He thought for a moment, then said, “He seemed normal enough, on the surface…but ain’t they all.  The strange ones, I mean.  Had a dog, I don’t remember what he called the little fart.  One of them yappin’, ankle bittin’ sons-a-bitches.  I would’ve liked to’v took my .270 to the little walkin’ shit machine.  I’d’a shown it what a bark with bite is.” He grabbed his handkerchief out from his breast pocket and laughed wetly into it.
     “Did you ever talk with him?” Peter asked.
     “Talk?  How do you mean?” He asked, narrowing his eyes to fine slits.
     “I mean what I said.  Did you ever sit and talk with him about anything?  I mean real talk, not passing hellos and goodbyes.”  Bruce practically hocked a lung into his open hand at that.  He reached over for his glass of Moxie, drank deeply and then turned on Peter.
      “You wish I done that, don’t you!  You want to blame me for what happened, don’t you!  I should have known better than to have asked you over here, you dirty old scumbag!  I should have…have…”  His eyes welled up with hot tears.  Peter got up and walked over to Bruce, sat down next to him and put his hand on his friends shoulder.  To his surprise, Bruce accepted it willingly and began to sob into his hands.  He had known Bruce for a long time, longer than he would probably admit.  This was the first time that he had ever seen him openly cry like that.
      “We are not blaming you for anything, Brucy.”
      “Criminy, we don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about!”
      “Shut up, Tom.” Peter breathed.  Bruce whipped his eyes, snorted and looked at his two friends—and Tom—like a child caught stealing bubble gum from a candy store.
      “I’m…I’m ashamed to say that I did speak to him once.  Only once.” He added, as if he had been caught smoking a joint, yes, I did it, but only once, I swear to God!  “He come walkin’ up my drive on one summer day.  It was hot.  Damn hot.  I asked him if he wanted a glass of lemonade the missus, God rest her soul, had put together earlier.  He said he did and we went inside.  Little whoremaster was actually in my house!”  He took another sip of Moxie and honked into his snot catcher.  “We got to talkin’ about books and literature and such.  He told me that he liked the book, Lord of the Flies, or some damned thing like that.  It was one of his favorites he says.  Talked about it nonstop for ten minutes or so.  Well, I never read it until after I found out what he done.  Do you know that they cut off a pigs head in that book and put it on a pole to worship it, like…like it were God or something!”  He threw his hands up into the air with disgust.
     “And?” Agnes asked.  She had been listening intently, waiting for a point.
     “And what!  Don’t that explain it all?  Cut off a pig’s head?  The same way he cut up all those people and did funny things with their parts!  Sexual things!”   A look of mingled confusion traveled all around the porch.  Bruce looked down at his hands.  His filthy hands.
      “What in the hell are you talking about, Bruce?  I thought you were talking about Stephen King.”
      “Yea, that murderin’, psychopathic (pronounced, Syk-holo-pathic) som’bitch that cut up all them people and diddled their parts!  He was in my house.  Right on this here damned porch!” He shouted, stomping his foot down to show them where the porch was.
      “Bruce, I’m not sure we’re on the same page here.” Agnes said with a soft tone a mother would use to speak to her child.  “I believe you’re thinking of Jeffery Dahmer“
      “Jeffery Dahmer?  Then…then who’n the hell is Stephen King?” He asked indignantly.
      “Stephen King…he’s that Author who writes those scary books.  Lives up in Bangor.  You know…Steve King.”  Agnes could almost see the light bulb go on above his head.
      “Oh, right, Stevie King…good kid.  Strong pitching arm.”
      “Writes books.”
      “Shut up, Tom.”
A very (only about 1,200 words) short story about another Maine Writer written for a Writer's Journal short story contest.  Enjoy, and wish me luck!