Shoot the Devil

My close and talented friend Buddy Don of Wandering Hillbilly has published his first novel: shoot the devil: life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly: book one. Since I’m just a few chapters into it at this point, I can’t give you a full review; but I can tell you that I have already been drawn into the world of Buddy Don Duncan.

I bought my copy shortly after Buddy Don announced the publication of the book, and he was kind enough to both chop the title page and inscribe it with an original waka, a type of classical Japanese verse. The offer is still open, as Buddy Don explains at his blog.

The entire book is written in the dialect of the Tennessee hillbilly. This might seem an obstacle to reading and understanding Buddy Don’s tale… but in truth, I hardly noticed it after the first few paragraphs. As Buddy Don comments on the back cover, if folks have a problem with the way the book is written, “mayhap they orta read a lil of it out loud sos they kin here its musick”.

And mayhap you would like a longer sample of Buddy Don’s prose. Here, with the author’s kind permission, I am proud to present Chapter Two of shoot the devil: life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly: book one:

2: runnin away

whenever i run away from home n wint to californy, i wuz a’doin sumthin id dun overn over again befor i finely made it, witch that wuz runnin away. i kin barly member the furst time i tride it on a counta i wuz only two years old whenever i dun it. twuz a fambly legend by time i herd id dun it n everbidy seem lack they admired it so the wunder wuz why thay gut so upset whenever i kep on a’trine it.

the way they tell it, i stole a naybors trike n made it to paved rode n got spotted purty quick by folks a’drivin by n one of em wuz the county sherrf n he pickt me up n tuck me back home whar mama made a fuss n cried n thankt eem fer bein so good at findin me. my dad gave a bushl of taters to eddie byrge, witch that wuz the county sherrfs name. folks calld me ‘tater’ fer a long wile after that n my bruthers n sisters wood pick on me by acktin lack i wudnt wurth much moren a bushl of taters, n fack is, mos of us aint even wurth that much, so i tuck it lack twuz a complimint.

the habit of runnin away dint stop, tho, n tuck me yars to get a reason why. everday id leav out n find sumplace in the holler to hide or sum other kids to play danl boon with or cowboys n injuns or whutever we dun to have fun back then. we had hidin places n such, but thay wudnt no way to hide frum daddy. he could track innybidy n innythang, so no matter whar id dun gone to hide, purty soon — generly ere twuz dark — here he cum, belt dubled back n reddy to use. i will say this in his deefents, witch dont matter how mad i made eem, he never once hit me with the buckl n only twice with his fist, n bof times, i wuz more or less a’beggin fer it.

he tole me he wuz ‘agone stop me frum runnin’ away, n i guess my backside gut so tender than i finely give it up, tho that mite not ne it neether since i gut to readin books round then n seem lack that tuck keer of the urge to get away to sumthin. he wuz proud of me, or at lease of gittin me tamed, n i member to this day the shame i felt whenever he wuz a strokin my hed n a’tellin the hole fambly one chrismus bout how i had finely quit a’runnin away.

twernt ever that i wuz a’thankin so much about gittin away as much as twuz wantin to see thangs n meet other folk, n whar we wuz a’livin thay wudnt inny folk nearby. so i always kindly thought i wuz lookin fer sumbidy to play with. i bleevd that fer mos of my yars till i run into a hed shranker who set me strate. ye gone here more bout how i cum to need my hed shrunk by n by, but fer now, suffice to say, he ast me one of them questchuns that changes everthang. sed he, ‘where do you think a two-year-old child could be running away to?’

i dint know the answer, so he laborated thisaway, ‘the fact is, two year old children are clingy and they have no concept of the world.’ i still dint know no ansers, so he sed, ‘the point is this, Bud: you were running away from something, not running to something.’

n whut could that be?

daddy wuz a good man but a hardn. he wuz a u.s. marine raider in the secunt worl war a’fitin in the pacific n whenever he cum out he got hisself a law degree n becum a speshull agent with the fbi n cummenced a having kids startin with me. day i wuz born, he broke out in shangles n had em for a year, rite up to my furst birthdy. i reckon thats on a counta whenever i wuz born, he knew he wuz stuck with a wife n kids n couldnt go after sum of his plans n so furth. he bleevd in dissplin n never spard the rod, as thay say, n i tasted it mos of all bein the oldest. i figgerd twuz part of life.

n whenever i found myself at that bus stayshun in lost angelees n dint no whut to do, i figgerd twuz as normall as bein hit by yer own daddy. twuz a frightfull lookin place whar peeple needin baths was a’sleepin or hangin round n mos of em not even able to talk english, but i wudnt nuthin if not stoopid brave bout thangs so i started a’walkin. dint make ir fur befor sum guy pulld a knife on me n tride to take my duffl, witch he ended up a’stabbin the dufflebag whenever he mint to stab me n that give me a chants to kick eem tween his laigs, n while he wuz dubled up, i wint back to the stayshun whar they wuz plenty of folks. i hattent bin skeerd whenever the guy wuz attackin, but soon’s i wuz back in the lite n in a safe place, seem lack my hart wonted to jump out frum my chess.

i walkd back to the door to that lost angels bus stayshun again n lookd out n saw that i wudnt in a place i orta be. fer a mint or so, i cummenced to unnerstan: i wudnt runnin to sumthin but away frum sumthin else. i wuz rite fer a mint, but i gut distractid by havin to figger out whut to do.

it tuck me yars n a hed shranker to git me to member i wuz still a’runnin away.

Go now and get your copy of shoot the devil: life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly: book one.