Chris Bunch

Chris Bunch, who passed away just over a year ago, was a book writer, TV writer, and editor. Among his novels were the Star Risk, LTD. series, a trio of slam-bang space operas about a group of kick-ass mercenaries.

As a Vietnam vet -- he was a LRRP, in the 82nd Airborne Division -- Bunch saw his share of real war, and that stuff always rang true in his books.

He led a colorful life. Edited a biker magazine, wrote for the L.A. Free Press, and did a shitload of TV writing. Worked in La-La-Land living high on the hog for years.

When he bailed on Hollywood and moved north, to Washington to concentrate on books, I reviewed one of this novels for the local paper. I liked it a lot and said so. He called to thank me.

Shortly thereafter, Bunch got into a serious discussion with a bunch of bikers who lived nearby. Bunch was not a man to back down from anybody. Things escalated, and the bikers decided that stomping Bunch's head in was at the top of their to-do list.

As one of the larger ones charged across the yard to attack him, Bunch came out of his house with a 9mm handgun and shot the attacker dead. More than one round, though I never heard the exact number. At least a double-tap.

The local law hauled Bunch away, and when things were all sorted out, he was freed and the incident was deemed justifiable self-defense. Apparently the witnesses who would have lied otherwise all had outstanding warrants, and weren't around to testify ...

Some days later my phone rang, and it was Bunch calling: "Hey, young Perry, how's it going?"

(Gun people will understand my following response. As a point of information, for those of you who are unfamiliar with handguns, there is a long-standing argument in this arena regarding the efficacy and stopping power of calibers, and probably at the top of the list is the ".45 versus 9mm" discussion. Real-men favor .45's, and sneer at those who use wonder nines.)

So what I said to Bunch was, "A nine? You shot him with a nine? What, you didn't have a real gun?"

Cracked him up, that one. It was the kitchen piece, he said. His .45 was upstairs, he had to make do ...

That pretty much broke the ice.

He told me that he had gotten a number of responses regarding the shooting. These ranged on the one end from "Oh, my God, you had to shoot somebody! How awful for you! To take another human life! Are you getting counseling?"

The other end of the spectrum came from an old Army buddy: "Yeah? What kind of grouping did you get?"

My response was close enough to that to gain me points. There was a bond established.

We talked on the phone every month or so, had beer and lunch at the local science fiction conventions thereafter. We exchanged information about the writing biz, gossip, working tidbits about knife-fighting and martial arts, like that. I found myself as a walk-on character in his third Star Risk novel, a "salat" teacher named "Stiff Perr." I stuck him into my Matador novel as a Flex fighter, "Creestofer Cluster ..."

Bunch had a fuck-you attitude and he didn't take any shit from anybody. That's how he lived, and that's how he died.

I am sorry he is gone, and happy I had a chance to know him.