Aloha's End Chapter Seventeen (Patita Edit) Godzilla
Aloha’s End by Michael F. Zangari
© 2007 with all rights reserved
Chapter Seventeen: That old black magic called propaganda.
“Listen, if you’re in danger then I don’t want to have dinner with you. I’m on vacation” says TrueWest. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nobody wants trouble Mr. West. But it seems to find you anyway” says Duck.
TrueWest shrugs. Yes, it’s true. That’s the news.
He looks around carefully, casing the place for evil doers, peg legs and eye patches. The atmosphere is more balloon head, Hawaiian shirt and loose lava lava. The smell of pineapple and coconut dominates.
He brings tape recorder to his mouth, and speaks to the microphone grid on his digital. “There must be seven ways to wrap a sarong around a women’s body. The drape emphasizes the hips or the breasts or the waist. It brings out the curves in the feminine form.”
He looks at and contemplates the famine form dancing a skanky and free hula/bugaloo on the dance floor. “How do those things stay on?” he mutters, looking over the Balinese lava lava that is tied at the tits and split down the middle, over lapping and opening at the thigh. The flower batique is sensual and suggestive.
Patita laughs. ‘The way you tie the cloth is what matters. Other wise it falls off.”
Rosa talks slowly, distinctly. She doesn’t quack like a Duck.
She checks out TrueWest’s eyes to see if he’s listening. When he turns his head to look at her, into her eyes, she says. “It is an art form you know, tying knots that hold things together.”
He looks over at the Duck. Frank.
He is relaxed and watching the crowd, not hyper-vigilant, but cool and amused.
TrueWest smiles at Rosa, Patita. He tips his glass at her in toast, and takes a drink. “To the quality of your knots” he says.
TrueWest is not entirely comfortable. He’s had a bullet through his parked car’s windshield on one RICO story. He’s not excited about working another. It’s the glory of being an anchor guy. Not much field work.
He looks around for suspicious characters. You can usually spot them, depending on your prejudices. He’s a little nervous
The dudes usually sit at the bar and harass the waitress about her tattoos. They usually don’t tip, except for the Peter Lorrie type of nogoodnic. They are shifty, always looking around.
He looks around.
That kind of guys always tips, making a big show of it.
Sometime they fall.
They drink.
They are morose and alone. Not unlike himself really, always looking for something..
He can’t help but be evil. It’s his M.O.
He has been stuck in the ass with the devil’s pitchfork and some point in his life.
Something is always missing.
They have stolen it.
That’s not news. That’s life.
‘Pitch fork editorial” says TrueWest into the microphone grid.
Several people are looking back at him.
He smoothes back his hair and sucks at his teeth to get the pineapple rind out from between the cracks. He lowers the tape recorder. He nods at the Ducks. They know about getting it in the ass with the fork.
Patita is smiling at him, almost laughing. “It’s not that complicated” she says. “You have to understand the situation.”
Her eyes sparkle alive.
“It’s like Godzilla.” She says.
TrueWest crinkles his forehead.
“When ever he comes in from the harbor, people scream his name. “Godzilla! Godzilla!” and they run away.
“He was probably an abused little lizard. The only time he heard his name was when his mom or step dad yelled at him. Then he knew he was going to get it.”
“You know Godzilla?” asks TrueWest.
“Maybe” says Patita.
“Rosa knows Godzilla” says Duck. ‘Just listen.”
“Yes. So Godzilla comes to town and what is the first thing that happens? They yell his name. He goes crazy and eats a train.”
“I see says TrueWest.
“Imagine being afraid and angry at the sound of your own name.”
TrueWest sighs. “It’s a lot like being famous” he says.
Patita leans on the table on her elbows and nods her head. “Yes.”
“Are you a social worker?” asks TrueWest.
“More of a curendado” says Duck.
“No, I work in food services.”
He looks at Rosa again.
“They probably won’t hit us in public, unless they want to make a point” says the Duck. “We’re safe here. We can usually talk our way out of uncomfortable situations. It’s the noses. We have a public.”
“I’m not comforted” says TrueWest. “I don’t have a nose.”
“That’s a matter of opinion” says Duck. “You’re the news guy. You got nose.”
“This whole situation is nuts” TrueWest says. “Being chased around by gangsters and thugs. What did you do?”
“I was there when it happened, that’s all.”
It . We’ll get there, thinks TrueWest.
“I’m not crazy, paranoid or delusional Mr. West’ says Duck, adjusting his beak. “Several people have already been killed.”
“Great” says TrueWest. He checks his notes. “You maintain that your medical records aren’t accurate” says TrueWest, “That they have been twisted to make you look bad.” He looks at Duck. “That someone falsified your medical records and released them. That’s down right nasty.”
“It hasn’t done much for my social life” says Duck. “They did the same thing to Monica Lewinski. In fact the medical records aren’t even mine.”
True West considers this. What is the impact of opening up someone’s medical history?
“They are yours.”
TrueWest lets that one sink in then blanches.
“Don’t mess with me Duck” he says. “I’m nervous enough.”
Patita laughs.
“Just kidding” says Duck.
“Go on.”
“Look, its island style. You can be killed with rumors. They call it “stink talk” around here.
“Stinky talk” says Patita.
Stink Talk thinks TrueWest.
His mom talked stink about stink talk. How bad it was.
She gave him stink eye too, a real “you’re in trouble plenty” kind of stare when he did something wrong. People give stink when they are evil, angry and jealous.
People stink in general.
“Once the coconut wireless starts to throb like turbine it’s a hard thing to stop. The stone drums begin to sound. The strings on beer can telephones begin to unravel and hum. The message goes out over phone lines and comes through open louvers. On the coast, it doesn’t take long for rumors to become facts in the mind. It becomes a telepathic ripple that goes tsunami.”
‘Telepathic?”
“Islands are an interesting place to live. They are surrounded by water. The water produces a lot of negative ions.”
“Yes?” says TrueWest.
“Negative ions increase the audibility of thoughts.” He says.
TrueWest makes a note and squinches up his eyes up in thought.
“I heard that Mr. West” says Patita.
TrueWest looks back and shakes his head.
“Look at the 80 year plus Berkley study on negative ions” says Duck. “You’ll never think again.”
“I didn’t think I thought in the first place” says TrueWest. I’m a down to earth sort of guy.”
Duck shakes his head sadly. The beak drifts left than right than left again.
“That’s how lives and careers are destroyed, by cocktail innuendo, pillow talk and beach and back door gossip. It doesn’t take much. And whit it’s done as an organized, intelligent tactic, it can be lethal thing.”
TrueWest has seen it.
“On the islands it is against the law and punishable by death. It’s a form or sorcery called wai’wai’ko’ko’ola. It’s still on the books.”
“Sorcery?” says TrueWest.
“Yes, says Duck, that old black magic called propaganda.”
See the Zblog for more on Wai’wai’ko’ko’ola
© 2007 with all rights reserved
Chapter Seventeen: That old black magic called propaganda.
“Listen, if you’re in danger then I don’t want to have dinner with you. I’m on vacation” says TrueWest. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nobody wants trouble Mr. West. But it seems to find you anyway” says Duck.
TrueWest shrugs. Yes, it’s true. That’s the news.
He looks around carefully, casing the place for evil doers, peg legs and eye patches. The atmosphere is more balloon head, Hawaiian shirt and loose lava lava. The smell of pineapple and coconut dominates.
He brings tape recorder to his mouth, and speaks to the microphone grid on his digital. “There must be seven ways to wrap a sarong around a women’s body. The drape emphasizes the hips or the breasts or the waist. It brings out the curves in the feminine form.”
He looks at and contemplates the famine form dancing a skanky and free hula/bugaloo on the dance floor. “How do those things stay on?” he mutters, looking over the Balinese lava lava that is tied at the tits and split down the middle, over lapping and opening at the thigh. The flower batique is sensual and suggestive.
Patita laughs. ‘The way you tie the cloth is what matters. Other wise it falls off.”
Rosa talks slowly, distinctly. She doesn’t quack like a Duck.
She checks out TrueWest’s eyes to see if he’s listening. When he turns his head to look at her, into her eyes, she says. “It is an art form you know, tying knots that hold things together.”
He looks over at the Duck. Frank.
He is relaxed and watching the crowd, not hyper-vigilant, but cool and amused.
TrueWest smiles at Rosa, Patita. He tips his glass at her in toast, and takes a drink. “To the quality of your knots” he says.
TrueWest is not entirely comfortable. He’s had a bullet through his parked car’s windshield on one RICO story. He’s not excited about working another. It’s the glory of being an anchor guy. Not much field work.
He looks around for suspicious characters. You can usually spot them, depending on your prejudices. He’s a little nervous
The dudes usually sit at the bar and harass the waitress about her tattoos. They usually don’t tip, except for the Peter Lorrie type of nogoodnic. They are shifty, always looking around.
He looks around.
That kind of guys always tips, making a big show of it.
Sometime they fall.
They drink.
They are morose and alone. Not unlike himself really, always looking for something..
He can’t help but be evil. It’s his M.O.
He has been stuck in the ass with the devil’s pitchfork and some point in his life.
Something is always missing.
They have stolen it.
That’s not news. That’s life.
‘Pitch fork editorial” says TrueWest into the microphone grid.
Several people are looking back at him.
He smoothes back his hair and sucks at his teeth to get the pineapple rind out from between the cracks. He lowers the tape recorder. He nods at the Ducks. They know about getting it in the ass with the fork.
Patita is smiling at him, almost laughing. “It’s not that complicated” she says. “You have to understand the situation.”
Her eyes sparkle alive.
“It’s like Godzilla.” She says.
TrueWest crinkles his forehead.
“When ever he comes in from the harbor, people scream his name. “Godzilla! Godzilla!” and they run away.
“He was probably an abused little lizard. The only time he heard his name was when his mom or step dad yelled at him. Then he knew he was going to get it.”
“You know Godzilla?” asks TrueWest.
“Maybe” says Patita.
“Rosa knows Godzilla” says Duck. ‘Just listen.”
“Yes. So Godzilla comes to town and what is the first thing that happens? They yell his name. He goes crazy and eats a train.”
“I see says TrueWest.
“Imagine being afraid and angry at the sound of your own name.”
TrueWest sighs. “It’s a lot like being famous” he says.
Patita leans on the table on her elbows and nods her head. “Yes.”
“Are you a social worker?” asks TrueWest.
“More of a curendado” says Duck.
“No, I work in food services.”
He looks at Rosa again.
“They probably won’t hit us in public, unless they want to make a point” says the Duck. “We’re safe here. We can usually talk our way out of uncomfortable situations. It’s the noses. We have a public.”
“I’m not comforted” says TrueWest. “I don’t have a nose.”
“That’s a matter of opinion” says Duck. “You’re the news guy. You got nose.”
“This whole situation is nuts” TrueWest says. “Being chased around by gangsters and thugs. What did you do?”
“I was there when it happened, that’s all.”
It . We’ll get there, thinks TrueWest.
“I’m not crazy, paranoid or delusional Mr. West’ says Duck, adjusting his beak. “Several people have already been killed.”
“Great” says TrueWest. He checks his notes. “You maintain that your medical records aren’t accurate” says TrueWest, “That they have been twisted to make you look bad.” He looks at Duck. “That someone falsified your medical records and released them. That’s down right nasty.”
“It hasn’t done much for my social life” says Duck. “They did the same thing to Monica Lewinski. In fact the medical records aren’t even mine.”
True West considers this. What is the impact of opening up someone’s medical history?
“They are yours.”
TrueWest lets that one sink in then blanches.
“Don’t mess with me Duck” he says. “I’m nervous enough.”
Patita laughs.
“Just kidding” says Duck.
“Go on.”
“Look, its island style. You can be killed with rumors. They call it “stink talk” around here.
“Stinky talk” says Patita.
Stink Talk thinks TrueWest.
His mom talked stink about stink talk. How bad it was.
She gave him stink eye too, a real “you’re in trouble plenty” kind of stare when he did something wrong. People give stink when they are evil, angry and jealous.
People stink in general.
“Once the coconut wireless starts to throb like turbine it’s a hard thing to stop. The stone drums begin to sound. The strings on beer can telephones begin to unravel and hum. The message goes out over phone lines and comes through open louvers. On the coast, it doesn’t take long for rumors to become facts in the mind. It becomes a telepathic ripple that goes tsunami.”
‘Telepathic?”
“Islands are an interesting place to live. They are surrounded by water. The water produces a lot of negative ions.”
“Yes?” says TrueWest.
“Negative ions increase the audibility of thoughts.” He says.
TrueWest makes a note and squinches up his eyes up in thought.
“I heard that Mr. West” says Patita.
TrueWest looks back and shakes his head.
“Look at the 80 year plus Berkley study on negative ions” says Duck. “You’ll never think again.”
“I didn’t think I thought in the first place” says TrueWest. I’m a down to earth sort of guy.”
Duck shakes his head sadly. The beak drifts left than right than left again.
“That’s how lives and careers are destroyed, by cocktail innuendo, pillow talk and beach and back door gossip. It doesn’t take much. And whit it’s done as an organized, intelligent tactic, it can be lethal thing.”
TrueWest has seen it.
“On the islands it is against the law and punishable by death. It’s a form or sorcery called wai’wai’ko’ko’ola. It’s still on the books.”
“Sorcery?” says TrueWest.
“Yes, says Duck, that old black magic called propaganda.”
See the Zblog for more on Wai’wai’ko’ko’ola
posted by Aloha's End at 1:46 PM
0 comments
