Aloha's End Chapter 17: Yet another edit with hollow pineapple drink
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, looking nervously around. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nobody wants trouble Mr. West., but it seems to find you anyway” says Duck. “That’s all you talk about on the news.”
TrueWest shrugs. Yes, it’s true. That’s the news.
He looks around carefully again, casing the place for evil doers, peg legs and eye patches. The atmosphere is more balloon head, Hawaiian shirt and lava lava.
The smell of pineapple and coconut is everywhere. It seems to hang in a cloud where ever people congregate.
He brings his 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 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 with big open flame flowers on a white background.
Rosa laughs. ‘The way you tie the cloth is what matters. Other wise it falls off.”
Rosa talks slowly, distinctly, with her eyes doing emphasis. She doesn’t quack like a Duck, that’s for sure. Her soft accent is sensual and warm. Like the islands themselves.
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,” the eyes are the sparkle in the dark, “tying the 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, the beak bobbing in time to the music.
TrueWest turns back and 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, but he’s getting there. He’s got a bullet through his parked car’s windshield on one RICO story. He’s not excited about working another. That’s what Duck sounds like he’s gotten himself into. Some super RICO action.
He looks around for suspicious characters. You can usually spot them, depending on your prejudices.
He’s a little nervous
They usually sit at the bar and harass the waitress about her tattoos. T
Bad guys don’t tip, except for the Peter Lorrie type of nogoodnic. They are shifty, always looking around.
TrueWest looks around.
That kind of guys always tips, making a big show of it.
They are morose and alone, not unlike him really, always looking for something.
Something is always missing.
Now 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 in his emasculate teeth.
He lowers the tape recorder and nods at the Ducks.
Patita is smiling at him, almost laughing. “It’s not that complicated” she says. “If you understand the situation.”
Her eyes speak oceans.
“It’s like Godzilla.” She says.
TrueWest crinkles his forehead.
“Godzilla?”
“Yes. The monster, Godzilla, a very big gecko with long pointy teeth and bad breath. His breaths fire.”
“He’s the anti-Barney” says Ducks “He walks on two legs like a tyrannosaurs rex . The flaps along his spine light up like party lanterns on a yacht when he gets mad.”
TrueWest nods. “I got it” he says. “Godzilla. Hangs out with King Kong and eats little Hula dancers”
Patita looks at Duck. Her forehead wrinkles. “Does he do that?”
Duck shrugs. “You never really know anything about anyone” he says.
TrueWest looks back and forth between Patita and Duck.
“When ever he comes in from the harbor, people scream his name. “Godzilla! Godzilla!” and they run away.” Patita nods, drawing TrueWest in.
He reluctantly leans in.
Her eyes speak in tongues.
“He was probably a very abused little lizard at one time. 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, that he was in big trouble.”
“You know Godzilla?” asks TrueWest.
“Maybe” says Patita.
“Rosa knows Godzilla” says Duck.
“Yes. So Godzilla comes to town and what is the first thing that happens? They yell his name, and they scream. He goes crazy and eats a train.”
“I see” says TrueWest.
“Imagine being enraged 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.”
She is sucking his soul with her eyes.
“Are you a social worker?” asks TrueWest.
“More of a curendado” says Duck.
“No, no, I do no social work. I work in food services.”
He looks at Rosa again.
“That is why. The men who follow us are hostile. When ever they come around people get nervous and angry. People never say, “Hello, que pasa, how is it? They never say how you are to them. They get piss off and pull guns, because they have no names.”
“Guns?” TrueWest blanches.
“Relax” says Duck. They probably won’t hit us in public, unless they want to make a point. We’re safe here. We can usually talk our way out of uncomfortable situations.
People are aware of us.
It’s the noses. We have a public.”
“I’m not comforted” says TrueWest.
“You’re the news guy. You got nose.” Says Duck.
“This whole situation is nuts” TrueWest says. “What am I doing here? He picks up the hollow pineapple that hold his drink and fishes out the cherry. He offers it to Patita before eating it.
“Being chased around by gangsters and thugs with guns What in heck’s hootenanny did you do?” he asks.
He doesn’t want to know.
“I’m not crazy, paranoid or delusional Mr. West’ says Duck, adjusting his beak. “Several people have already been killed.”
“Great” says TrueWest.
He decides to hide in his professionalism.
He burps.
He checks his notes. “You maintain that your medical records aren’t accurate” says TrueWest, “And that they have been released to the public in a twisted up form to make you look bad” He looks at Duck. “According to you they are trying to discredit you as a witness. But the Duck nose helps.”
“Yes” says Duck.
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.
“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 back in Texas on the pampas. He was a tattle-tail in school. Somethings never change.
Mom 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. “You never know who is related to who and how” she said.
That’s island talk.
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 the phone lines and comes through the 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.” Says Duck.
“Ions?” 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 startles. He looks back and shakes his head. “Where’d you get that? Star Trek?”
“Look at the 80 year plus Berkley study on negative ions” says Duck. “It’s no joke. 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.”
He’s on his belly as long as he’s on the island.
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 when it’s done as an organized, intelligent tactic, it can be lethal thing.”
TrueWest has seen it of course. When they took Manuel Noreaga in Panama, they waved his red underwear for the press to see. “He wears red underwear. He keeps a supply of cocaine and pornography at hand….”
They employed the same kind of overkill on the Duck, evidently.
“On the islands this kind of rumor spreading 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 as a capital crime. Its dark sorcery.”
“Sorcery?” says TrueWest.
“Yes, says Duck, that old black magic called propaganda. It brings about death by innuendo.”
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, looking nervously around. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nobody wants trouble Mr. West., but it seems to find you anyway” says Duck. “That’s all you talk about on the news.”
TrueWest shrugs. Yes, it’s true. That’s the news.
He looks around carefully again, casing the place for evil doers, peg legs and eye patches. The atmosphere is more balloon head, Hawaiian shirt and lava lava.
The smell of pineapple and coconut is everywhere. It seems to hang in a cloud where ever people congregate.
He brings his 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 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 with big open flame flowers on a white background.
Rosa laughs. ‘The way you tie the cloth is what matters. Other wise it falls off.”
Rosa talks slowly, distinctly, with her eyes doing emphasis. She doesn’t quack like a Duck, that’s for sure. Her soft accent is sensual and warm. Like the islands themselves.
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,” the eyes are the sparkle in the dark, “tying the 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, the beak bobbing in time to the music.
TrueWest turns back and 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, but he’s getting there. He’s got a bullet through his parked car’s windshield on one RICO story. He’s not excited about working another. That’s what Duck sounds like he’s gotten himself into. Some super RICO action.
He looks around for suspicious characters. You can usually spot them, depending on your prejudices.
He’s a little nervous
They usually sit at the bar and harass the waitress about her tattoos. T
Bad guys don’t tip, except for the Peter Lorrie type of nogoodnic. They are shifty, always looking around.
TrueWest looks around.
That kind of guys always tips, making a big show of it.
They are morose and alone, not unlike him really, always looking for something.
Something is always missing.
Now 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 in his emasculate teeth.
He lowers the tape recorder and nods at the Ducks.
Patita is smiling at him, almost laughing. “It’s not that complicated” she says. “If you understand the situation.”
Her eyes speak oceans.
“It’s like Godzilla.” She says.
TrueWest crinkles his forehead.
“Godzilla?”
“Yes. The monster, Godzilla, a very big gecko with long pointy teeth and bad breath. His breaths fire.”
“He’s the anti-Barney” says Ducks “He walks on two legs like a tyrannosaurs rex . The flaps along his spine light up like party lanterns on a yacht when he gets mad.”
TrueWest nods. “I got it” he says. “Godzilla. Hangs out with King Kong and eats little Hula dancers”
Patita looks at Duck. Her forehead wrinkles. “Does he do that?”
Duck shrugs. “You never really know anything about anyone” he says.
TrueWest looks back and forth between Patita and Duck.
“When ever he comes in from the harbor, people scream his name. “Godzilla! Godzilla!” and they run away.” Patita nods, drawing TrueWest in.
He reluctantly leans in.
Her eyes speak in tongues.
“He was probably a very abused little lizard at one time. 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, that he was in big trouble.”
“You know Godzilla?” asks TrueWest.
“Maybe” says Patita.
“Rosa knows Godzilla” says Duck.
“Yes. So Godzilla comes to town and what is the first thing that happens? They yell his name, and they scream. He goes crazy and eats a train.”
“I see” says TrueWest.
“Imagine being enraged 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.”
She is sucking his soul with her eyes.
“Are you a social worker?” asks TrueWest.
“More of a curendado” says Duck.
“No, no, I do no social work. I work in food services.”
He looks at Rosa again.
“That is why. The men who follow us are hostile. When ever they come around people get nervous and angry. People never say, “Hello, que pasa, how is it? They never say how you are to them. They get piss off and pull guns, because they have no names.”
“Guns?” TrueWest blanches.
“Relax” says Duck. They probably won’t hit us in public, unless they want to make a point. We’re safe here. We can usually talk our way out of uncomfortable situations.
People are aware of us.
It’s the noses. We have a public.”
“I’m not comforted” says TrueWest.
“You’re the news guy. You got nose.” Says Duck.
“This whole situation is nuts” TrueWest says. “What am I doing here? He picks up the hollow pineapple that hold his drink and fishes out the cherry. He offers it to Patita before eating it.
“Being chased around by gangsters and thugs with guns What in heck’s hootenanny did you do?” he asks.
He doesn’t want to know.
“I’m not crazy, paranoid or delusional Mr. West’ says Duck, adjusting his beak. “Several people have already been killed.”
“Great” says TrueWest.
He decides to hide in his professionalism.
He burps.
He checks his notes. “You maintain that your medical records aren’t accurate” says TrueWest, “And that they have been released to the public in a twisted up form to make you look bad” He looks at Duck. “According to you they are trying to discredit you as a witness. But the Duck nose helps.”
“Yes” says Duck.
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.
“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 back in Texas on the pampas. He was a tattle-tail in school. Somethings never change.
Mom 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. “You never know who is related to who and how” she said.
That’s island talk.
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 the phone lines and comes through the 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.” Says Duck.
“Ions?” 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 startles. He looks back and shakes his head. “Where’d you get that? Star Trek?”
“Look at the 80 year plus Berkley study on negative ions” says Duck. “It’s no joke. 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.”
He’s on his belly as long as he’s on the island.
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 when it’s done as an organized, intelligent tactic, it can be lethal thing.”
TrueWest has seen it of course. When they took Manuel Noreaga in Panama, they waved his red underwear for the press to see. “He wears red underwear. He keeps a supply of cocaine and pornography at hand….”
They employed the same kind of overkill on the Duck, evidently.
“On the islands this kind of rumor spreading 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 as a capital crime. Its dark sorcery.”
“Sorcery?” says TrueWest.
“Yes, says Duck, that old black magic called propaganda. It brings about death by innuendo.”
See the Zblog for more on Wai’wai’ko’ko’ola
posted by Aloha's End at 8:20 PM
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