by Frank Russel
Who would have thought that the French man could be so bold?
Send him to Mindanao, in the Southern Philipines, Frank eventually said to the intelligence officer. 'And if you manage to behead a few Abu Sayyaf shit heads then maybe Duterte might be lenient and let you return to Brown Sugar. '
Bad move, said Kumar, he's going to want revenge, and get that money back you stole from him.
How about I just write him out of the story, thought Frank, would be one less shit head to worry about.
Or, let Suyin Wong sort him out. Now there was an idea.
Frank needed a holiday.
Stan had fucked off with Kumar, back to Brown Sugar.
He had no control of his movements.
He just had to teach Stan a lesson.
He had recorded the conversation of Kumar and Frank in his karaoke bar next to the Ariang Hotel.
Those pesos he was paid by Kumar and Stan were good counterfeits.
He made nothing from the deal.
But he was working with the casinos by giving his followers bad numbers.
The casino wasn't losing now but he had lost his status as an oracle.
He had about twenty grand to play with.
The first batch of cash, on top of the pile, were real notes.
He had been outwitted.
But he lost nothing.
He knew where Stan and Kumar lived.
They did a runner in the night.
Frank heard that his brother was in a little village in East Java.
He booked an Air Asia flight, and said to Chris he'd be back soon.
I'm in the land of Bandung.
The land of smoking volcanoes.
And the Aston Braga.
As far as hotels go, it's very comfortable.
I look outside my window and I'm mesmerized by the volcano.
It occassionaly puffs out some sulfur.
The two-hour taxi ride from Jakarta was quick.
I was chain smoking the whole way with my window down.
As the climate changed, I put on a jumper.
I was in Bandung, the land of big titted white Asiatic whores.
Frank was glad to be away from Manila Bay.
It was great to be traveling on his own passport.
His brother Jack was only an hour's flight away.
For now, he needed some serious R&R.
“Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits...
'The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently...'
Is that you Max?
My good mate from the FBI said I'd be hearing from him soon.
It had to be Max Gunssier, 'friends of those with those who have no friends...slayer of the creature...rapist of the pure...corruptor of the innocent.'
'You speak too highly of me,' said Max, who I could only describe as looking like that fool in the 70's sitcom, Maxwell Smart.
Frank had access to a time machine.
Some of us do, said Max.
Well I'm not bullshitting you mate.
It's got no bells and whistles but does the job, continued Frank, care to go back some?
Max was game.
'It might get our juices running, who knows, we might be able to alter the fabric of time.'
Not sure if that's possible, replied Max, 'but we can definitely tell people where they have gone wrong before they get a belly full of shrapnel.'
It was a voyeuristic game of sorts and Frank and Max just vanished, to a point of time that Frank thought was interesting: Bangkok, 1985.
If you can't bond with someone during some good quality time travel, then when can you bond?
'Whore houses are fun,' said Max who was ducking.
Fuck a duck, said Frank, they are out to kill us.
No, said Max, who dragged Frank with him behind a car which protected them from ricocheting bullets.
In the background, somewhere near the tank parked next to the gate of the radio station, they could hear a Thai screaming, 'Yut gawrn.'
'That means stop the fucking shooting for you Thai illiterates,' explained Frank.
A man with bright yellow socks that said SHOOT ME was filming a tank firing rounds. And a Thai soldier on the tank was firing a very big gun. They were live rounds too.
Bullets were spraying all over the place, and the guy with the yellow socks kept on filming, in the open. He didn't have a care in the world. I could see that he totally underestimated the situation.
Attached to the cameraman by an umbilical cord, was the sound man.
It was insane.
'They are out to kill that idiot with the video camera,' said Max, who seemed to have heard of the guy. 'He's had eleven lucky years filming in Vietnam, but he failed to use his brain on this occasion.'
See, isn't time travel fun, said Frank who yelled out to the blonde-haired cameraman, 'get the fuck out of there now, you are not only compromising yourself but that soundman, who is going to get shrapnel in his gut too.'
'Mind your own fucking business, 'said Neil Davis.
'This is the kind of arrogance that gets you killed,' said Frank to Max, who seemed to be enjoying the live action.
Neil's colleague, another Australian, who was using a Thai sound man, had the good sense to hide behind a steal box.
Another round of bullets, the sounds were deafening. To be honest, it was exhilarating, to be amongst such deadly force.
But Neil was hit.
His yellow socks were now turning a crimson red.
We both continued watching Neil's colleague drag him to safety, his guts spilling out, from the safety of our position behind the car that was copping bullet holes all over the place.
'So why the fuck wasn't that other cameraman helping Bill Latch who had to drag himself back to safety when it was obvious that Neil Davis was already read,' asked Max.
'I guess you don't think straight under pressure,' I replied.
Neil Davis had filmed his own death and filmed the desperate struggle of his soundman dragging himself back to safety with a gut full of hot lead.
'He'd be dead a few hours later,' said Frank, who loved nothing better than giving a running commentary.
'When you become the news while filming the news,' said Max, 'you know it's time to change professions.'
Earlier in the day Bill had alerted his editor about the coup.
'Dumb bastard,' said Max, 'if he only had of listened to his inner-god of self-preservation, he'd be alive and eating with his Thai family tonight.'
'Always a goody-goody,' said Frank, ' a Thai coup, whoopy do, five seconds of reporting on the networks, and now the guys got a gut full of shrapnel thanks to his megalomaniac cameraman who thought he was fucking superman standing up against the tanks firing hot liquid lead. '
The Thai military wanted that Australian cameraman dead, no doubt about it.
Hindsight was fifty fifty.
Common sense, there wasn't much of it anymore, said Frank, who pressed a button on his time machine, the size of a pen vape, and before they knew it, they were back in the warung where they were having their lunch.
'Bandung,' said Max who shoulder punched Frank, ' it's great to be back.'
'You mean it's great to bareback,' said Frank, who whacked him back just as hard.
'We could definitely use that time machine for some useful research,' said Max who was quite impressed with the gruff middle-aged Australian who reminded him of that Les Paterson character he met when he was working in the Middle East in the '80s.
'Thought you'd be impressed,' said Frank who told him he'd been working on the invention for years with the help of that scientist from Back to the Future.'
Bonding out the way, it was time to hit the whore house.
'Surely we can save a few single mums from poverty's bight by offering some donations for their services.'
'Hell yeah,' said Max, who didn't need much persuading.
He was holding a book.
'We can do better than that,' said Max who threw the book in the dustbin.
'Hell year,' said Frank who thought it wasn't a bad book, 'but it was a real pooper, ' he said to Max, while giving him a high five, 'not enough fucking-the-locals in it.'
Max just let out a belly laugh and a fart and a belch to boot.
He had heard many good things about Frank from both Chris Zisi and Steve Cartwright, and he was proud to say to Frank, 'every fucking word of it was true.'
'Cemetary please, ' said Frank to the taxi driver.
Some people went to bars to pick up whores...
But in Surabaya, the locals went to the cemetery.
It wasn't just any cemetery.
The mostly Muslim whores worked the Chinese cemeteries.
Muslim cemeteries were usually very plain and simple, a simple plaque and dirt covering the deceased.
'You need a really nice flat grave for fucking on,' said Frank, who prided himself on the subject.
It was nearing midnight.
'Trick or treat,' said Max who was game.
In the distance, they could see the Hilton Hotel, the largest building in Surabaya and where they were staying. Tomorrow they planned to visit the village of sweet-smelling water where Jack, Frank's brother, was relaxing.
Fucking under the stars with angels and cherubs and a gorgeous Muslim whore.
'It doesn't get much better than that, ' thought Frank who pulled up at a little warung surrounded by tombstones.
Techno music was playing and the girls were parked at their favorite grave site.
The man at the warung sold bottles of water.
'So the girls can wash their twats after fucking,' said Frank.
He was eyeing up a beauty, in her thirties, she was game.
'This is just bizarre,' said Max.
Only as bizarre as you make it, said Frank.
"There's nothing bizarre about fucking under the stars,' continued Frank, 'to be quite honest, it's the way it's supposed to be.'
I don't know what the Chinese Christians felt about the current state of affairs, but once I started pumping into Ranni, I became a rampant supporter of the great outdoors.
"You work up a real sweat in the tropics,' I said to Max after I completed the dirty business in about ten minutes.
'Meet Novi,' said Max, who had also just serenaded her on a nearby grave site.
Frank didn't want to only meet Novi, he wanted deserts after his main meal.
'She's very intimate,' said Max.
'You mean she's a nympho,' asked Frank.
'You'll see,' said Max.
Back at the hotel, they had a few Heinekins and compared fucks.
Java, it was good to be home.
'Where else in the world can you go to a cemetery and get a fuck,' asked Frank.
'They are dying to get to the cemetery,' quipped Max.
'Here in Java, that saying is taken to another level,' replied Frank.
The boys were light on description and heavy on imagination.
'Why get purple on a subject like this,' said Frank, who was glad to be a cultural guide for Max, ' you either get it or you don't.'
'This aint a place for prudes,' said Max, who punched Frank on the shoulder.
They both laughed.
Java was a sensual place. No doubt about that.
East Java , then Bali.
The big names of terrorism have been through the port town of Bunyuwangi.
Their intents weren't always pure.
I"m sure Mohammed wouldn't object to the single mums doing a trick or treat just to survive.
'He doesn't,' said Jack, 'actually this village is run by the imans, and the proceeds they get from the working girls is pumped back into local mosques.'
Frank and Jack caught up, as long-lost conjoined twins do, and Max seemed to like the blue skies and fresh air of East Java, which he noticed was conducive to heavy breasted Javanese.
'You mean big knockers,' said Jack.
'Couldn't have said it any better,' said Max.
They were admiring the view, ahead, was a volcano, smoking away, and in front of them, sitting around the table, were the working girls, all locals of the village of sweet smelling water. I wouldn't say they had big breasts. I'd say they were massive.
'It's a special herb,' said Jack, 'that they are given from a young age.'
I heard about, I said.
I really had.
The same herb can be used for guys too, said Frank.
'It comes in capsules or liquid form, basically, it's Viagra boys.'
Cindy, what are you doing here, asked Max.
She looked like a swimwear model.
What more could I say?
'You could say I've got the biggest knockers you have ever seen on an Asian.'
Cindy wasn't shy and her command of English was superb.
Max and Cindy went way back.
'I remember lecturing you on counter-terrorism techniques in Jogjakarta.'
'I remember you fucking my brains out,' said Cindy.
She was wearing a blue bodysuit, it hugged her curves.
Frank just couldn't believe what he was hearing. More so he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
'You dark horse, mate.'
East Java wasn't a sleepy backwater by a long shot, was it, asked Jack, who winked at the girls who were enjoying their morning coffee.
Jack was settled in.
He owned a hotel in the village.
He owned a coffee shop.
He owned the whole fucking town.
He was a self-made man.
He could retire now.
Retire.
'Well fuck that,' he said.
He'd never been so busy.
The whole village ran off solar.
He had the latest batteries to store the Javanese sun.
He also ran a bar and a five-star restaurant.
Frank loved his food.
He had the best meat and seafood daily shipped in from overseas and sourced as much of the local produce as he could.
The nearby mountain climes were perfect for growing carrots, potatoes and in the village's garden, they grew all kinds of salad greens and herbs.
'Cow dung, boys,' said Jack to Frank and Max, who were amazed at how Frank had made this place a veritable resort. 'But human excrement is the best for tomatoes, they thrive on that shit.'
Jack didn't capitalize on eco-tourism. His ideas were based on common sense.
He had created a mini-Bali, 'without the bullshit.'
The Hindus love of money had soured many a tourist's holidays.
'They don't control the whore trade here,' he said, gesturing to his girls who were sunbathing around the Blue Lagoon pool.
Well, who does then? asked Max.
The girls, said Jack, ' spread their legs as much as they want and when they want. They can refuse clients. They can work in the cafe, bar or even the kitchen, it's really up to them. If they want to trick or treat, that's fine. They are paid top dollar.'
'So who are the clients,' asked Frank.
'Me, dummy,' huffed Jack, 'do you think I'd share my whores with the mostly Euro Trash that come to Bali? No Sirree!'
The fact of the matter was that the village of Sweet Smelling Water was a commune.
Everyone was so happy and carefree, the idea of prostitution entering their utopia was as remote as Balinese out to make a quick buck.
'Ok, I'll come clean with you,' said Jack, who winked at the boys, and I noticed that the girls lounging around the pool in their hot bikini outfits winked back and blew him kisses, 'these girls are my assassins, not only beauty contestants but the best assassins in Asia mostly hired out to foreign nationals. Since the Bali bombing, my girls have been taking care of the wannabe terrorists who make their way over to Bali on boat or ferry. It's a cozy arrangement with the Indonesian goverment..'
> 'We have used your services before,' said Max, who was keen to get down to business...
'And I'm thankful for the CIA,' said Jack. 'Now it's time to taste Cindy's cooking, she's been laboring in the kitchen for hours. Here's your time to prove your courage.'
Just not getting a hard-on looking at Cindy in her pink bodysuit as she served up lunch was going to be one of Frank's biggest challenges for today.
'And they say my tangerine lip gloss is irresistible.'
'You're such a tease Cindy,' said Jack who motioned Frank and Max to follow him to the Spicy Clove where a bevy of swimwear babes were waiting to serve.
Novi and Cindy, two hot Indo chicks, were drinking Barcadi and Rum out of bottles.
The Sky Garden in Denpasar was packed.
The locals had to pay an entry fee.
The Balinese really made the foreign tourists feel special.
It was the only nightclub in all of Indonesia that you could wear flip-flops and singlets.
The Balinese knew Australians were big spenders.
Management allowed hot local chicks in for free.
By charging a high entry fee for local males, it increased the chance of foreigners in scoring.
It was racism at it's best and Azzi resented that.
He was barman at a resort down the road.
There, he found a white chick and fucked her brains out.
'They are nothing but whores,' he'd say to anyone who cared to listen.
One particular group did care to listen.
They were pushing for a Susu Basar Caliphate for Indonesia, which loosely translated as the territory for big bitted whores who would be beheaded if they fucked anyone but the local boys.
'They throw their money around and fuck our woman folk.'
Azzi hated cashed up white tourists. So did other members of the group. They consisted of village folk from East Java who flocked to Bali for the big bucks and the opportunity to find a white whore who would take them back to their home country and provide them a better opportunity in life.
They consisted of many barmen who doubled up as pimps who had at one time or another been jilted by those white imperialist whores.
'They promised us a tickets back to their home country,' said Azzi to the local jihadist, 'then you saw them get flights home with their hunky surfer boyfriends the next day. Fucking hypocrites.'
Novi and Cindy needed to eliminate Azzi.
This is what they called light duty, mixing pleasure with a little bit of light work. They knew their tits, luscious full lips, hour glass figure, and their 'fuck me eyes' would take care of the pip squeek easy enough. It wasn't about being cocky.