The Poi Predicament

by Lyle Christie

  Of course, certain mistakes were only now obvious in hindsight, and the first and most obvious one was Frank’s call to the governor. Apparently caught up in the excitement of his evil plot, he mistakenly called in his favor to the governor before the crime had even been reported. It was a silly rookie error, but it was often the little details that unraveled complex conspiracies. There was also another less obvious mistake, and it occurred when I had called Frank from Walther’s ranch to ask for help. The problem was that, in the confusion and stress of the moment, I never actually gave Frank the address, nor did he ask for it—because he obviously knew exactly where we were, because his people were currently there trying to kill us. Additionally, that Air National guard helicopter that supposedly flew up to rescue us was nothing more than a pickup for Rex and his men.

  All in all, they had a good plan, but they never imagined that my unusual team and I would somehow sift through their lies, and, in the course of a week, thwart their dastardly plans. Now, the villains were in jail, and the victors were free to celebrate, and what better way than an oceanside wedding.

  Standing here at this moment, I felt that I was a part of something great—something that might change the world for the better. This was the first potential president that I truly knew to be a good and just man, and I was proud that I helped him get this far. It was funny to think that it all started back in Afghanistan ten plus years ago and led all the way here to Hawaii—to this very alter. At that moment, the same guitar player who joined us on the beach four nights ago, began doing yet another lovely rendition of Iz’s Somewhere over the Rainbow, and, shortly thereafter, Jessica came walking down the aisle, and she looked absolutely beautiful in her wedding dress as her father proudly led her to the alter. She came to a stop beside John, who was glowing with happiness as he looked at his bride to be. Jessica glanced over at me and smiled then silently mouthed the words thank you, and I returned the gesture by mouthing the words your welcome. The reverend officially began the ceremony, and, soon thereafter, I was handing John the rings. They each slid one onto the other’s finger, and they were officially declared man and wife then exchanged a long loving kiss while the audience cheered enthusiastically.

  I gazed out over the wedding guests and had to smile. It was quite an interesting group, and probably the most unique of any potential president in the history of the United States. There were, of course, fellow politicians, colleagues, family, and friends, but there were also a number of unusual guests—namely Violet, Beeber, Doug, Rachel, Special Agent Dave Moore, and Johnny Kamoahoa, Lou, and Jimmy—the three locals who were more than willing to put their lives on the line for a bunch of crazy haoles trying to thwart a diabolical murder and extortion conspiracy. It was in this special moment, surrounded by all these special people, that I had an epiphany. I had always seen life as a great chain of chaos in which all of us were just variables traveling through the universe and bouncing in and out of each other’s lives with our paths random and our futures constantly changing. But, now, seeing how all of us came together to unite these two, I truly understood that the sum was indeed greater than its parts, and perhaps we all did have a greater purpose in this life and that our existence was meaningful, and we were at some level facilitating a better future and, in turn, a better world.

  John and Jessica began their ceremonial walk back up the aisle, and everyone clapped, and suddenly I felt a surge of emotion that made tears form in the corners of my eyes. Corn looked over at me then gave me a soft elbow.

  “Are you crying?” he asked.

  “No, are you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “They grow up so fast,” he said.

  “They do indeed.”

  He put his arm around me, and we stood there gazing in wonder as our friends walked up the aisle and likely into the history books of our great nation as the next president and first lady of the United States.

  Thank you for taking the time to read Poi Predicament. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend, and it would be much appreciated. Now, I hope you’ll be pleased, because Tag Finn will be continuing his adventures in

  Chalupa Conundrum.

  Private investigator Tag Finn, a former special operations soldier and member of the CIA’s elite Special Activities Division, is having a nice quiet evening at home until his phone rings, and he answers it to hear the voice of his beloved ex-girlfriend Estelle pleading for his help. She abruptly screams, the line goes dead, and the next morning Finn learns that Estelle and her entire group of UCLA archeologists have gone missing from their dig site at the mysterious Chalupa Ruins in Costa Rica. Due to Finn’s current occupation and unusual background, UCLA’s dean of archeology hires him to oversee the search for the missing team, and he heads down to Central America, where he is joined by beautiful local archeologist Dr. Alessandra Hitzig. Together, they will venture into the primeval jungle to the Chalupa ruins and be caught between myth and reality when they unwittingly face off against a thousand year old ghost king and his army of undead warriors as well as a ruthless billionaire businessman intent on acquiring the land around the site.

  Thrills, chills, spills, and indeed some sexual frills await, so come along with Finn and his beautiful new colleague on this incredible adventure where they must use every ounce of their cunning if they hope to solve the ever deepening mystery that is the Chalupa Conundrum.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Mantasy Series

  The Mantasy Series

  Soft Taco Island

  Topless Agenda

  Gordita Conspiracy

  Mr. Pickles

  Stripper Boat

  Poi Predicament

  Chalupa Conundrum

  Prometheus Protocol

  Acknowledgements

  I suspect every writer has a large list of people who make their work possible, and mine begins with my wife, who hears every one of my idiotic ideas and gives her opinion freely and without fear that I might get offended and stop helping with the housework. Next, would be my editors, Ruth A. Bright, Chris Cooper, and Aria Pearson who have generously given their time to comb the book for mistakes and keep me grammatically, if not politically or morally correct. After editors, comes my army of proofreaders, namely Matt Zeeman, Chris Imlay, Bob Horton, Katherine Gundling, and Jason Bright. Following them is my family, especially my father Fred Christie, who has always believed in my artistic endeavors and supported them both figuratively and literally. Next would be my mother Jane Christie (Posthumously), who definitely played a roll in my odd sense of humor. Also in the family category, is my pushy sister Sheree Wilson who helped get me into a posh New York Literary Agency, as well as my less pushy sister, Shelly Hall. From there, it continues on to two special friends who helped in a very unusual way, namely securing the Macbook Pro laptop that I would use to write while incarcerated at Stanford Hospital. Those two generous souls, inadvertently responsible for the proliferation of the Mantasy Genre, are Michele and Dan Scanlon. Next is my oldest friend and layout expert Chris Imlay followed by Dianna Woods, Jimmy and Jodie Woods, as well as Robert O’Brien and Elizabeth “high-beams” Machado, all of whom have been willing to suffer through early drafts, mistakes, inaccuracies, and a vast number of unusual sexual metaphors.

  Another special thank you goes out to Greg Owens, good friend and international man of business acumen, who passed on the following advice from his mentor George Leonard—take the hit. Which means: should you ever be sidelined with something such as five years of cancer treatment, do something positive with the time—in my case writing a bunch of escapist, erotic, adventure novels.

  I’d also like to thank Mike Rowe and his Dirty Jobs show, Tom Selleck and the creators of Magnum PI, Jeremy Clarkson, James May, and Richard Hammond and their show Top Gear (which is now more or less the Grand Tour on Amazon), and, last but not least, J.K. Rowling and her Harry Potte
r book series. All four would make an unbearable time more bearable, and, in the case of when I finally left the hospital, I had a new immune system and more or less was the equivalent of an adult newborn and therefore had to avoid the public and its various viruses, bacteria, and germs. To that end, I was home all day every day, and the only way to keep from going totally bonzo when I was writing was to have a show on in the background. With Dirty Jobs I found the perfect everyman in host Mike Rowe, whose filthy exploits and double entendres kept me feeling connected to the “dirty” world beyond my room. Top Gear and its wacky hosts and scenic locations kept me fully entertained and desperate to get well and make it back out to the world at large. Magnum PI, however, was a different experience, for it brought me back to one of my beloved childhood shows, and its characters and setting served as a kind of comfort food during the anxiety filled hours of treatment. In the early stages of treatment, however, I started reading J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter. Nothing was better at taking my mind off the chemo drip, and it was actually the void I felt after finishing the series that helped inspire me to create my own literary world in which to escape—though mine would obviously be for adults and contain a shitload of profanity, humor, and sex. We often underestimate the value of entertainment and its unique ability to take us away from our problems, and so, to all four entities and all those involved—you have my gratitude!

  My final word of thanks goes out to my vast martial arts community, all of whom helped keep me alive and well throughout the dark days of cancer treatment. At the top of that group, and requiring special thanks, are Matt Thomas, Rick Alemany, and Margaret Alemany whose wisdom and teaching helped inspire many of the techniques in the book. Beyond them and within our own karate community is Lauren and Rob Sandusky, Thandi Guile, Aria and Daniel Pearson, Tom Jacoby and Jennifer Solow, John Hedlund, Michele & Dan Scanlon, Katherine Gundling, Bob Horton, Sue Fox and J.T. Meade, Mark, Matt, Brad, and Jade Zeeman, Ted Hatch, James Parks, Rob Capps, Mari Sciabica, Jeremy Holt and the Holt Family, Sabrina Haechler, Jonathan Johnson, Brannon Beliso, Catherine and Eric Engelbrecht, Catherine and Ian Moore, Tamera Blake, the families and students of Christie Kenpo Karate, Michael Mason MD, Natalya Greyz MD, Sally Arai MD, and the Stanford University BMT Unit & ITA. If you don’t see your name here, don’t worry—there is a more comprehensive list of the karate community on the Thank You page of my website.

  To all of you, I say be well—and more importantly—dump well.

  Origin of the Mantasy Genre

  In 2010, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Non-Hodgkins T-Cell Lymphoma Cancer, and, with only weeks before my imminent demise, began rigorous dose dense chemotherapy. With an extremely low survival rate, about one in five, I was particularly lucky to achieve a full remission in just over two months. I went on to receive a stem cell, and eventual bone marrow transplant at Stanford University, the last procedure being the most effective treatment for a lifelong cure.

  So, what exactly does a person do when faced with extreme isolation and the fear of a potentially premature demise? Well, I started reading Harry Potter and filled many long hours hooked up to a chemo drip, spending my time with the life and adventures of the boy who lived—hoping, in my case, to be the man who survived. There aren’t many books more removed from the doldrums of cancer, so it became the perfect escape. The problem, however, was that I tore through them so quickly that I was soon on my own again—desperately in need of something to fill my long, anxiety filled days.

  I tried several popular novels and authors I liked but couldn’t find anything to adequately fill the endless hours of isolation. Of course, I could have wallowed in self pity, but I really didn’t want the months of downtime to be meaningless. If I was forced to sit around like a piece of shit, then I wanted to do something with the time. I immediately decided that I should turn my screenplay writing skills into the ultimate, tell-all cancer book, but, five pages in, I realized the topic was too depressing and decided to instead write a novel. It was going to be the book I desperately wanted to read and would include all the things I lacked at that moment—namely sex, alcohol, adventure, travel, and privacy in the bathroom—the key elements for a truly rewarding existence.

  I finished chemo at Kaiser then headed south to the Stanford University Hospital and quickly realized that I would have nothing but a window and the internet for a companion in the coming months. Worse still were the medical horrors that would soon become a part of my daily existence. My morning nurse, concerned about the debilitating physical effects of intense chemo, entered my room each day with the following words:

  “What would you like me to check first? Your balls or your butt hole?”

  “Um—neither?” I responded.

  At that point, all I desired went into my writing, first and foremost being a little privacy in the ol’ baño. The nurses had an annoying habit of always wanting to weigh my stools—something to do with keeping track of fluid and food intake and the subsequent amount of release. My bathroom contained what I called the cowboy hat, a plastic insert to catch waste entering the toilet. Peeing in the little urinal was enough indignity, so whenever possible, I woke up early and dumped before they could make their rounds. Every day that I sent a number two un-accosted down the drain was a small, though cherished victory. I felt like a prisoner—a veritable Count of Monte Cristo, though my prison was a hospital and my battles were waged over porcelain.

  Continuing with the theme of writing about all I lacked meant that the book would sizzle with sex, adventure, and humor. Three months later, I would complete book one and within the year, finish two more—completing what I called at the time, The Mantasy Trilogy—the word Mantasy, being the combination of Male and Fantasy. The following year, I managed to write five more follow ups, all with the same character and eccentricities but with new and exciting storylines and locations. Now, I had a Mantasy Series. Or, if I wanted to follow in Douglas Adam’s footsteps, I would say—books four, five, six, seven, and eight in the Mantasy Trilogy. I’m currently finishing books nine, ten, and eleven.

  Writing has always been one of my great loves but sadly, it took a life threatening illness to bring us back together full-time. I have written a number of screenplays and had two optioned for motion pictures, but traditional writing is more complicated and requires a hell of a lot more work. It is, however, more rewarding because you have the ability to deliver your story directly to an audience, whether it’s your friends, the woman at the Post Office, or the thousands of potential readers trolling the online eBooks. It doesn’t need a fifty million dollar budget, a production team, distribution, and funding for it to reach an audience—and that is pretty awesome.

  About the Author

  Lyle Christie was born in San Francisco, raised in Marin County, and attended the University of Kentfield, San Francisco State University, the Academy of Art College, and Dominican University, where he majored in film and social psychology, and minored in Philosophy, Anthropology, and Human Sexuality—all of which gave him the diverse educational background to become a writer and director. In addition, he holds a fifth degree black belt and teaches Kenpo Karate, Jujitsu, Arnis, and Wing Chun. During his lifetime in the martial arts, he has taught civilians as well as police and military personnel and has the unique pleasure of training with elite members of the United States and international defense and intelligence community.

  He also teaches firearms, swords, sticks, and knives, though he is equally deadly with the nunchaku, machete, goat, tether ball, and skin flute—the last perhaps being his greatest skill set. Above all else, he maintains excellent, if not grey, hair and lives aboard a yacht in Sausalito with his wife, French Bulldog, and Miniature Dachshund. When he’s not writing, directing, teaching martial arts, or training with the real life James Bonds of the world, you’ll find him fighting injustice, cherishing a number two, working out, or riding his mountain bike through the scenic hills of Marin County.

  You can learn more at www.lylechristie.com