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Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Amusing mug shot
"Wow, I'm getting like deja vu all over again or something," Bodhicita Guzman said, gazing out across the darkened grounds of Diamond Head Memorial Park as the second Lama Jey Tsong Khapa stripped at gunpoint and Fon Du, the guy with the gun, began to untie the pink velour bathrobe from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel.
"My dad used to bring me here every year on his friend Henry Loui's birthday. He'd bring a six-pack, drink most of it, open one for his friend. He'd talk and laugh, tell me stories about their antics, always the same ones."
She stepped down from the truck, facing her former lover.
"You know what, Fon Du, if I'm going to die, I'd like to die over there, by Uncle Henry's grave. It's only about 30 yards."
His plan had been to shoot them in the truck, letting its acoustics muffle the sound of the gun, then leave them inside with the doors locked.
"I know you don't owe me anything, but I'm asking, just for old times' sake."
It was true, if she had to die, that would be a nice place. But she was also stalling, trying to buy time, looking for some way to save Lama Jey, first of all, and herself too if she could.
And then they were naked, both of them, Lama Jey and Fon Du. Her former lover was a fantastic male specimen. And Jey, well, everything was perfect. Everything. Another reason she didn't want to die just yet.
AS JEY PULLED on the pink robe and cinched it up, Bodhicita looked hard at Fon Du, staring at his nakedness. And scared as she was, she forced a smirk to her lips. The last time she'd seen him, he was, as they say in the NFL injury reports, unable to perform.
He saw her staring, saw the smirk. He remembered too, the worst night of his life. In the dark he blushed, grew flustered.
Holding the Tokarev 9mm in his left hand, Fon Du stooped to pull on the plaid Bermuda shorts, like Adam and Eve that day in the garden, frantic to cover his nakedness. He slipped his right foot through the right side of the shorts, his running shoes caught the pocket, he wobbled, hopped ...
Bodhicita leaped, her years of martial arts training suddenly kicking in, and in a blur kicked the pistol out of Fon Du's hand, whirled and with the other foot kicked straight up between his legs.
Bulls-eye, so to speak.
Gasping, he fell to the grass in a fetal position, the shorts around his right knee.
Bodhicita stepped over, picked up the pistol, aimed it Fon Du.
"Jey, my love, grab the shorts and give him back the robe. I can hardly wait to see the police mug shot. His superiors in Beijing will be quite amused by it too, I'm sure."
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at firstname.lastname@example.org
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