Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 168

HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION

There had been some tension in the Stickmanbangkok.com world recently so measures had been taken. It's a long road and the smart man keeps one eye on the road ahead and one eye on those seeking to overtake him. It's the weary man
who is the survivor but it is the smart man who knows that living well is the best revenge. Like I said, measures had been taken in the Stick world.

Coming down the highway there were eight coal black crotch rockets with Karen silver swords in scabbards in the front and four follow up Harleys with handlebar racked four barrel revolving Belgian shotguns in the rear. All cycle riders were
Bang Kwang prison parolees anxious to make a new start. A covering fire and communications helicopter flew overhead. Centered in this moving arsenal of success and commitment to leader were three gold flake tinted window stretch limos with armored
undercarriages and dragster fuel injection systems. All three cars were carrying passengers who looked like Stick. Two were impostors committed to decoy and protect. Only one vehicle had the leader and that was the one pumping out Ludicrous at
maximum volume while back seat smilers tipped their heads at Stick's every word and contemporary history anthropology students recorded all for posterity. The Stickman was riding high again.

There was only one shadow on the glorious personal peak of Mount Everest for the fabulous Stickmeister. He was on his way to the Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together rehearsal and he was not sure that Dana's invitation to the
Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together rehearsal event had been mailed in time. He had given the job of mailing the letter plus a five satang coin tip to the guy who drags himself along the sidewalk in front of the Landmark Hotel on Sukhumvit
Road.

What had at the time looked like economy and charity is now looking like impulse and bad planning. The rehearsal party without Dana would be like a pimple without someone to squeeze it. Ok, that makes no sense. Wait a minute . . . no, that
makes no sense at all. Anyway, creases furrowed the brow of the high riding Stick as the convey made the turn off Phayathai Road and started belting down Ploenchit Road on the way to Sukhumvit Road. Once the convey passed Ploen Chit Center it
went to military lights out mode. The only lights on the vehicles were the urban flashes in the mirror finish triple chrome plated spinning wheel covers.

All interior lighting and headlights and turn signals and braking lights were snuffed, combustion systems were switched to battery backup for quiet running, and automatic license plate concealers rolled into place. Stickmanbangkok.com volunteers
had blocked sois, and taken over intersections, and cleared the highway. The crotch rockets and Harleys were all in front now riding twelve abreast from curb to curb. The heavy armor plated limos were moving like freight trains and the brown men
with the gauntlet gloves at the steering wheels had their hands in the ten o'clock and the two o'clock positions.

No orders had to be issued. Everyone knew that from here to the secret location of the Stickmanbankok.com Writers' Get-Together party rehearsal it was all momentum and commitment. Stickman's stomach felt tight and flat and there
was just the right amount of citrus juice and finely granulated sugar on the lip of his heavy thin lipped crystal glass. Never had a margarita tasted so good and never had he felt better. Life was good. Dana's retirement from making submissions
seemed to be the repeating delusion of a madman. Who knows, maybe the nutter would go to one thousand submissions. Ah, life was good. The heavy thin lipped crystal glass made him smile. Sweet Jesus on a cracker what a great margarita. The little
business and personal bumps in the road of the past were over and it was all clear skies ahead.

But the creased brow remained. Still he worried. Would Dana get the gold trimmed rice paper invitation in time?

Meanwhile, half a world away in Boston . . .

But wait a minute: there is more. Various malcontents and party crashers and bad people had thrown a ten mile diameter surveillance ring around BKK and the roof top binocular spies, and the intersection cell phone stoolies, and the taxi touts
had soon spotted the girls from Pattaya cannoning people out of the sky near Soi 33. The military style limo convoy had also been spotted early flying down Phayathai Road. By the time the twelve abreast cycles with swords and shotguns were passing
the Landmark hotel the entourage was trailing minnows that had gotten under the net. Like a virgin white comet trailing a tail of dirty space debris; the three limos and the chopper and the cycles were now pulling behind them tuk tuks and cars
of Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together party rehearsal gate crashers.

Operation critical mass had been reached and it was time for Part II of Plan A. Stick pressed a switch and chopper pilot Wan lowered the skids on top of the limo. Co-pilot Pim reached around behind her and opened the floor hatch.

Stick climbed up through the moon roof of the stretch gold flaked Mercedes and into the chopper. Co-pilot Pim handed him a drink and the chopper fell off on a magnetic heading of 310 degrees. Was this Plan B to Plan A? No, there had never
been a Plan B. Just a well orchestrated Plan A that had two parts and now had malcontents and party crashers and bad people tailgating three darked out limos and twelve cycles on the way to nowhere.

The real location of the Writers' Get-Together rehearsal was at a private walled estate surrounded by patrolling ex-mamasans and shepherd dogs, watch towers, concertina wire, motion detectors, moats, and trained attack cobras. It was
west of the Sangkhla Buri reservoir near the Burma border. Days were insect buzzing quiet but nights were punctuated with planes coming and going, landing lights flashing on and off, and the grinding of locals teeth who knew it was best to see
nothing and know nothing and say nothing. The entire four acre compound had been covered with artillery camo nets. Only the pool area was open. Rehearsal attendees had been brought in on elephants, the nearby town of Sangkhla Buri had been evacuated,
and Burmese refugees living on the Thai side of the border were being used as mahouts and laborers and traditional dress singing and dancing evening entertainment. Their most important employee quality was that they knew how to keep their mouths
shut. Children were trained by their parents to keep their eyes down and everyone over the age of forty pretended to be senile. They did not even question the Olympic sized infinity edged lap pool being filled with lemon scented Evian water for
the elephants. Farangs. Ba Ba Bo Bo.

Meanwhile . . . back in Boston–

THE GREAT DANA CONVEYANCE OF 2006

There had been some kind of a glitch, or a foul-up, or a misdemeanor, or an example of social engineering of the criminal kind, or a Siamese postal muck up; but that was all part of the past now. At last Dana's purple rice paper invitation
to the Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together party rehearsal had arrived. The outside of the collectors quality envelope was marred by the black fingerprint smudges of the legless man but no matter; it is the thought that counts. Admittedly
it arrived at the last minute but that was only a challenge to the various military organizations and governments and talented aviation people who participated in The Great Dana Conveyance of 2006.

As hyper party security particulars had become more stringent rehearsal dates and locations had changed several times. Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together party rehearsal managers and team captains and other personnel had to learn
to relearn passwords and different locations on a moment's notice. Forward sweep Stickman commandos had to learn to evacuate people, and set up cameras and weapons and concertina wire and listening posts and electric gates and communication
centers and emergency medical centers and pupil ID cameras and observation towers, and camo nets within hours. Stickman doubles were constantly be retrained and redeployed and Churchillian same-same during WWII was being studied for nuance and
daring and commitment.

The happy smiles world of Siam had become the knife fight grimaces of modern Thailand so keeping all party particulars quiet was only practical. There was always somebody who wanted to piss in the gairng leang. In addition, the party
to come had become a symbol of all that was right with Stickmanbangkok.com and all that was right with the world. Like a balloon's surface that expands everywhere equally when blown up; the party had taken on value of increasing importance
in every category. The world was watching. So a rehearsal was important to make sure the party was a boffo success that the world would talk about and look on with envy until next year's party which was already rumored to include stick readers
additionally. A party with 30,000 attendees anyone? But one thing at a time and the main event now was to get to the rehearsal.

Normal civilian routing from Boston to Bangkok would have gone from Boston to Minneapolis to Narita to Bangkok. But there was nothing normal about The Great Dana Conveyance of 2006. Time was of the essence–college talk for "We've
got to haul ass."

The conveyance vehicle chosen was a baked black swept wing titanium rocket sled that seated two and frightened all. It was nicknamed Neutrino. Hey, sometimes you see it, sometimes you don't. Oh, those wacky physicists. Anyway, its parts
carried no ID numbers, it recognized no international borders, and it filed no flight plans. No plans existed and all engineers and designers and riveters had been permanently 'retired'. Its code name issued from the cockpit cleared
runways and airspace immediately all over the world. Notice that Neutrino was coming brought mixed messages–flattery and fear.

Belly cargoed up to 45,000 feet it was then cut loose and the fires were lit. The four huge engines went from cold to explosion hot in a second. Molecules tumbled over each other trying to change shape ahead of metal malleability overload.
The stiletto went from zero to thirty five G's in eight seconds. Every flight destroyed some brain cells and some vision acuity but no pilot ever quit on their own. Addiction trumps all. Testicles retracted into the lower pelvic cavity and
eyeballs egged from peeled back lids. Cardiac, circulatory, nervous system signal carriers, and lungs temporarily shut down. You've got to pay to play.

Computer coded pumps responding to nose cone pressure and wing camber changes automatically injected adrenalines and steroids and atomized chillies into clear plastic tubing intravenously attached to both arms and run up the rectum. Recovery
was instantaneous. Great helmeted heads snapped up, smiles barred teeth, and arms rose in exultation. It's a man's world baby and we're pumped and primed and coming through. Dana to the world–

"I've heard you calling–
A mammalian wail:
You can depend on me–
I will not fail.

Listen for the booming–
That's my sound.
You won't be lonely–
I'll be around.

I'm on the way–
Dodging stellar debris.
Soon it'll be–
Just you and me.

It's DanaTime guys–
I'm on the way.
It's DanaTime guys–
Oh, happy day."

Routing from Boston to Bangkok was one string stretched over the globe. No stops. Suborbital rocket flight screeching through the silk thin upper atmosphere at 67,000 miles per hour. Over the curve of the Earth and down to _____ ? Hey, I
could tell you but then I would have to kill you. Stick was already tapping his glass and starting to speak at the rehearsal orientation event for vendors, and entertainers, and featured speakers, and security, and Stickmanbangkok.com gaffers
and runners and accountants, and valet elephant parking people, and hatcheck girls, and emergency medical technicians, as well as rooftop medic evac support. It would be close.

The two-headed four-armed animatronic gun metal grey pilot up front was monitoring systems computers, topical shield heat spreadsheets, gyroscopic anomalies, Satnav Van Allen Belt magnetic differentials, catheter evacuation pumps, incoming
meteor debris, and sunburst activity. He was flying without passport or flight plan or portfolio. Failure to deliver Dana would be his death sentence. He had volunteered. It was an honor to serve. Dana in the back was reviewing notes from his
rehearsal speech and clipping nose hairs. Out ahead United States and Canadian and Russian and Chinese and Thai military were clearing airspace. The United Nations now run by a consortium of bargirl run countries was dropping leaflets and mailing
out broken window glass payments. The airborne crotch rocket Dana was riding gave a whole new meaning to the words Boom Boom.

Meanwhile Noi and the fly girl jockeys from South Pattaya responding to worldwide Dana tracking needs had made a concomitant convoy flight up to Bangkok in twenty pink military helicopters. Without the need for high speed aerodynamic design
the air vehicles festooned stem to stern with navigational and rapid fire apparatuses made them look like giant zygoptera killing machines.

Leaving the maritime park of South Pattaya at dusk in two flying wedges of nine copters with Noi and her teddy bear in the front in her gold trimmed copter and an air support communications platform copter in the back; they caused even the
giant German whales of beach chair and beer to look up and shield their eyes. Unlike the incoming baked black stiletto no attempt was made at stealth or incognito. Tranny waist gunners and helicopter blades that were emblazoned with the phosphorescent
holographic words DON'T OVERPAY gave away the game. No need for flight suits either on this low level flight up the coast and then across the water to BKK. There hadn't been much advance warning and so girls were flying in Go-Go boots,
and wrap-around bar bathrobes, and Frankenstein boots. In a scene from the movie Apocalypse Now; Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries was booming through the airframes and trannies were feeding belts and loading tracers bare breasted. A few were
hooking themselves into the open doors naked except for heels and attitude. "We're coming Dana".

Ever had a naked six foot tall big dicked tranny breasted hormone freak bearing down on you with a hot barreled 50 caliber pintle mounted door gun? Run yet maes, run.

By the time the swept wing sled carrying Dana and the two headed pilot had entered Thai airspace over Nong Khai the skies over the drop zone and the skies surrounding the assumed party rehearsal zone had already been cleared. Equipped with
cannons, and rockets, and 300 decibel speakers barking orders in Laotian and Khymer and Essan–Noi and Ning and Nong and Na and Nung and No and Nope and Nukki and Nory and Num and Nep and Nod and Noon and Now and Newy and Nuf and Nad and Neb and
Nooly and Bang made airspace interlopers and human ground squirrels disappear.

"Out of the way Kun Heeat–Kuhn Dana is coming."

Slow airspace responders were cannoned to the ground and then barbecue assed with flamethrower bloom just so they would not think it was an accident: "Eat dirt yet ped." Children and the elderly were encouraged to move with a Gatling
gun firing wet soi dog turds. The combined zygopteras pink fuselaged firepower of 20mm cannons, and rocket launchers, and grenade launchers, and flame throwers, and anti-tank missiles, and 50 caliber door guns was impressive but nothing struck
fear into the ground dwellers more than the giant bow mounted rotating cluster self feeding reciprocating Gatling gun that could fire 900 huge wet soi dog turds per minute. Flame throwers? Scary. Anti-tank missiles? Not going to be a good day.
Being harassed with 50 caliber bullets and tracers? A downer. But nothing was worse than being chased and surrounded and then targeted and brought down by wet soi dog turds. Forget face after that. You just had to move out of the neighborhood.
Ever seen a soi dog smile? Dogs hiding and watching thought humans getting the Gatling gun sloppy soi dog turd treatment was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Another reason you had to move.

Anyway, coming in over Thai airspace the gun metal grey two-headed, four-armed pilot looked like an octopus on yaa baa has he started to shut down systems and regroup for the thick soup of low level flight. The Dana conveyance mobile started
to drop like a tourist busting coconut. When the satnav klaxoned that Soi 63 was within 7.1907 seconds the airship lit up like a gulf stream cruise liner and put light on the ground like an incoming space ship. Geckos froze, snakes flicked their
tongues, and party crashers trailing the darked out decoy limos on Sukhumvit Road gunned their engines in anticipation of finally tracking down the Writers' Party rehearsal location. In the meantime, Dana was notified that Part II of Plan
A was coming up and he was soon going to go cockpit ballistic. When flashing instrument lights indicated that the Soi 63 waypoint had been reached the plane fell off to starboard on compass course 310 degrees. Sangkhl Buri–here we come.

Crossing the eastern side of the reservoir Dana's brain implant flared and he went to systems obedience mode and palmed the ejection toggle with a bloated glove. Going vertical through where the canopy used to be; he was soon separated
from his seat and plummeting over the marble black star lit reservoir. After chute deployment it was just training, homing beacon, altimeter, and compass bearing.

His landing inside the netted walled compound of the Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together rehearsal just missed the lemon scented Evian water pool. With his first step he dropped the scalloped wing behind him, his second step left
his helmet on a teakwood chaise lounge, his third step was under an elephants midsection, and his last step had him ducking under the camo net and entering the meeting room.

Stick had just run out of soccer stories and rugby reminiscences. Perfect timing.

Let the Stickmanbangkok.com Writers' Get-Together rehearsal start.

Stickman's thoughts:

Wonderful creative writing.