Destination Dark Ops Read online

  Stan had bouts of paranoia.

  'And this was one of those times,' he says to Kumar, who was eyeing up the candy in the candy store.

  'Come on Stan, lets just party, have I ever given you a bum stare yet?'

  Not yet, that's what worries me.

  'So you don't think the Feds were snooping around your backyard?' he asked Kumar.

  'I just don't know, and I don't care, but I can tell you that the two feds were sent marching quick smart. They have no jurisdiction on Brown Sugar. The worst they can do is suspend your bank accounts and jail you when you arrive back on their shores.'

  'Which I have no plans to do,' said Stan who now voiced his concern. 'But I'm really worried about Frank Russel. He's not as dumb as we thought and he could be a problem. I think it's time to make him a permanent fixture of Manila Bay.'

  Kumar couldn't' believe that Stan could be so callous.

  'Nor could I,' said Frank Russel, who materialized behind them at the booth table.

  'Who beamed you in?' asked Stan.

  'I own this fucking joint,' said Frank, who put his arm around both Kumar and Stan. 'Now would you like to buy Barbie and Cindy a drink, I see you have been drooling over their funbags since you came into the joint an hour ago.'

  Fuck, I bet he has the table wiretapped too.

  A mysterious dame walks up to our table. I'm smelling her intent.

  She looks half Malaysian half Norwegian and I swear she's just walked out of a Zisi's Emporium for B Movies review.

  She has Tangerine lip gloss on her full lips, that citrus smell is driving me crazy. And I know she's wearing Poison perfume.

  'Now how the fuck do you know that,' asks Frank.

  'Cos it's circulating around her, like a light mist and it's mixed with Angel Dust, the stuff that can get you fucking high.'

  'Oh, serotonin dust,' joins in Kumar, 'we use to bottle it up as pills and sell it at the flesh pits of Goa.'

  'I bet you did,' said Stan who was under Suyin Wong's spell.

  Well how the fuck do you know that's her name, asked Frank.

  It's on her name tag, dummy, can't you see it?

  Her attraction to our table is pure carnal. She has a face that could launch a thousand ships...and a body that could call them all back. And she has blood on her hands and a posse from INTERPOL on her tail.

  'How the fuck do you know that,' asks Frank.

  'Just a guess,' said Stan.

  'And pretty spot on,' said Suyin who plonked herself on Frank's lap and started gyrating, just because she could and because it drove most men to cum in their jocks.

  Listen, said Stan, we can fantasize about fucking Cindy, Barbie or even Suyin, but I suggest we take a walk down Manila Bay and grab a coffee at Chris's stand and look at the bigger picture.

  The girls couldn't believe it.

  'I can't believe it either,' says Suyin, 'not only Frank came in his pants, but I was going to kill you and Kumar.'

  'I know,' said Stan, 'so go back to Beijing and let us grown boys decide if we want pussy or a good conversation over a cigarette and coffee down at Manila Bay.'

  Even Frank bought into the idea, he could see Suyin Wong was trouble, with a capital T.

  'If you jerk offs don't appreciate me,' she said, 'I'll I just fuck off back to my story. Don't you know that my creator still has four chapters to write, and I'm supposed to be beaten up by two Korean flight attendants? I don't know why I'm bothering telling you this, as I can see all you really care about is what color panties I'm wearing.'

  It was true.

  'Stick with your story,' says Kumar, 'story jumping is only going to get you in trouble.'

  'Who moved my stump.'

  That was Frank who was jerking around. It was totally lost on Suyin.

  'Obviously she hadn't watched Wreck-It Ralph,' said Stan, as both Frank and Kumar went into a fit of fake laughing.

  It was their only way to humiliate the assassin and collectively, Frank, Kumar and Stan felt great not being under the power of seduction of that assassin whore.

  While she was having a blonde moment, the boys just walked out of the karaoke bar and briskly walked the few blocks to Manila Bay where they knew they could get a hot coffee, any time of the day.

  What the boys heard as they hit the street and legged it to Manila Bay was a very loud shriek from inside the Karaoke bar which made them laugh even harder.

  'You're all a bunch of fucking poofters.'

  Chris was giving me a neck massage.

  Frank was holding court, telling stories.

  'I've been here since May,' he says, sipping on his three in one coffee, served in a little thin plastic cup. Chris' wife is chain-smoking cigarettes she sells.

  'That cunt Vanya Vetto,' continued Frank....

  Pause for a moment.

  'He's more like an ankle,' said Kumar, who seemed as comfortable in a pampered island immigration office, as he was sitting on a concrete seat down at Manila Bay among the lost and almost departed, 'two feet under a cunt.'

  Even Chris paused massaging Stan and took a sip of his coffee and lit up a smoke.

  It was nearing midnight, and the promenade was busy with night owls walking up and down Manila Bay, stopping for snacks, a coffee or even a massage.

  This was the pulse of Manila.

  The wind came off the bay and cooled down the night.

  It smelt like respite.

  'It's my home,' said Chris. He was just damn happy that we'd even bother to visit him this time of the night. 'And you are all welcome.'

  I told the boys about Froot Loops.

  It's a cereal, very sweet which you eat with milk.

  As a child, I continued, we'd put our dirty mitts inside the box and search for little trinkets. Then we'd nag for another box. The adults would relent and purchase another box of highly refined sugary Froot Loops.

  Manila Bay was a bit like that. We always come back for more of the stuff we know ain't good for us.

  'Great marketing strategy, ' said Kumar, who was intently paying attention to a bevy of freelance hookers hovering around the statue behind us. It was of a Phliliipino president. Manila Bay, a refuse for the filth and flotsam, was also the place the town planners parked statues of their presidents.

  'Hello Darling,' said a husky voice.

  'Fucking ladyboys,' said Frank.

  Chris confirmed, 'this is their beat and only for 2000 pesos they'll suck you off right here in the open.'

  Manila Bay could never be accused of being boring.

  Stan's got all this money and he's hoarding it.

  He needs Australian currency.

  I'll show you the greed in his eyes.

  Frank had access to $50 notes.

  Counterfeit.

  He had access to as many notes as he needed. Fuck, he even owned some of the printing presses scattered around Asia.

  And Kumar, he's a greedy cunt and I'll get his 200 grand as well.

  Well that was the plan.

  The Chinese printing presses were doing good fakes.

  But the feel and texture weren't right.

  Paper, the fucking idiots.

  Why can't they just use plastic and make them good counterfeits?

  They were good enough to play in the casinos here in Manila.

  It was always risky business.

  'I'll add another twenty percent on your cash,' said Frank.

  'What do you mean?' asked Kumar.

  'I mean if you give me 200 thousand Australian dollars in Pesos, I'll pay back 300 fucking thousand smakaroos!!!.'

  Chris' wife had made the boys another three-in-one coffee. It was sweet as fuck but the cool morning wind and rising sun was conducive to the moment.

  Screw them over the only way I know.

  Frank didn't respect Stan for using his passport. Jack had already told him.

  He'd have to sort this out soon.

  It wasn't as if he was cheating the boys. They were making 20 percent on their ill-gotte
n money.

  'More like 30 percent,' said Kumar, who seemed clued in on his percentages.

  'That's what I call a good investment,' said Frank who wanted the boys to feel they were getting a good bargain.

  If it was too good, then most likely it was a crappy deal. But Frank wasn't going to tell them that. He was playing on their greed, that's all.

  It would cost Frank about 20 grand Australian to get those fake notes printed up.

  And he'd be paying with fake notes from another currency that he had perfected in another dodgy printing presss in Manila.

  He also bought out another printing press in Guiyang, far from the flashy cities on the coast, which printed up adorable plastic counterfeits. They were so good, China was thinking of undermining Australia's currency with them.

  'You'll walk away with 20 000 fifty dollar notes,' I said to Stan, 'that's one million smakaroos and easily stored in one suit case,' Stan's face lighted up in a way that only money can do, 'and all you have do is give me 800 thousand ozzie dollars worth in pesos. That's an easy 200 thou for you.'

  Surely he'll take the bait?

  'I'm in,' said Stan. He wanted to take the cash out of Frank Russel's bank account which he recently opened up so he could transfer the money from his Australian account to one that was more secure from the authorities who wanted to freeze his bank account.

  Kumar, he was stupid and loved money.

  'I'm in too,' he said, 'we'll both have the money delivered to you this evening.'

  They didn't call Manila the con artist capital of Asia for nothing, right?

  Frank wasn't a guy to be fucked with.

  'Amateurs, the fucking lot of them,' he said, as the boys walked away from Manila Bay.

  Number one rule at Manila Bay, Never do deals at Manila Bay.

  Man, even I learned that one.

  Frank was a big fan of Vanya Vetto's travel guides.

  But who knows, it might just work out for us all.

  And if it doesn't thought Frank, he knew he was always welcome at Manila Bay, where even the authorities don't dare venture.

  Frank was telling the boys that he use to be a bit of lady's man back in his day.

  Stan and Kumar had paid Frank his pesos and Frank had paid them the counterfeit Australian dollars.

  Chris and his wife made out no deals had gone down but the boys made sure they consumed lots of coffees and cigarettes.

  Chris's wife had to do a few trips to the Seven Eleven to stock up on coffee and cigarettes.

  Frank would take care of them, in due time.

  'But now I'm a fat fuck with too much money on my hands.'

  Money and time, a great combination for living that novel.

  'I'll write it one day,' said Frank who suggested they unwind in an air-conditioned cafe.

  LA Cafe was where the freelancers worked the mostly expat crowd.

  Mary, Chris's wife, had given him permission to be our guide. Stan had tipped her a $50 dollar note.

  She declined and said she prefers the local currency.

  Stan thought that was odd but pulled a 1000 peso note.

  Kumar said he'd be leaving back for Brown Sugar tomorrow so he wanted to have a big bash before he went back to work.

  'I want to fuck as many hookers as I can.'

  Kumar was like any Indian, polite on the outside, but inside, a real perverted son of a bitch.

  Andrew W E, the Master Rapper of the Philippines, was belting out a tune. ‘I’ll fuck Abu Sayyaf up the ass, with a piece of jagged glass.’

  What the boys noticed once they entered LA Cafe was pussy perfume.

  'What the fuck is pussy perfume,' asked Stan.

  Well, said Frank, who was being eyed off by a bevy of freelancers, 'it's perfume used to cover up the irresistible scents of the salivating glands of the female genitalia.'

  'Stand up straight boys, 'said Frank who was physically being affected by all the glam pussy in the room and all the pheromones that were being squirted every time a hot Filipino woman spread her legs, which was often.

  They really knew how to tease the mostly old fart western clientele, thought Frank, who continued. 'I'm told that if lobsters have a good posture, they release more serotonin, which attracts the opposite sex who want to mate with them and produce healthy straight-back offspring.'

  'You're talking about the ideas of that redneck writer from Alberto, aren't you? ' asked Kumar who straightened up his back. He was more cultured than he let on. And he was beelining to a table full of transvestites, post-op, with massive tits that acted as a beacon to ships that had lost their way in a foggy night.

  'Yep, ' says Frank, ' It's Jordan Peterson. I was so inspired by him that I decided to put an end to my ten-year wank-athon on crack and do something with my life.'

  That was her.

  She was carrying a handbag.

  Inside it, was her pet.

  'Let me fucking out of here.'

  Even I could hear Frank Russel screaming from deep inside her purse.

  He had to be her genie.

  Ho Fat was working the crowd.

  Jack Russel was her good luck charm.

  She couldn't work the crowd without him being nearby.

  She knew it made him dog mad jealous.

  Ho Fat was a creation of Steve Cartwright.

  She was proud of the fact that someone would bother to size up her boobs and stilettos and write about her so glowingly.

  'Let me out of here, damn you.'

  Ho Fat just gently poked Jack in the eye and he soon shut up.

  Meanwhile, Kafka was crawling in the corner, now up a table leg before jumping on a very long honey tanned leg which led the cockroach to the promised land.

  'It's really not bad being a cockroach,' he said, as he slipped under the panties and towards the warm moist spot.

  The sexy little Filipino vixen, another working girl at LA Cafe, stood up in embarrassment and pulled down her pink silky panties so Kaftka could slip out unharmed.

  The punters, many of them old farts resting on the stools near the pool table, turned their lecherous eyes towards the lady flashing her muff.

  Seriously they thought the show was exclusively for them.

  'He's always pulling that shit off,' said Cindy, who seemed to know Kafka. 'He just couldn't get away with that shit in Thailand, though,' she added, 'they deep fry him for a snack.'

  It didn't take long for Frank, Stan and Kumar to join the table in the corner.

  Frank really needed to have a word with his conjoined twin, Stan wanted to see if Ho Fat's stilettos were really a weapon and Kumar wanted a few rounds with Cindy.

  'Not on my shift,' said Kafka.

  That's when the midgets and the con men, dwarfs and homeless of Mabini street and Manila Bay gate crashed LA Cafe.

  Frank loved dramatic entries.

  'Everyone out,' said management, as all the punters and working girls were ushered outside. The only hoes allowed to stay were Cindy and Ho Fat.

  Frank believed sharing was caring. He'd fucked over Stan and Kumar, so a night feeding the poor at LA Cafe seemed the right thing to do. The manager could almost retire for a month on what Frank was paying him. Money, if you had it, could really open doors.

  Bacchanalia, dressed up in Halloween garb, wasn't far away either.

  'Let the party begin,' said Frank who rang the bell, 'first round is on Stan and Kumar.'

  It just seemed the right thing to do.

  Word gets around pretty fast.

  After the riff-raff were dined, they were booted out.

  'Take care of my street,' said the manager.

  'And take care of my turf,' said Frank Russel.

  It was good to take care of them.

  Once a week he'd spend up big and feed his followers.

  They would always watch his back.

  'You cunt,' said a voice.

  Frank was outside having a smoke.

  He needed the fresh air. It was nearing midnight.
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  Then he felt a knife on his throat.

  'You double-crossing bastard.'

  It had to be the French man.

  Who else could it be, thought Frank.

  'This could be your last move,' said Frank.

  'And this could be your last breath.'

  Pedro, the midget, who only moments left before Frank, was keeping a close eye on the white guy with the knife, who had a blade to Frank's throat.

  Dina, Pedro's wife, another midget, was standing near the entrance of Cafe LA. She was so tiny, that Stan couldn't see her when she pulled out an electric cattle prodder and zapped his balls.

  'He's not dead, but he'll be singing Dixies in falsetto when he comes round.'

  Frank believed in what Jesus preached, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. He wasn't a religious man and kicked Stan hard between the balls.

  "That's for using my passport,' another kick, ' and that's for faking your death and the heartaches you left along the way.'

  Send him onto the next flight to Brown Sugar, said Frank to an undercover intelligence officer. 'And make sure he's blacklisted.' Frank bent down and pulled out his passport from the Frenchman's pocket. .

  'Serves the froggy right,' he said. To show his contempt, but some would say mercy, he opened up his fly and pissed over Stan.

  'I would have killed him there and then,' said Kumar, who appeared from nowhere. 'Did you know that he killed a bloke in Thailand and dumped him down in the Chayao Praya river.'

  No, he didn't.

  Stan was coming around and grabbing his balls, that were no doubt toast.

  'Would you like him to be a floaty down at Manila Bay,' asked the undercover intelligence office.

  Frank was tempted but having the frog wash back up bloated on Manila Bay just made him squirmish.

  'Better still,' he replied, ' contact the Australian Embassy and send him back to Oz, I'm sure they'd love to question him. Make sure he's got that bag of fake currency on him when he gets on that plane.'

  'I'll pay you off,' said Stan, 'I'll pay you off.'

  What?

  ' It was only a plastic knife, I was only fucking with you. '

  Frank picked up the knife from the ground, it was indeed a plastic knife.