Kick-boxer 2 ВЂ“ BlutsbrГјder
Kickboxer 2 – Der Champ kehrt zurück ist ein US-amerikanischer Martial-Arts-Film aus dem Jahr mit Sasha Mitchell in der Hauptrolle des David Sloane.
Kickboxer 2 – Der Champ kehrt zurück ist ein US-amerikanischer Martial-Arts-Film aus dem Jahr mit Sasha Mitchell in der Hauptrolle des David Sloane.
Kick-boxer 2 ВЂ“ BlutsbrГјder VideoKickboxer: Retaliation (2018) - Kurt Sloane vs. Mongkut
Next to him a small girl sliced pineapples, cutting the tough skin into neat, spiralling designs. Behind her an even smaller girl used a rag to keep the flies at bay.
The French girl appeared without her boyfriend and without any shoes. Her legs were brown and slim, her skirt short. We all watched her.
The heroin mute, the group of Americans, the Thai kitchen boys. We all saw the way she moved her hips to slide between the tables and the silver bracelets on her wrists.
When her eyes glanced around the room we looked away, and when she turned to the street we looked back. After breakfast I decided to have a wander around Bangkok, or at the very least, the streets around Khao San.
I paid for my food and headed for my room to get some more cash, thinking I might need to get a taxi somewhere.
There was an old woman at the top of the stairs, cleaning the windows with a mop. Water was pouring off the glass and down to the floor.
She was completely soaked, and as the mop lurched around the windows it skimmed dangerously close to a bare light-bulb hanging from the ceiling.
She turned around. Her teeth were either black and rotten or yellow as mustard: it looked like she had a mouth full of wasps. Water boiled angrily on the bulb, and a curl of steam rose up to the ceiling.
I began a short mime of mopping down the windows before sticking my imaginary mop into the light. Then I began jerking around, electrocuted.
She'd clearly been working on the Khao San Road a long time. Feeling chided, I started walking down the corridor to my room.
I nodded my thanks, wondering how she knew which was my room, and continued down the corridor. Sure enough, taped to my door was an envelope.
On it was written 'Here is a map' in laboured joined-up writing. I was still so surprised at the old woman's strange vocabulary that I took the letter in my stride.
The woman watched me from the other end of the corridor, leaning on her mop. I held up the envelope. Do you know who it's from?
A couple of minutes later I was sitting on my bed with the ceiling fan chilling the back of my neck, and the map in my hands.
Beside me the empty envelope rustled under the breeze. Outside, the old woman clanked up the stairs with her mop and bucket to the next level.
The map was beautifully coloured in. The islands' perimeters were drawn in green biro and little blue pencil waves bobbed in the sea. A compass sat in the top-right-hand corner, carefully segmented into sixteen points, each with an arrow tip and appropriate bearing.
At the top of the map it read 'Gulf of Thailand' in thick red marker. A thinner red pen had been used for the islands' names. It was so carefully drawn that I had to smile.
It reminded me of geography homework and tracing paper. A brief memory surfaced of my teacher handing out exercise books and sarcastic quips.
It was empty. Then, on one of a cluster of small islands I noticed a black mark. An X mark. I looked closer.
Written underneath in tiny letters was the word 'Beach'. I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to say to him. I was curious, partly, just wanting to know what the deal was with this beach of his.
Also I was pissed off. It seemed like the guy was set on invading my holiday, freaking me out by hissing through the mosquito netting in the middle of the night and leaving strange maps for me to discover.
His door was unlocked, the padlock missing. I listened outside for a minute before knocking, and when I did the door swung open. In spite of the newspaper pages stuck over the windows, there was enough light coming in for me to see.
The man was lying on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. I think he'd slit his wrists. Or it could have been his neck.
In the gloom, with so much blood splashed about, it was hard to tell what he'd slit. But I knew he'd done the cutting: there was a knife in his hand.
The policeman was perspiring, but not with the heat. The air-con in the room made it like a fridge. It was more to do with the exertion of speaking English.
When he came to a difficult word or a complicated sentence his brow would crease into a hundred lines. Then, little beads of sweat would pop up like opals on his brown skin.
I shook my head. And listen. The Duck name, it's not real. It's a joke name. The policeman wiped his shirtsleeve over his face.
Sweat sprinkled over his notebook, blurring the ink. He frowned and new droplets replaced the ones he'd just swept away. I held up my hands.
From six until nine. A lot of people saw me there. I shrugged. I wasn't worried. There was a clear image in my head of the low light coming through the newspapered windows and the sparkling highlights on Mister Duck.
The blood had been pretty wet. Why didn't I mention the map? Because I didn't want to get involved in some foreign police investigation and I didn't want my holiday fucked up.
Also I didn't care much about the guy's death. I saw it as, well, Thailand's an exotic country with drugs and AIDS and a bit of danger, and if Daffy Duck got too caught up, then it was his look-out.
I didn't get the impression that the policeman cared much about the whole thing either. After another thirty minutes of ruthless interrogation 'Can you ve'ify you eat banan' pancake?
The French girl's boyfriend was sitting on the steps of the police station with his face angled up towards the sun. Obviously he'd been brought in for questioning too.
He glanced around as I walked down the steps, maybe thinking I was the girl, then turned back. Normally I'd have taken that as a sign someone doesn't want to chat.
I do a lot of my travelling alone so sometimes I get starved of conversation and company. It makes me alert to body language, because even if I'm feeling a bit lonely I don't want to inflict myself on a person who isn't interested.
But this time I ignored the sign. Despite not wanting to get involved with the police, the death had made for an unusual start to the day and I had the urge to talk about it.
I sat down right beside him so he couldn't avoid me. As it turned out, I'd read the sign wrong anyway. He was very friendly. Last night I'd put him at eighteen or so, but in the daylight he looked older.
Twenty or twenty-one. He had a Mediterranean look about him — short dark hair and a slim build. I could see him in a few years' time, a couple of stones heavier, a glass of Ricard in one hand and a boule in the other.
I wanted to relax in Bangkok, if that's possible, and instead I got this. So where've you been for the last month? Not only Bangkok, surely.
We have been north. We rafted on a river. Very boring, no? I want to do something different, and everybody wants to do something different.
But we all do the same thing. There is no… ah…'. He was very strange. We would hear him late at night. He would talk and shout… The walls are so thin.
I took a deep drag on my cigarette and looked down at the steps we were sitting on. I know he talked English because I would recognize some words, but… it was not easy.
My embarrassment was compounded by his. It was odd, but if his girlfriend had been ugly I'd only have been amused, but because she was so attractive it almost felt as if I'd had some kind of affair with her.
Which of course I had. A mental affair. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as though he were smoothing down a beard, although I could see from his light stubble that he was a long way from being able to grow one.
Then he said, 'He would talk about a beach. He looked straight at me as he said it. He was watching my face for a reaction — it was obvious.
I nodded to make him continue. I would lie on my bed awake, because I could not sleep with his shouting, and I would try to follow his words.
Like a puzzle. Just like a puzzle. A trip to India, seventeen years old, more dope than sense, me and one friend decided to take about an eighth of hash with us on a flight from Srinagar to Delhi.
We each made our own plans as to how to take it. I wrapped mine up in plastic, swathed it in masking tape and deodorant to mask the smell, and tucked it into a bottle of malaria pills.
The precautions were probably unnecessary. The customs officers were unlikely to be too interested in internal flights, but I did it anyway.
When we got to the airport I was shit scared. I mean I was shit scared — eyes popping, shaking, sweating like a pig. But in spite of my fear, I did the most extraordinary thing.
I told a complete stranger, a guy I met in the waiting lounge, that I had some dope hidden in my backpack. It wasn't even like he'd winkled the information out of me.
I volunteered it. I made the conversation move on to the subject of drugs, and then confessed that I was a smuggler.
I don't know why I did it. I knew it was a fantastically stupid thing to do, but I went right ahead and did it anyway.
I simply needed to tell someone what I was doing. I found it stuck to my door this morning. It shows where the beach is, how to get there.
I've got it in my room. Maybe they'd think I knew him or something, but I didn't. I never met him before last night.
She knows the way back to the guesthouse. No, I would like to see the map. We didn't talk as we walked down the Khao San Road towards the guest-house.
There was no point. Dodging through the hundreds of travellers made it impossible to have a conversation. Passing the bootleg-tape stalls, moving through the music zones, picking up the walking pace for one beat, slowing it for another.
Creedence Clearwater told us to run through the jungle, as if we needed to be told. A techno beat pumped out of fuzzy speakers, then Jimi Hendrix.
I sought out the smell of grass to complete the connection, and found it through the stench of a hot gutter and sticky tarmac. I think it came from above — a balcony full of braided hair and dirty T-shirts, leaning on the guard-rail, enjoying the scene below.
A brown hand flashed out and caught hold of me. A Thai trader sitting by his stall, a slim man with acne scars, was gripping my arm.
He hadn't seen, was still walking down the road. I lost him behind bobbing heads and tanned necks. The man began stroking my forearm with his free hand, smoothly and swiftly, not loosening his grip.
I frowned and tried to pull away. He pulled me back, taking my hand towards his thigh. My fingers clenched to a fist and my knuckles pressed against his skin.
People pushed past me on the pavement, knocking me with their shoulders. One caught my eye and smiled. The man stopped stroking my arm and started stroking my leg.
I looked at him. His face was passive and unreadable and his gaze was levelled at my waist. He gave my leg a final caress, turning his wrist so his thumb slipped briefly under the material of my shorts.
Then he released my arm, patted me on the behind, and turned back to his stall. As I approached he raised his eyebrows. I frowned and we continued walking.
At the guest-house the silent heroin addict sat in his usual seat. When he saw us he drew a line with his finger over each wrist.
The sound that came from my throat was a sigh. Then he said, 'Wait,' and darted out of my room. I heard him rummaging around next door, then he came back holding a guidebook.
Tourists can go to…' He took the map and pointed to one of the bigger islands in the small archipelago, three islands down from where X marked the beach.
Ko Phelong. Tourists can go to Ko Phelong on a special guided tour from Ko Samui, but… but they can only stay one night.
And they cannot leave the island. Not bullshit. Really, why did the man give it to you? He went to so much trouble.
See the little waves. But even Ko Pha-Ngan is…' He paused. Too many tourists. But look, this book is three years old.
Now maybe some travellers feel these islands past Ko Pha-Ngan are also spoiled. So they find a completely new island, in the national park.
This is why they go there. Because there will be no other tourists. How could they be found? Maybe if they hear a boat they can hide, and the only way to find them is if you know they are there — and we do.
We have this. I did believe him. He had a look in his eye that I recognized. In my early adolescence I went through a stage of mild delinquency, along with two of my friends, Sean and Danny.
During the early hours of the morning, weekends only because we had school to think of, we would patrol the streets around our area, smashing things.
It involved nicking empty milk bottles from people's doorsteps. We would throw the bottles high into the air and try to catch them.
Most of the fun came when bottles were dropped, seeing the silvery explosion of glass, feeling the shards flick against our jeans.
Running from the scene of the crime was an extra kick, ideally with the shouts of enraged adults ringing in our ears.
We'd been sitting in my kitchen, playfully discussing the idea, when Sean said, 'Let's just do it. Through them I could see he'd already moved beyond thoughts of practicality and consequence, and was hearing the sound of the windscreen folding in.
The effect on me was the same as when Sean said, 'Let's just do it. Following the path of the map had become something that could happen.
The odd thing was, she did it almost accidentally, simply by taking it for granted that we were going to try.
I didn't want to seem impressed by her prettiness, so when she stuck her head round the door, I looked up, said 'Hi,' then went back to studying the map.
I couldn't follow their conversation past recognizing the odd word, including my own name, but the speed and forcefulness of the exchange made me think that either she was pissed off that he'd left without her, or she was just keen to fill him in on what had happened at the police station.
After some minutes the tone of their voices relaxed. As she cupped her hands to cover the flame from the ceiling fan, I noticed a tiny dolphin tattoo half hidden behind her watch-strap.
It seemed like a strange place for a tattoo and I nearly commented on it, but to do so seemed too familiar.
Scars and tattoos. You need to know someone fairly well before asking questions. Just a little ride on a boat. Maybe first to Ko Phelong, because the tourists can go there for one day.
We say we were lost. It doesn't matter. This guy who committed suicide… I'm not supposed to leave the guesthouse for twenty-four hours.
They have your passport number, yes? The detailed excuse I'd worked out, about how I had to meet a friend in Surat Thani, was brushed aside.
Their only concern was that Mister Duck had been without ID, so they didn't know which embassy to inform. I said I'd thought he was Scottish, and they were pleased about that.
As I walked back to the guest-house, I found myself thinking what would happen to Mister Duck's body. Amidst all the business of the map, I'd forgotten that someone had actually died.
Without ID, the police would have nowhere to send him. Perhaps he'd lie in a Bangkok deep-freeze for a year or two, or perhaps he'd be incinerated.
An image came into my head of his mother back in Europe, unaware she was just about to start several dark months of trying to find out why her son had stopped contacting her.
It seemed wrong that I could have such an important piece of information while she was ignorant. If she existed. These thoughts unsettled me.
I felt like a bit of time alone. We'd arranged to catch the eight-thirty train south so there was no need for me to get back for at least two hours.
I took a left off the Khao San Road, went down an alley, ducked under the scaffold of a half-finished building, and came out on a busy main street.
I suddenly found myself surrounded by Thais. I'd half forgotten which country I was in, stuck in backpacker land, and It took me a few minutes to adjust to the change.
Before long I came to a low bridge over a canal. It was hardly picturesque but I stopped there to find my reflection and follow the swirls of petrol colour.
Along the canal banks, squatters' shacks leant dangerously. The sun, hazy throughout the morning, now shone hard and hot. Around the shacks a gang of kids cooled off, dive-bombing each other and playing splashing games.
One of them noticed me. I suppose a pale face would once have held some interest for him, but not now. He held my gaze for a few seconds, either insolent or bored, then leapt into the black water.
An ambitious somersault was achieved and his friends shouted their appreciation. When the kid surfaced he looked at me again, treading water.
The motion of his arms cleared a circle in the floating litter. Shredded polystyrene that, for a moment, looked like soapsuds.
All in all, I probably walked two miles from Khao San Road. After the canal, I ate some noodle soup from a roadside stall, weaved through some traffic jams, passed by a couple of small temples tucked discreetly between stained concrete buildings.
Not sights that made me regret leaving Bangkok so soon. I'm not much for sightseeing anyway. If I'd stayed a few more days, I doubt I'd have explored any further than the strip joints in Patpong.
Eventually I'd wandered so far I didn't have a clue how to get back, so I caught a tuk-tuk. In a way it was the best part of the excursion, chugging along in a haze of blue exhaust fumes, spotting the kinds of details you miss when you're on foot.
I went upstairs to get my bag. On the landing of my level I passed the heroin mute on his way down. A double surprise, partly to see him away from his usual seat and partly because it turned out he wasn't mute after all.
We took the night train south from Bangkok, first class. A waiter served a cheap meal of good food at the table, which at night flipped up to reveal spotless bunk-beds.
At Surat Thani we got off the train and took a bus to Don Sak. From there we caught the Songserm ferry, straight to the pier at Na Thon.
That was how we got to Ko Samui. I only felt able to relax once I'd shut the curtains to my bunk-bed, and cut myself off from the rest of the train.
Things had been awkward since leaving the guest-house. It wasn't that they were getting on my nerves, just that the reality of our undertaking was sinking in.
Also, I was remembering that we were virtual strangers — something I'd forgotten in the excitement of our quick decision. I'm sure they were feeling the same, which is why their attempts at conversation were as limited as mine.
I lay on my back with my hands behind my head, content in the knowledge that the muffled sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rocking movement of the carriage would soon send me to sleep.
Most people find it easy to sleep on trains, but for me it's particularly easy. In fact, I find it almost impossible to stay awake.
I grew up in a house that backed on to a train line and night-time was when you'd notice the trains most. My version of the Sandman is the from Euston.
While I waited for the Pavlovian response to kick in, I studied the clever design of my bunk. The carriage lights had been dimmed, but enough came through the gap around my curtain for me to see.
There was a whole array of useful pouches and compartments which I'd done my best to employ. My T-shirt and trousers were tucked into a little box at my foot end, and I'd put my shoes in an elastic net above my waist.
Above my head was an adjustable reading lamp, switched off, but beside it a tiny red bulb gave a reassuring glow. As I became sleepy I started to fantasize.
I imagined the train was a space ship and I was en route to some distant planet. I don't know if I'm alone in doing this kind of thing.
It isn't something I've ever talked about. The fact is, I've never grown out of playing pretend, and so far there are no signs that I ever will.
I have one quite carefully worked-out night-time fantasy that I'm in a kind of high-tech race. The race takes place over several days, even a week, and is non-stop.
While I sleep my vehicle continues on autopilot, speeding me towards the finish line. The auto-pilot thing is the rationalization of how I can be in bed while I'm having the fantasy.
Making it work in such a logical way is important — it would be no good fantasizing that the race was in a Formula One car, because how could I go to sleep in that?
Get real. Sometimes I'm winning the race, other times I'm losing. But on those occasions I also fantasize that I have a little trick up my sleeve.
A short cut perhaps, or just a reliance on my ability to take corners quicker than the other competitors. Either way, I fall asleep quietly confident.
I think the catalyst for this particular fantasy was the little red bulb beside the reading lamp. As everyone knows, space ships aren't space ships without little red bulbs.
By the time I fell asleep, my scanners were detecting life-forms on the surface of a distant planet.
Could have been Jupiter. It had the same kind of cloud patterns, like a tie-dye T-shirt. The warm security of my space-ship capsule slipped away.
I was back on my bed on the Khao San Road, looking up at the ceiling fan. A mosquito was buzzing in the room. I couldn't see it but its wings pulsed like a helicopter's when it flew near.
Sitting beside me was Mister Duck, the sheets around him red and wet. My hands are too sticky. The Rizla… The Rizla keeps falling apart.
Slit them all over and now they won't stop bleeding. What a fucking mess. You don't want to worry about that, Rich.
I'm clean. He held out a light and I sat up on the bed. My weight sunk the mattress and a stream of blood ran down the slope, soaking into my shorts.
Hits the fucking spot, huh? But you want to try it through a rifle barrel. That's a serious hit, Rich. He lay back on the bed with his hands above his head, wrists facing upwards.
I took another drag. Blood ran along the blades of the fan and fell around me like rain. The journey from the train station at Surat Thani to Ko Samui passed in a sleep-fogged blur.
I nodded obligingly. I was more interested in finding a soft spot on my backpack to use as a pillow. Our jeep from the Ko Samui port to the Chaweng beach resort was a big open-top Isuzu.
On the left the sea lay blue between rows of coconut palms, and on the right a jungle-covered slope rose steeply. Ten travellers sat behind the driver's cabin, our bags clamped between our knees, our heads rolling with the corners.
One had a baseball bat resting against his shoulder, another held a camera on his lap. Brown faces flashed past us through the green.
After half an hour of slogging across the hot sand, we returned to the huts we'd first seen. Private showers, a bedside fan, a nice restaurant that looked on to the sea.
Our huts faced each other over a gravel path lined with flowers. The first thing I did after shutting the door behind me was to go to the bathroom mirror and examine my face.
I hadn't seen my reflection for a couple of days and wanted to check things were OK. It was a bit of a shock.
Being around lots of tanned skin I'd somehow assumed I was also tanned, but the ghost in the mirror corrected me.
My whiteness was accentuated by my stubble, which, like my hair, is jet black. UV deprivation aside, I was in bad need of a shower.
My T-shirt had the salty stiffness of material that has been sweated in, sun-dried, then sweated in again. I decided to head straight to the beach for a swim.
I could kill two birds with one stone — soak up a few rays and get clean. Chaweng was a travel-brochure photo.
Hammocks slung in the shade of curving palm trees, sand too bright to look at, jet-skis tracing white patterns like jet-planes in a clear sky.
I ran down to the surf, partly because the sand was so hot and partly because I always run into the sea. When the water began to drag on my legs I jumped up, and the momentum somersaulted me forwards.
I landed on my back and sank to the bottom, exhaling. On the seabed I let myself rest, head tilted slightly forward to keep the air trapped in my nose, and listened to the soft clicks and rushes of underwater noise.
He also ran across the sand and somersaulted into the sea, but then leapt up with a yelp. This animal!
This… fish! I was pleased to see the pale shapes, floating in the water like drops of silvery oil.
I loved their straightforward weirdness, the strange area they occupied between plant and animal life. I learnt an interesting thing about jellyfish from a Filipino guy.
He was one of the only people my age on an island where I'd once stayed, so we became pals. We spent many happy weeks together playing Frisbee on the beach, then diving into the South China Sea.
He taught me that if you pick up jellyfish with the palm of your hand, you don't get hurt — although then you had to be careful to scrub your hands, because if you rubbed your eyes or scratched your back the poison would lift off and sting like mad.
We used to have jellyfish fights, hurling the tennis-ball-sized globs at each other. On a calm day you could skim them over the sea like flat pebbles, although if you chucked them too hard they tended to explode.
He also told me that you can eat them raw, like sushi. He was right. Literally speaking, you can, as long as you don't mind a few days of stomach cramps and vomiting.
I looked at the jellyfish around us. The gamble paid off. His eyes opened wide as I plucked one of the quivering blobs from the sea.
I smiled. I didn't realize French people actually said 'Mon Dieu'. I always thought it was the same thing as English people supposedly saying 'what' at the end of every sentence.
Look, you can see right through them. They don't have any brains. She was on the beach, walking towards the water in a one-piece white swimsuit.
She saw us and waved. As her arm lifted her swimsuit drew tightly over her chest and shadows from the one o'clock sun defined her breasts, the dip under the ribcage, a groove of muscle down her stomach.
He was still examining his jellyfish, pulling its tentacles outwards from the bell so it sat on his palm like a glass flower.
When she reached us she was unimpressed by our catch. We played a game as we swam out. Every thirty feet we would each dive to the bottom and return with a handful of sand.
I found the game strangely unpleasant. A metre underwater the warmth of the tropical sea would stop, and it would turn cold, so abruptly that by treading water one could pinpoint the dividing line.
Diving down, the chill would start at the fingertips then swiftly envelop the length of the body.
The further we swam, the blacker and finer the sand became. Soon the water at the bottom became too dark for me to see anything, and I could only blindly kick out with my legs, arms outstretched, until my hands sank into the silt.
I began dreading the cold area. I would hurry to catch my fistful, pushing up hard from the seabed though my lungs were still full of air.
A lump of sand rolled out and dropped into the sea, where it sank, leaving a cloudy trail behind.
At five that afternoon the temperature cooled, the sky turned black, and it rained. Unexpectedly, loudly — heavy droplets pouring down, cratering and re-cratering the beach.
I sat on the small porch outside my hut and watched a miniature Sea of Tranquillity form in the sand. He called something to me but it was lost in a roll of thunder, then he ducked back inside.
I had a tiny lizard on my hand. It was about three inches long, with enormous eyes and translucent skin.
The lizard had been sitting on my cigarette packet for ten minutes, and when I'd got bored with watching it, waiting for a tongue to lash out and lasso a fly, I'd reached out and picked it up.
Instead of wriggling away as I'd expected, the lizard had casually rearranged itself on my hand. Surprised by its audacity, I let it sit there — even though it meant keeping my hand in an unnatural position, palm facing upwards, which made my arm ache.
My attention was distracted by two guys running up the beach, whooping and shouting as they came.
As they reached my hut they turned off the beach and leapt athletically on to the next porch along from mine.
They rattled at their door, then ran back into the rain towards the beach restaurant — weaving around, trying to dodge the rain.
A couple of minutes later they came speeding back. Again they rattled at their door — then white-blond saw me, apparently for the first time.
Can't get in! White-blond shrugged. Miles and miles! The two of them vaulted over the guard-rail and introduced themselves. White-blond was Sammy, yellow-blond was Zeph.
It isn't short for anything! I was christened Zeph, and everyone thinks it's short for Zephaniah, but it isn't! Cool, huh? Sammy started rolling up, pulling the dope and papers out of a waterproof plastic bag in his pocket.
You see, we never do. Are you addicted to smoking? But if I put tobacco in joints I would be. I smoke all day, like that song. How's that song go, Zeph?
Zeph started singing a lyric that said, 'Don't bogart that joint, my friend,' but Sammy cut him off. Zeph cleared his throat.
I smoke two joints before I smoke two joints, then I smoke two more. Sammy had finished rolling the joint while Zeph had been singing.
He lit it up and passed it straight to me. Us Americans take a toke or two and pass it on. I was going to apologize for the poor manners of my countrymen but I collapsed into a coughing fit.
A couple of seconds later a blistering bolt of lightning crackled over the sea. After it was gone, Sammy said in an awestruck voice, 'Most totally excellent, dude!
They were Harvard students. Sammy was studying law, Zeph was studying Afro-American literature.
Their surf act was a reaction to the condescending Europeans they kept meeting in Asia. Then we reveal ourselves as intelligent, and by doing so, subvert the prejudice more effectively than we would with an immediate barrage of intellect — which only causes confusion and, ultimately, resentment.
They had other acts they liked to do. As its name implies, it was a bit more risque than the Surf Dude. I wasn't at all surprised.
The act involved Sammy starting violent arguments with total strangers, insisting that because there's a country in Africa called Niger, all people from Niger were niggers —regardless of whether they were black or white.
Sammy shook his head. Think about it. Nigeria is right below Niger. They border each other, so if they were both called Nigerians it would cause chaos.
Me too. I only say it to make a point… Fuck knows what the point is, but…' He drew on the joint and passed it on.
He was a colonel in the US Marines. Sammy, he'd say, the ends always justify the means. And you know what, Richard?
I was about to disagree, but I realized he was winding me up again. Instead I replied, 'You can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.
Lightning silhouetted the line of palm trees on the beach into a line of claws with pencil arms. The lizard scuttled out of my hand, startled by the flash.
He turned back, also frowning, but with the smile still not faded from his lips. The rain continued as night fell.
An hour or two after dark a tiny Thai woman came over to our porch from the restaurant, almost hidden under a giant beach parasol.
She looked at the dope paraphernalia strewn about us with a wan smile, then handed Zeph a spare key to their room. I took that as my cue to crawl into bed.
As I said good night, Sammy croaked, 'Hey, nice meeting you. Catch you tomorrow, dude. He seemed to say it without a trace of irony.
I couldn't work out whether it was a continuation of his surfer joke or whether the grass had regressed his Harvard mind. It seemed too complicated to ask, so I said, 'Sure,' and shut the door behind me.
At around three in the morning I woke up for a short while, dry-mouthed, still high — and listened.
I could hear cicadas, and waves sucking down the beach. The storm had blown itself out. The next morning the sky was still clouded over.
As I walked out on to the porch, scattered with rain-soaked joint butts, I had the bizarre sensation that I was back in England.
There was a slight chill in the air and I could smell wet earth and leaves. There was no answer, so I tried the restaurant and found them eating breakfast.
I ordered a mango salad, thinking an exotic taste might compensate for the feeling of being at home, and sat down with them.
I pulled out a cigarette to kill time before breakfast arrived. Zeph and Sammy. When the mango salad arrived I made an effort to relax.
I told them about how the Americans had fooled me with their surfer act last night. Her laughter partially defused the tension and we began making plans for the day ahead.
We decided that we had to hire a boat. The normal tour agencies wouldn't do because they'd be too organized, and we doubted we'd be able to slip away from their supervision.
Instead we would need to find a fisherman who was unaware of or unconcerned about the rules on tourists in the marine park.
After breakfast we split up to improve our chances. I went north, towards Ko Mat Lang, and the other two went south, aiming for a small town we'd passed on the jeep ride.
Our rendezvous was in three hours' time, back at our huts. The sun came out as I set off down Chaweng, but it did little to salvage my mood.
Flies buzzed around my head, smelling the sweat, and the walking became increasingly laborious as last night's rain dried off the sand.
I began counting the guest-houses I passed along the shore line. After twenty minutes I'd counted seventeen, and they were still showing no signs of thinning out.
If anything, the palm trees were more cluttered with Ray-Bans and concrete patios than before. In I was in my sitting room, playing on my Atari, and listened to the babysitter talk about Ko Samui.
As I mopped the screen clear of space invaders, names and places stuck in my head. Pattaya was a hell-hole. Chiang Mai was rainy and cold.
Ko Samui was hot and beautiful. Ko Samui was where she had stayed with her boyfriend for five months, hanging out on the beach and doing strange things she was both reluctant and keen to talk about.
A-levels out of the way, my friends and I scattered ourselves around the globe. The next August we started coming back, and I learnt that my babysitter's paradise was yesterday's news.
Ko Pha-Ngan, the next island along, was Thailand's new Mecca. A few years later, as I checked my passport and confirmed my flight to Bangkok, a friend telephoned with advice.
They sell printed flyers for the full-moon parties. Ko Tao. That's where it's at. After an hour of walking I gave up trying to find a fisherman.
The only Thais I met were selling gemstones and baseball caps. By the time I got back to my beach hut I was exhausted, sunburnt, and pissed off.
I went straight to the restaurant and bought a packet of cigarettes. Thais, or South-East Asians in general, make eerily convincing transvestites.
Their slight builds and smooth faces are a recipe for success. I saw a particularly stunning transvestite as I waited under the palm tree.
His silicone breasts were perfectly formed and he had hips to die for. He was carrying a backgammon set under his arm, and as he slunk past he asked if I wanted to play a game.
Maybe you wan' play in bed? He shrugged and continued walking along the beach. A couple of beach huts down someone took him up on the backgammon offer.
Curious, I tried to see who, but they were blocked by the trunk of a leaning coconut tree. A few minutes later I looked back and he was gone.
I guessed he'd found his punter. Come to the restaurant. The man was the Thai version of a spiv. Instead of being lean and weasel-like, with a pencil moustache and a flash suit, he was short, fat, and wore drainpipe marbled jeans tucked into giant Reebok trainers.
Dupa parerea meau, unul dintre cele mai bune filme ale lui Van Damme. Sa nu uitam, a fost scenarist, coregraf si regizor al scenelor de cafteala, care de departe sunt cele mai bune din filmele din aceasta categorie, chiar mai bune decat cele din Bloodsport sau Enter The Dragon al lui Bruce Lee.
Este unul ditre cele mai cunoscute filme dintoate timpurile, iesi afara si intreaba un copil de 7 ani de Kickboxer sau Van Damme si o sa-ti povesteasca fiecare faza din film, pe cand daca-l intrebi de Matrix s-au Gladiator o sa stea cu gura casca o juma' de ora.
Crist11 pe 26 Iunie Am crescut cu filmele lui Van Damme, mereu este o placere sa ma uit la filmele lui, a avut numai roluri epice Van Damme o facut treaba buna..
EugenLaurentiu pe 04 Iulie FreakDoll pe 20 Iunie Infinity pe 24 Septembrie Unul dintre filmele tipice pentru Van Damme.
De data aceasta, isi pune in valoare adevaratele calitati de luptator. Nu ma interesau filmele de acest gen, pana l-am vazut pe acesta.
Click aici pentru a te autentifica. Liste cu Kickboxer. Cele mai tari filme cu Jean Claude Van Damme. Arte Martiale!
Filme pe care le-am vazut. HBO 2 TV Postere Kickboxer. Michel Qissi Tong Po. Dennis Chan Xian Chow. Mark DiSalle U. Dennis Alexio Eric Sloane.
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