Prologue

1958 - The Big Round French Thing

      Hooky Chua Lotta stood buck ass naked and totally amazed as he watched the giant white round thing being lowered by the huge red crane into the big hole. To Hooky it looked like a giant egg, and to Hooky the egg was an amazing sight to see with blinking lights and probes and wires extending out in all directions. So many in fact, that it reminded him of his third wife’s hair. Hooky never really liked his third wife’s hair and in fact didn’t even want to marry his third wife in the first place, but her father wanted to get rid of her so badly that he gave Hooky two pigs as part of the deal. Hooky thought two wives was already a pain in the ass, but what the hell; pigs were hard to come by that year and were in high demand. Later, however, Hooky decided he had gotten a good bargain, not because he received two pigs but because his third wife turned out to be pretty damn good in the sack and when you toss in his other two wives it was that much better. Also she really knew how to whip up a damn good pig roast.

   Just why all those Frenchmen thought that big round thing Hooky now referred to as the big egg was so important was beyond him, and why these white guys were using a crane to place it in the big hole on his beautiful tropical island out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean was beyond his reasoning. After all, Hooky was not an unintelligent man and had no problem realizing that a few good men with little effort could just as easily roll that big ass egg right into that big ass hole. After all, thought Hooky, most all things round will roll. It was simple island physics; if it looks like a coconut and is round like a coconut, then the damn thing should roll like a coconut. A lesson Hooky learned as a child playing on the beach with his friends - and coconuts.

   Hooky didn’t know much about all these white guys puttering around and treating this big egg like it was some kind of religious experience, but he did know they had a lot of fascinating technology and he was taking it all in like some little kid on his first visit to the circus. All he knew was this big ass egg was important enough or secret enough for all these white guys to make all of his people leave the island and start living on some other island that was so far away he couldn’t even paddle there in his dugout canoe.

   Hooky had never seen large ships and equipment like this before except for that time in a canoe when a Japanese destroyer tried to run him over. That was back in 1942. And those rude Japanese were laughing at him the entire time. Hooky remembered it well because it takes a long time to make a dugout canoe and the one he was in belonged to his grandfather and his grandfather was a total dick. If the Japs had run him down it would mean Hooky’s grandfather would have blamed him and he would have had to build his grandfather a new dugout canoe. Not a very appealing thought for Hooky because basically Hooky was too damn lazy to even think about building a canoe or anything else. That’s why he was using his grandfather’s canoe in the first place. Hooky was what you might call an Island Renaissance Man, a thoughtful kind of guy. He realized that if smashing his grandfather’s canoe happened now it wouldn’t be a problem because now he has three wives and four kids who could chop on that sucker for days, knocking out a new canoe in no time and still manage to come up with dinner. Hell, he thought, they could even chop down the tree they would need to make it in the first place. Not that any of that mattered anyhow because his grandfather died two years ago.

   Hooky originally thought since he, along with a few other native men, were chosen to remain on the island that it was an honor that demonstrated his obvious exceptional intelligence, but eventually that theory, the fun and games, and his curiosity about the French began to wear thin. It turned out that he and his island brothers were there just to cater to the needs of all these strange white guys who ate weird food and drank a lot of wine. Hooky didn’t think their behavior was such a big deal at first, after all he wasn’t one to criticize anyone’s preferred diet, but on the other hand he certainly wasn’t going to accept their personal hygiene… or lack of.

   It seems all those white guys had a peculiar scent about them that just curdled in Hooky’s nose and he sure as hell didn’t like being chosen to empty their shit pots and wash their clothes no matter what kind of goodies they bribed him with. And why would anyone want to wear clothes in the first place? Hell, thought Hooky, this is women’s work, not something for a well mannered lazy Island Renaissance Man like himself. He quickly realized that whatever that stuff was they were consuming smelled ten times worse on the way out as it did on the way in and that was saying a lot because what they ate was just plain gross before they even ate it. Why the hell can’t they just shit in the surf like everybody else thought Hooky and his island brothers? And to think that Hooky and the islanders gave themselves a special tattoo in the form of a feathered egg just for the sake of honoring this important occasion and their association with these strange white French guys.

   So now there he was, one of the few original residents of his island who was still on his island, observing with amazement a group of white foreigners playing with a giant egg while they drank stuff that tasted like rotten coconut milk and pig piss, ate smelly shit that turned into even worse smelling shit, and spoke like drunken sea gulls in a language Hooky hadn’t heard since he was a boy. It was back when a couple of nuns showed up on their island, moved in, and tried to teach him and all his island relatives how to dress, speak, and pray; something in which none of his people had any interest mainly because all the people on Hooky’s island were perfectly comfortable going naked, speaking their own language, and sure as hell didn’t want to talk to some almighty mystery dude up in space who they couldn’t see and never talked back or answered any of their questions. The ordeal with the nuns was eventually remedied when the older men of the island won them over and converted them to group sex. Soon after, the nuns returned to France to convert others into their newly discovered group sex religious sect and the last anyone heard the nuns’ newly formed holy sect was growing with leaps and bounds, especially after they opened a branch in a place called San Francisco on a big island called America.

   The only other time Hooky was exposed to any foreign languages was in 1943 during WWII when a Japanese freighter full of international prisoners ran aground in a storm. The assortment of nearly two hundred prisoners and three Japanese soldiers were a mix of nearly every existing nationality and this offered up a smorgasbord of confusing dialects. Many of the survivors were frail and sickly and died soon after their arrival. Those twenty plus who survived were taken in and fed and nursed back to health by Hooky’s native tribesmen. After which the survivors, now being strong and healthy and having no love for their Japanese captors, wasted no time killing all three soldiers. Many of those survivors even seemed to enjoy the Polynesian style luau at which the natives of the island celebrated and danced naked. And the Japanese were served up as the main course along with assorted fish, pig, fruit, and coconut jam. They were particularly pleased when they got a taste of the island special sauce called funglu.

   Funglu is a mysterious combination of indigenous island herbs mixed with the blood of a rare yellow fish, the crushed eyes of a local lizard for good luck, and a very special blossom of a wild flower that grows on the mountain, all in a bowl of sweet coconut milk and a certain human body fluid known only to the chosen few who are authorized to produce it. It is a mixture that also acts as a very potent fast and lasting natural aphrodisiac and it’s that special sauce that accounts for the islanders’ culture which values and prizes group sex. Exposed to all this, the survivors forgot about eventually being rescued and returning to their various homelands of origin and eventually assimilated into Hooky’s island tribe, thoroughly enjoying lots of funglu and group sex, all the while influencing the island language that evolved into a vernacular as difficult to decipher and understand as that of the Rosetta Stone, the US Tax Code, or the Obamacare website.

   Hooky remembered those times well, especially that tasty funglu Japanese sushi which soon after was outlawed do to the scruples and influence of some of their more religious new residents, some of which even reminded Hooky of the nuns. But through the years as a few of those folks began to give in to the funglu and others passed away, the island people who had been using the funglu for generations came together and declared it a legal substance once again. The vote was unanimous.

   One day while Hooky was collecting the French shit pots left from the night before, he noticed that some of the shit pots were empty and none of the white French guys were around and that even all the special weird Frenchmen who always seemed to be pouring over large sheets of paper on their big flat tables had disappeared. Concerned he was about to miss something important, Hooky quickly neglected the shit pots and ran to the site of the big egg. When he arrived he was surprised to discover all the Frenchmen standing around the big hole in the ground where sat the big egg. They all seemed very sad and perplexed and for the most part just stood and stared into the big hole. Occasionally one or two would speak softly to the one standing next to him and the one next to him would nod his head in agreement and throw his hand up in the air as if to say he had no idea what the other guy was talking about. At least that’s how it appeared to Hooky. In truth the French technicians were debating and then voting on the future of the big egg.

   Hooky slowly made his way to the edge of the big hole and looked down. There it lay with all its blinking lights and wires and probes and gizmos. All protruding and looking like his third wife’s hair. And around it were all the Frenchmen standing, looking down on the big egg as though they were at a funeral. Finally the boss Frenchman, after somehow summing up the general consensus of the others, (and Hooky knew he was the boss because he never did any work and had the worse smelling shit pot of them all) raised his hand and yelled, Nous sommes décidés. La bombe sera laissée derrière.  Burry ça, meaning, We are decided. The bomb will be left behind. Burry that sucker. Words Hooky did not understand. Suddenly the blinking lights on the big egg stopped blinking and the cable from the huge crane disconnected and easily came free of the big egg at the bottom of the big hole. Immediately the sound of a powerful grumbling machine approached that began pushing dirt into the hole and it continued until the giant egg was completely covered. Hooky watched as all the distressed Frenchmen slowly turned and walked away, grieving the end and loss of their six months of hard work.

   “What is happening?” asked Hooky. But he was completely ignored.

   The Frenchmen continued to dribble away so Hooky approached one of the last men leaving, tapped his shoulder and asked again, “What is happening. Where is everybody going?”

   The French technician didn’t understand a word Hooky said but could see by his concerned expression that he was in need of an answer. “Annulé. Le test a été annulé. Annulé. Le test a été annulé…

   “I don’t understand. What are you saying?” interrupted Hooky. But in a like manner the Frenchman didn’t understand Hooky.

   He began to repeat his answer to Hooky when he was suddenly interrupted and assisted by another technician. “Annulé. Le test a été…

   “Cancelled,” said the man in a chopped version of Hooky’s language. “What he said to you was the test has been cancelled.”

   “Test?” asked Hooky. “What is a test?”

   “Yes, the test. Of the bomb, the big bomb. It has been cancelled and we are leaving.”

   “What is a bomb and why did you burry it?” inquired Hooky.

   “Because we don’t know what to do with it,” answered the French technician. “And we don’t want to carry it around because it is very dangerous.”

   “You mean like a shit pot?”

   “Um, yes something like that.”

   “You are leaving my island?”

   “Yes, we are leaving the island. But we will likely return to complete our big bomb test um… or something… someday… maybe.”

   “My people can return?”

   “I don’t know. I only deal with the bomb. I don’t know about your people. But…”

   “But what…?” asked an anxious Hooky.

   “If you ever return here remember…” said the Frenchman, “you must never ever dig that thing up and you should never ever touch it. Do you understand? Never, never ever.”

   Hooky nodded his head letting the French technician know he understood even though he didn’t understand at all. The deep sound of a ship’s horn drifted through the palms sounding the order to board.

   “Don’t worry. We will take you to your people. Now we must hurry,” said the Frenchman.

   “To my wives? You will take me to my three wives and children?”

   “Of course… Oh wait. You say you have three wives?”

   “Yes, unfortunately I only have three,” answered Hooky. “I have a small shelter and must also make room for my children and our pigs and birds. You know, for when the rains come.”

   “What do you do when the rains don’t come?” inquired the Frenchman.

   “Nothing. Why should I do anything? They are always well off and they come home when they are hungry and when it’s time to feed the pigs.”

   “Hmm… I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Just the same we must now hurry and board the ship.”

   “I will hurry,” replied Hooky, and he ran off to gather his few belongings and inform his brother natives who were washing clothes and collecting shit pots to tell them that it was time for them to stop collecting shit pots and depart the island. Big news indeed.

   By the end of the day the French equipment and everyone on the island had been loaded aboard the ship moored just off shore. As it sailed away, Hooky and his island brothers stood on the deck and watched their island shrink away into the distance.

   “We will come back,” said Hooky to his fellow tribesmen. “The white French guys are going to take us to our families and then take us all back home.”

   What Hooky didn’t know was in a time of national turmoil France was having a problem losing a war somewhere in Africa or Asia or both and General Charles André Joseph Marie de Gaulle, a French WWII hero who did nothing in WWII except give France to the Germans, came out of retirement to fix everything… or so he said. And to fix everything he founded the Fifth Republic with a strong presidency in the form of himself, and he did it so well that he was soon elected to continue in that role in perpetuity kind of like Napoleon Bonaparte except without killing a million French soldiers. The French people didn’t really give a damn because the French, who never really give a damn about anything anyway and are as willing to celebrate as they are to lose wars, decided this establishment of a Fifth Republic was a good reason and a good time to celebrate and revel for a long time, maybe weeks, maybe months. Also because as long as they were celebrating, French law declared they were excused from work with pay. And so the big egg test technicians who got paid better than your average French croissant baker and pretty much everyone else in France, hurried home to do just that, revel with pay for an extended period of time.

   Soon after, de Gaulle’s new government defunded the big egg experiment in order to fund the new national party’s party and cut pay checks for an entire nation of non-workers. As a result the big egg and the beautiful tropical island it was buried on were long forgotten. In fact, the French technicians who dearly missed their daily dose of frog legs, escargot, skinny bread, wine, and pastries were in such a big hurry to rush home and revel that they dropped Hooky and his tribal brothers off on the wrong island. Hooky was dismayed to discover this after the French ship departed and he soon became determined to find his family and take them home which is exactly what he did. The intrepid Hooky Chua Latta, like some Polynesian Moses, searched out the lost islanders after a three long months and led them all back to their homes and their precious funglu.

   Of course Hooky’s quest wasn’t a stroll in the park. The most difficult part of his ordeal was, once finding his people; he had to find a way to pay their passage to get them home. The solution came with a tramp steamer and the price came dear, but in his eyes it was well worth giving up his third wife as payment. She was led to believe she would soon be sent home after the debt was settled but the deal he made was with a dubious Greek Captain who was also a smuggler of war surplus weapons, women into slavery, and most anything else that would turn a dollar. Hooky resolved to accept this trade by seeing it simply as the loss of his two pig wife and an occasional good lay, something he could always replace.

   Having his islanders settled on the tramp steamer for their journey home, Hooky decided to relieve their anxiety by relaying the fascinating story of all those odd Frenchmen, their strange food and drink habits, and of course their very stinky shit pots. He also relayed the story of the big egg. For experiencing all this and rescuing and taking his people home, just like General Charles André Joseph Marie de Gaulle, Hooky Chua Latta was awarded a custom made canoe and declared the Chief and Top Coconut Jam, Bread Fruit, and Funglu Distributor for life which gave him a great deal of power over the entire island. This was a fortunate act indeed because Hooky knew if he told all the residents of the island to stay away from the big egg as he was instructed by the departing Frenchman, undoubtedly they would all become curious as hell and dig the damn thing up, if for no other reason than to see if it actually did look like Hooky’s third wife’s hair. Therefore Hooky declared the big egg that was hidden deep in the big hole to be a sacred place. He declared it should be revered and feared and all the people were told to steer clear for fear of suffering a vengeance and incredibly vicious curse set on them from… the Sacred Big Egg.

   And so it came to pass, on their beautiful tropical island somewhere out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Hooky Chua Latta, the Chief and Top Coconut Jam, Bread Fruit, and Funglu Distributor in Perpetuity, (which also afforded him a small piece of the action), and his small tribe of island natives lived undisturbed and happy, all the while learning and speaking some of the language of the survivors of the WWII Jap cargo ship; a very strange mixed vocabulary that sounded like no other on the planet. For them there was no greater existence on earth. Here they could run around buck ass naked, consume large quantities of funglu, and have group sex on a regular basis without criticism. And even on rare occasions they would treat themselves to a luau featuring sushi made of deceased loved ones laced with funglu.

   This was Hooky’s plan… which of course did not include shit pots.

- end of prologue -

next

Chapter 1

60 Years Later - Popo YoYo

Buy this book now