The Moonbow by Max Keanu

Vampire Miles Todd emerged from Jacques French Restaurant, leaped high over the meter high white picket perimeter fence and then slid into the Frenchman's Red Porsche RS Carrera convertible, a fluid slow motion movie trailer come to life. He turned over the car’s ignition, revved the engine to high RPM, and then maneuvered adroitly out of the tight parking space in seconds





To better see his quarry, Bernie jumped up onto the hood of a perfectly restored old gold and crimson 1963 Studebaker Avanti, keeping one eye on Miles, one eye out for the police, watching the Porsche speed away up Lahainaluna Road and looking around in vain for a taxi. Finding a free taxi during this Halloween parade madness would be real strokes of luck. Miles Todd had once again eluded capture and time was of the essence to prevent another murder this Halloween eve.



His Zorro costume, now soaked with perspiration in the eighty percent humidity and ninety degrees of evening heat clung to him like plastic wrap stretched head to toe. Feeling utterly stupid atop the sports car, realizing that his thigh high black leather flamenco tap boots dented the roof almost beyond repair, he jumped from the roof of the classic car onto the hood further damaging the vintage car. He chastised the private investigator within for not avenging Winifred Pornwadee, the victimized beautiful Bangladesh heiress presumptive that Miles Todd had robbed, abused, violated... and then failed to protect the her now very dead husband, Nattapong Pornwadee.



"Hernie Vins! Ernie! Hernie Vins!" Bernie Blevins heard, a muffled voice yelled from afar.



He turned quickly, hand to hat brim, shielding his eyes from the ghastly overhead mercury vapor streetlights. His long silken Zorro cape billowing high at mid turn, his fencing sword's tip audibly scraping a deep , ‘C’ into the vintage car’s hood. Again, his high black leather metal tapped boot heels ground into the car’s custom lacquered, hand polished finish, while his other booted foot stepped on the windshield wiper, snapping it off completely.



The loud voice drew closer and closer, still muffled, a grizzled, gruff voice that seemed too emanated from a big pink costumed pig sitting shotgun in an old, rusted, fire-engine-red Cadillac convertible. The plumpish and pouting pig waved frantically at Bernie with its cloven hooves, its massive pigs head listing to one side, as if too heavy a burden for the bearer.



The gray donkey from the movie Shriek was diving and in the back of the classic Caddy convertible were two women in risqué black fur cat suits, arms over the other’s shoulders, kissing and licking each other’s kitty made-up faces and erect furry cat ears.



"Eats me orass all!" The portly pink pig yelled repeatedly.



Bernie had no idea who was yelling at him from within the pig head. All he heard was, "Eats orass all". Bernie figured the boisterous costumed pig-man was swearing at him for standing on and damaging on his precious Avanti. He immediately jumped from the car’s now dented hood to the still sweltering, soft, mushy asphalt pavement, expecting a confrontation to follow. The man pulled off the pig mask, shook his long black hair back, drenching sweat flying over the others in the Caddy, and then smiled insanely at Bernie as if was long-lost friend or distant relative. Both of the women in the back immediately seat sprung forward and began licking the pig man's face and neck.



"Back off pussies!" The bearded man yelled to the corybantic cat women in his heavy Auzzie accent. "Tiffy, your friggin' whiskers went up my nose again. Hey Blevins! Bernie Blevins! I’m Miles Todd’s neighbor, remember me? It’s me Horace Hall? It’s Horace Hall! I caught you trespassing on my property, remember? Nearly shot you dead. Was wondering what happened to you? I was keeping an eye on Miles for you until I was friggin’ arrested. That bastard Miles alleged I molested my three daughters, my own daughters! Showed my wife some faked up Photo-shopped pics. She kicked me out of the house, unleashed her feral lawyer on me with a restraining order. I'd like to kill that son of a bitch Miles. Have you seen him?"



"Seen him! “ Bernie replied, wondering what else could possibly go wrong this Halloween night. The last man on earth he wanted to encounter was ex- paparazzi and boorish leech extraordinaire, Horace Hall. “I was just chasing him down the street trying to apprehend him. He just turned, up at the intersection, headed towards the north of the island, towards Honokowai. He's a wanted man -- murder, robbery, among other changes --stolen diamonds worth hundreds of millions of dollars on him and he has The Thatcher Head in in his possession. As we speak he is zeroing in to commit a murder, and then afterwards escape to the South Seas in Roger McCray’s stolen yacht."



"Eh Zorro, did you whistle for your horse, eh Zorro, eh?” One of the cat women said in Canadian.



"I think she means, where’s your car, Mr. Zorro?” Horace said, now fighting the clamoring Canadian cat-women from climbing and clawing their way into the front seat in aggressive, anxious, and amorous licking and pawing kitty-play.



“Eh Zorro, tell me, what was Zorro’s horsey’s name, eh?” One of the inebriated Canadian pussies asked.



"Hop in man, we’ll go a-huntin’ for Miles, capture that mongrel bastard, destroy that malignant soul of his. We'll help you track down that charlatan; beat the crapoloa out of that limy bastard, right Donkey? Hang, draw and quarter the brigand Miles Todd! I’ll get the scoop; I’ll get the pics! Inquiring minds must know about this mountebank!" Horace exclaimed in drunken exuberance, mistakenly putting the pig's head front to back, then mumbling, "Levins ere pays god ney. In at ight Ernie?



"Oh, we love piggy. Yes we do! Piggy, piggy. Oink! Oink!" The Canadian girls sang in unison, as they rolled back, enmeshed in each other’s furry arms, into the plush cream-colored leather rear seat, shrieking with loud hysterical laughter, obviously drunk out of their minds, yelling repeatedly in singsong verse, “What was Zorro’s horsey’s name, eh?”



"Okay gents, ladies -you’ll help me apprehend Miles? My employer’s offering a ten thousand dollar reward for his arrest, conviction and the return of The Thatcher Head. A quick hundred bucks you if you help me out now," Bernie said, cautious of the two cats in the back seat laughing, scratching at each other, licking each other’s faces and continually pawing at both of the men in the front seat. Bernie carefully maneuvered into the back seat of the convertible, while the cat women cozied up, plucked at his Zorro mask strings with their ferocious little fake fangs, licked both sides of his sunburned, sweaty face, while fiddling and diddeling with his “Z” embroidered white silk ascot.



Bottles of Absinth, Absolute Vodka and Bushmill’s Whiskey littered the back seat and floor of the Caddy, while a joint (a real bomber), wafted up thick gray, swirling and pungent smoke from one of the pussy’s paws. The gregarious grimalkins continued bellowing out, “What was Zorro’s horsey’s name, eh?” in accentuated beatnik kitty-cant, West Side Storyian dance moves and pizzicato finger snapping.



"Wha, wha... What's he driving?" The stuttering driving donkey asked Blevins.



"Porsche Carrera, red convertible," Bernie said, fighting off renewed and mockingly ferocious advances from the drunken, full moon possessed and purring pussies.



"Fa, fa... Fucking great! A 1971 Caddy on its la, la... Last legs trying to run down a Porsche, you got to be sh, sh... Shitting me," Donkey said, in sputtering, spitting exasperation.



Beneath the black mask, Bernie’s eyes bugged out in bewilderment, "No! No donkey, the other way, goes the other way, turn left! You turned the wrong way donkey! Miles went north, towards Ka'anapali. He’s going to The Kahuna Condos past Ka'anapali, he fully intends to murder the famous producer of Zombie movies, Sennett McCray," Bernie yelled, as the donkey, who now, with hoof to the metal, powered the gunboat Caddy around the throngs of costumed Halloween pedestrian traffic towards the old Pioneer Sugar Mill.



“Ool it, ooro!" Horace said, from under the pigs head. “Cool it, Zorro," Horace repeated, lifting the pig head. As soon as he lifted the pig head, the cat women lunged at him again, oscillating tongues out, claws ready, eager to lick and lovingly gnaw at him. The pig head fell back on his head as he fought them off, while both pussies yelled, “But we love you piggy! Oh, how we love you porky!”



"Hain't hunny heeny hore heila... Ain’t funny anymore Sheila," Horace repeated, again lifting the mask, then physically pushed the two she-cats back onto Bernie, commanding,” Sit pussies!"



Pussy Sheila sat back smiling, crazed drunk, wide-eyed stoned, then unscrewed a fresh bottle of chilled vodka from a cooler, took a long swig, purred loudly, her long red sensuous tongue fluttering wildly, while emitting a high pitch wail, her siren scream. She put the bottle to her girlfriend's mouth, held it vertical, poured a grand cascade of clear liquid, spilling most as the other pussy guzzled ravenously, gurgled with laughter, bubbling up her abandoned joy of life and then licked her vodka-foamed, red-painted lips, long glued on whiskers and moist paws in drunken and long-tongued delight.



"Yeah, we're going the right way, mate. I see what you’re doing donkey. Good goddamned idea, you dumb jackass! Head 'em off at the friggin' pass, hooray for you donkey man!" Horace the piggy yelled over the screaming, shrieking, laughing, wailing pussies and over quickly approaching, ear-splitting, horn-blowing convoy of five, thirty-ton sugar cane haulers coming directly at them from the opposite direction , an angry sugary sirocco of annihilation.



"Holy shit on a collision course! Good friggin’ defensive driving, buddy! Donkey, my man, a.k.a., Jungle Jimmy Johansson, ah, Bernie JJJ here, he knows Lahaina like the back of my paw, hoof, what is a friggin" pig’s foot called anyway? Don't worry, Bernie, mate, were going the wrong way to the left, which is right, right? To end up going to the right, which would be another right, right Jimmy?" Horace said, assuring Bernie with a smile a wink and a nod as they sped by the behemoth rigs, just inches from the massive tractor-trailers, plunging blind through thick swirling clouds of fine red volcanic dust and sickening-sweet molasses smell.



"Right on, righty-righty, mate. Soon the, the... Cane road runs pa, pa... Parallel to the main high wa, wa... Way up above on the cin, cin... Cinder cone volcano. We ca, ca... Can make time twice as fast when tra, tra... Traffic is baa, baa, bad... Bad like now." Jungle Jimmy said, words jerking forth, consonants stumbling awkwardly as he maneuver his maladroit mouth and the monstrous Caddy along the worn dusty cane field roads, through the decrepit old sugar cane processing plant, to finally emerge free and clear onto a straight-running, weathered and worn private one-way cane road. Bernie now had a view of the highway skirting the West Maui coastline highway below and hopefully of the relentless, costumed vampire Miles Todd, out for his final revenge, to vent the tainted blood, on a schlock movie producer’s shallow soul.



“This is really exciting for me Zorro, honey-bunny. A real masked man, with a British accent ta boot, eh. Clad in shiny kinky black leather vest, eh, a fancy-dancy long whippy-whip, glistening sheathed sword, wickedly high Argentine leather boots, facing cane haulers on a one-way road, going friggin’ a hundred miles an hour with crazy spazmo Donkey Jimmy drivin’. Makes me so hot, Zorro, so horny for you, Zorro, baby, "Pussy Sheila confessed to Bernie, an inch from his face, her furry paw (complete with claws) kneading and needing his crotch. She was in a deep purr, pheromones energized top and bottom, aggressively resuming her femme-feline lickfest, smothering Bernie with kisses, rough licks from an impossibly distended, lingering-long tongue, her probing fickle-tickle whiskers titillating and igniting burning desire in Bernie beyond measure.



Cunning kitty-cat Sheila suddenly let out a loud, tongue-fluttering holler, one of those distinct wailing, warbling, woops – one of those patriotic ejaculations Arabic women let loose of at barbaric group stonings of infidels, adulteress’ or other Islamic nin-com-poops. A truly deafening howl that left Bernie’s chewed ear ringing.



Jungle Jimmy took the cane road with total abandon, hooting, neighing and slapping the outside of the Caddy door with both of his plastic furry hooves, nearly tipping the humongous boat-like caddy more than once, driving hard and deep into the dusty, mucky-muddy turns like a prohibition bootlegger out-running and out-gunning an imaginary Johnny Law.



In the Caddy’s backseat Zorro and the pussies got tossed about, back and forth, thrown side to side as the pursuit went on mile after mile along the dangerous dirt road. Horace nearly fell over the side as he persisted in standing, yelling commands to the donkey, inebriated beyond hope, clapping his hooves together, spurring donkey on, a commanding Animal Farm tyrant, a General Napoleon, pigheadedly prodding donkey on in his rootin’-tootin, nasally Australian accent.



The full moon popped through the clouds to create one of those rare nights in Hawaii when the moonlight is almost as bright as daylight. Colors become almost discernible, a thousand varied shades of gray existed; one could almost read a book, or a Bible, or a witches’ tome of maleficium by the light of this Halloween moon’s seductive brightness.



While just overhead in the sky, gigantic white-reflecting cumulus clouds floated in the pacified trade winds, forming, reforming repeatedly in the rays of tonight’s magnificent moonlight. The moon behind the accumulating clouds illuminating fleeting hide-and-seek fanciful cloud dragons, darkness silhouetted breathing animal forms and fluffed-up billowy monsters on this once a year batophobic, Gorgonian night.



Suddenly, the donkey jammed on the brakes, turned the steering wheel hard left, spinning the car so it was traveling laterally, slipping sideways, tipping, tipping, almost tipping over completely, then righting itself to a dead stop. The heavy boat of a car slammed into a single metal cable strung across the road. The cable snapped with a twanging sound, and then a boinging whiplash ripped the night air, the right side of the caddy taking the brunt of the cable whipping, leaving a nasty car-length gash on the right side. A large red STOP sign landed with a cutting crash on the windshield, shattering it completely, leaving a sharp-toothed windshield hanging half way into the front seat of the car.



“Didn’t see it." Jungle Jimmy yelled, breathing hard, stutter gone. "It’s this fucking donkey mask. Faken Donkeeeeee!" Jimmy yelled a drunken donkey roar, and then he tore off the donkey head, flinging it into the back seat. One of the pussies put it on, dry humping Bernie’s leg mercilessly, tongue a flutter, eyes wild through the openings of the donkey mask head.



Big Jungle Jimmy bolted out of the car, his long donkey tail dragging in the thick red lava mud, screaming, “My sweet fucking Caddy. My darling sweetheart, baby. She ain't insured. Jesus Christ on a shit-stick,” he cried, slowly appraising the damage, sinking to his knees, crying out a string of perfectly enunciated swear words and well-articulated slobbering sobs.



“Stop sign Jimmy. You should ‘a seen it." Sheila said, master of the obvious. "You should ‘a stopped. Jimmy stops stuttering when he gets really mad, Zorro."



"Jimmy, get in, cool down. Get this tank moving again. I'll pay damages. The damage's done, the cable is down. Move on! Hop to it. Miles Todd, I need to stop him from murdering a man! It’s a matter of life and death. Here’s five hundred dollars," Bernie said, realizing the Caddy and this crew of derelict exiled Auzzie islanders was his only chance to catch Miles now. He tried to give Jimmy the five one hundred dollar bills, which Horace snatched up with his lightning-fast piggy paws.



“We help Blevins, Jimmy. I’ll hold the money. Get back into this heap of crap Caddy and drive Jimmy. Drive!" Horace dictated, standing up again in the front seat of the Caddy, assuming command and tucking the bills away in a secret pocket of his pudgy pink pig suit.



Horace tore at the broken windshield, (as Donkey fired up the V-8 Caddy), tore at it until it loosened completely, snapping sharp metal resounding, then spun the broken out windshield frame around three times, letting it fly off into the tall sugar cane grass.



"Whoo-hoo! Now, drive Jimmy, drive! Drive Jimmy, drive!" Horace yelled.



“Drive Jimmy, drive! Drive Jimmy, drive!” The two cat women sang repeatedly to the tune of Lou Reed’s version of, Ride Sally Ride. "Drive Jimmy, drive! Drive Jimmy, ride! It's not your time, you'll get a contusion , Ooohhh, isn't it nice , When you find your heart is made out of ice , Jimmy I guess you’ll need spice, To speed up this Caddy device, Oh, daddy! Drive Jimmy, drive,” They bellowed at the top of their voices, rocking and rolling, slamming back and forth, banging Bernie about like two slaphappy linebackers on a winnin’ streak. Jimmy put the gas-guzzler in drive, pounded down on the gas pedal, the Caddy responding with a gravity defying thrust forward, once again in hot pursuit of the bastard blond vampire in the red Porsche.



“Of course you know mate, if they strung a cable across one part of the cane road ... then somewhere up near the Sugar Cane Train station ... well, they’ve probably got another one strung across the road." Horace warned Bernie, slurring his words, grappling with what sounded to him like an astonishing train of thought, his eyes possessing that look of asinine drunken revelation garnered from the less than profound depth in the mind of a simpleton.



“We’ll deal with that problem when we come to it. The traffic below is hardly moving, because of the Fright Night in Lahaina carnival and the drunk driver road blocks," Bernie told him, while formulating his next move. He knew Miles was going to the Kahuna condominium to brutally murder Sennett McCray in cold blood, thereby destroying every iota of evidence linking him to The Thatcher Head, in short, getting away with multiple murders and a multimillion dollar diamond heist.



Then Bernie saw it appear as if by magic, a curved streak of gradient awesomeness, a white to black rainbow that appear, as if conjured by Merlin or Maui the demigod himself, an other-worldly phantasm in the sky above the two distant neighbor islands of Molokai and Lanai. Within the twenty-mile arc of the moon bow’s display was an angry sea, was a white capped foaming wind line, a sudden stormy turbulence running for miles on a distinct and moonlit horizon rip tide. Dozens of yachts, pleasure boats and dinner cruise boats were now tossed relentlessly about in the approaching mini-tempest and turbulent cloudburst off the north end of the Lahaina Roadstead.



“Fierce storm approaching. The reason the traffic’s moving so slow is that friggin’, totally awesome, incredibly bitchin’, mega-licious moon bow. Every tourist on Maui is stopping, slowing traffic to get a photo of that moon bow. Man, in all my years living here... that is the most spectacular thing I've ever seen. A night rainbow over the Pacific Ocean, makes you almost cry seein’ something that. It’s like God made that moon bow especially for Halloween," Horace said, enraptured, his eyes filled with emotions and tears, glazed over, transfixed on the ephemeral, on the once-in-a-lifetime white rainbow phenomenon. “It’s like God made that moon bow especially for Halloween,” Horace repeated.



Jimmy slowed the Caddy, also in awe, eyes akimbo*, starring at the magnificent moon bow, mouth agog, drooling; a penitent soul, humbled by Mother Nature, repeatedly saying short prayers to the patron saint of donkeys, whoever he or she might be.



"Tha, tha... That would imply that gaw, gaw... God believed in Halloween," Donkey said.



"Shut the fuck up, donkey," Horace shouted into the mysteriously bright night. He stood erect on the front seat, bracing himself forward on the broken out windshield frame. "Of course God believes in Halloween. Halloween is the devils night, so if the devil exists on one night of the year, god exists on every other night. "



“And day too. And forever and ever and, and a zil, zil ...Zillion years more!” Donkey added.



“Gentlemen, the devil is but a fallen archangel, but more importantly, Miles is getting away... can we....” Bernie said, discreetly slipping Horace another hundred-dollar bill.



“Drive Jimmy, drive!” Horace shouted and then the choir of fluffy furred drunks renewed their boisterous singing, “Drive Jimmy, drive! Drive Jimmy, drive!”



Bernie could not believe his ears, his eyes. He had the a strange revelation that he had died and gone to an Australian-Canadian version of a hell on earth, a down-under Twilight Zone episode gone terribly wrong, a mind-warping teleportation to the existential tundra of Alabama or Alberta, a bit player of Dukes of Hazard’s theatre of the absurd.



Before him, he saw his life as but a stage, with an ontological argument in bantering stupidity between a drunk and totally out of his mind Auzzie man dressed as a pig, arguing with a stuttering fool Auzzie dressed as a donkey. Both now standing up in the speeding Caddy, butts perched precariously against the plush old leather seat, shouting epistemological snippets concerning God's existence, the shock-absorber-less boat of a Pharaoh’s Caddy bouncing, buffeting that hard road, going eighty- hundred miles an hour towards this Sabbat’s oblivion, while chasing a mass murdering devil vampire, an infamous jewel thief for a fabricated ten thousand dollar reward. But even stranger still, far more surreal than Bernie thought possible... on the right side of the cane haul road, slowly chugging towards them in the opposite direction he heard the tintinnabulations of the approaching Sugar Cane Train.



Whoo - Whoo! Hoards of anachronistic and mysteriously Halloween costumed Oriental tourists hung out the open sides of the festive red and green restored railroad cars, all clicking their cameras, all plastered with holiday bliss smiles and spirits on squinty faces, all waving robot-like in group happiness conformity. They sang along with a one armed, hooked handed Hawaiian pirate, in a peacock feathered- festooned Caribbean three-cornered cap. He was a pirate amalgam, a Hawaiian buccaneer crooner, singing out of key, his false hooked hand happily strumming away on a scratched up ukulele, his yodeling nobility projected on large screens in each of the railroad car.



Meanwhile, not far below on the snarled highway, the coked out, crazed blond Vampire, the real lunatic in a stolen Porsche, was slowly forging ahead with his diabolical plans of murder, mischief and mayhem.



Returning to the reality of the moment, the twin pussies next to Bernie bellowed louder and rocked to their own version of, Drive, Jimmy Drive, joined now by an out of key, animated and atrocious, two part-harmony of pig and donkey.



Bernie laughed, resigned to his destined fate and then joined in. “All you want to do is ride around, Drive Jimmy Drive; All you want to do is drive around, Drive, Jimmy, drive. One of these early mornings, I'm gonna be wiping your weeping eyes. “ He sang, his unmusical voice a quacking rasping kazoo, wondering if he had somehow slipped between the cracks in this Dantesque tropical paradise on earth. To be condemned by fate to an iterating limbo of idiocy? On the other hand, perhaps, he though, I am actually dead, doomed to the hell of no possible escape, in the devil’s Caddy of no return... with a gaggle of exiled costumed misfits from the former British Empire to keep him company for eternity.



Crazed Kitty Kat Tiffy, head buried deep in Bernie’s lap, fumbling with, but successfully unzipping Bernie’s fly, suddenly mumbling , “I think I remember Zorro’s horsey’s name!”



“There’s the red Porsche." Bernie shouted, ignoring Tiffy as best he could, concentrating on the matter at hand, feeling his private eye persona return, the private dick in him rise again.



Below on the overcrowded high way, the red Porsche sat, idling, an impatient and obviously raving still the coked out Miles Todd, fuming furiously, insistently honking his horn along with the rest of the born, bred, and very annoyed population of local folks to whom paradise was just a daily commute and a way to make a living.



The tourist cars moved at a snail’s pace after the magnificent moon bow deteriorated into a treacherous, gigantic mid-channel squall. Miles’ long blond hair escaped his demonic headdress and was flying in every possible direction in the trade winds. He waved his fists high in the air, shouting at the drivers behind him, beside him and in front of him, a mad malevolent murderous mime, mockingly mimicking Mephistopheles. Bernie could only hope that Miles, The Thatcher Head, the thousands of precious diamonds, and of course, the key to it all; that old 1941 Patek Philippe wristwatch, would not escape him again with Miles this close, nearly in his grasp.





“Maybe I should just run down there and jump in his car." Horace said. “Punch that bugger in the kisser. I see the headline now: Unknown pink pig pugilist punches vampire punk in the kisser, and then runs away really, really fast. Hey, I’m no journalist. He’d learn his lesson. Nothin’ worse than a scum-bag like Miles talking behind your back, telling brazen lies to steal your wife away and tryin’ to ruin a perfectly good marriage."



“Miles is guilty off much worse Porky; he’s wanted for some vicious, heinous murders.” Bernie added, oddly smiling while saying this, brushing Tiff’s furry, erect and smoothed excited kitty ears.



“You mean he really is a vampire?” Sheila asked, coming up for air, her whiskers drooping heavily with saliva and lust.



“Hit the brakes, Donkey! Hit the brakes, cable up ahead!" Horace shouted.



The donkey applied the brakes full force, again swerving on the dirt road, but this time stopping only inches from the cable. Horace flew out of the Caddy, over the broken out windshield frame, over the hood, tumbling head over heels into the tall cane grass, finally coming to a stop, a soppy wet pink pig, supine in a muddy irrigation ditch.



“You almost bought me a new car Zorro." The donkey yelled. "You’re definitely going to be paying some hospital bills for Horace, masked man."



“Gees, Zorro, I could have bitten off your little horsey’s right off, stopping like that.” Tiffy mumbled.



“If you’re going to catch the evil Miles', now’s your chance, Zorro. And don't forget what you owe us," Horace shouted from the ditch, “ten thousand big ones, split four ways! That’s three thousand each, masked man.”



“Here’s the address where I am staying," Bernie said, writing the address down and then tossing his business card at the donkey with two more hundred-dollar bills. "That should see you until I can get back to you. Meet me later tonight at Don Ho’s Mexican Cantina.”



“Here your gon, gon... Gonna need this." Jimmy said, tossing Bernie a flashlight. "I want that ba,ba... Back Zorro."



The cat women walked an unnerved, limping Horace back to the idling Caddy. His pink pig costume covered in thick red mud, his screwy curlicue tail now soaked, unfurled, and dragging low, the pig head lost forever to the flowing water to the maze of sugar cane irrigation ditches.



Cued up hoards of Chinese and Japanese tourist, waiting to board the Sugar Cane Train nearby were startled. They saw the Caddy come roaring to an abrupt stop in a cloud of red lava dirt dust and then out came their ever-ready cameras snapping away at what many thought a Hollywood action scene enacted by oddly dressed Manga cartoon characters, being filmed by an invisible film crew.



"Sueeeee. I smell bad! Get the Sham Wow! Looks like I was wallowing in pig shit, but that was one da kine ride, Jungle Jimmy dude, one hell of a chase!" Horace exclaimed, watching Bernie descend the gravelly lava-rock cinder cone volcano, slipping, sliding and ripping his Zorro suit to shreds on the Lantana and Kiawe bushes. Finally, on the busy road, with fencing sword drawn, Bernie fenced off, foiled with, and leapt over car after car on the Honoapilini Highway, as he closed in on an unsuspecting Miles Todd and the stolen red Porsche.



Unfortunately, after a heroic and gallant leap onto the back of the Porsche, Miles recognized his cloaked and masked foe, and then accelerated like a bat out of hell. Bernie’s tumbled back, his long black silk cloak snagging the sports car’s back bumper, dragging him, ass down, sparks flying from the metal tapped boots and last seen going towards the high cliffs above Kapalua.



“Zorro’s horses name was, Tornado. Now I remember! I remember! Zorro’s horse’s name was Tornado.” Pussy Sheila yelled out, stunned by her Orphic revelation.



“No, it was Phantom,” Pussy Tiffy countered, passionately.



“Tornado!"



“Phantom!”



“Tornado!”



“Phantom!”





When the cat-fight broke out, the milling Chinese and Japanese tourist swarmed around them in droves, cheering one pussy or the other on, the knowledgeable placing small bets, others baiting the action by throwing money and jeering to fan the flames of the provoked pussies.





However, most watching now thoroughly convinced America was still just one big staged, salable and silly reality TV show.







*eyes akimbo – I know, I know, but it just sounded cool.