The gentleman from the FBI asked the man with the pock marked face where the items had come from. The pock marked man replied “the hills, the caves”
The FBI man knew what the drug addict meant.
Sure, he was acting like a big time drug dealer/fence, but still deep in his very Hawaiian heart, he knew this was bad. You dont go ripping off graves. Especially Hawaiian Burial caves. That is a guaranteed bad omen for your ass. He had a job to do, and he sure the fuck was going to like clanking some cuffs on this asshole when he was done. He had a role to play, and he was playing it better than anyone would ever know.
“So what the fuck you want?”
“Jus’ gimme some batu”
“You gonna fuck your brain on that shit, man”
He shouldnt have said that. He knew better. Why the fuck would a dealer care? Just shut up and deal, fool.
“Yeah, right, jus’ gimme the chong, man, and you take this old creepy shit with you”
He tossed him some packets. Packets of death he thought. Whole fricking island gone to waste for pieces of glass to smoke. Stupid ass.
He gathered the bounty. It was amazing. Hawaiian artifacts of all kinds. Clubs, bowls, images, idols, poi pounders, adzes, feather cloaks, the haul was well worth over 100K. Easily museum stuff. In reality, the items were priceless. Who could put a number on things buried with your kin? Some dweeb in a museum? Some haole curator? The kupuna would cry. They would have broken hearts to think the keiki of the land had resorted to thieving items from the dead.
Hawaii 2005. The keiki of the land could careless of the old, the past. They want it now. Well he thought, you’re getting it. How many kids had he busted? 100? 2? He lost count after the teenager that pulled the glock on him in the parking lot of Alakea Grill. Shot him dead, and after the inquiry, tests showed enough methamphetamine to kill a horse. Now the kids are armed, and frying. Not only are they high, but crazed ass paranoid as well. Shit, he thought, for the days when all they did was toke some bud. They just ate everything in sight. No guns. No rip-offs. Mellow.
Maybe the damn green harvest wasnt the best idea. Eradicating the weed may have been good thinking at the time, but at this cost? A whole generation lost to this menace. And it is getting worse; how many families had been destroyed? It boggled his mind. He was driving the stolen cargo down the H1 interstate, a fact he always wondered, as to what state was it connected to?, He had to get back on track, all this diversion in thought was putting the entire operation in jeopardy. He took the off ramp towards the ocean, the makai, and headed straight for the warehouse.
He did not notice the change in the weather. He did not notice the figures in the dark. All too soon, he would. And he would wonder no more.
The old beater of a car came to halt, in one motion, he took the keys, opened the hatch, and grabbed the stash. He marched in, grabbed two handles, turned and deposited the loot in the safe. “I just wanna get this shit done” he said to no one in particular. He had to call the lieutenant, get the plans down, and complete the bust. This whole thing was begining to give him the creeps. Too much history, too much bad karma, too much old Hawaiian stuff. His Tutu Kane had told him of stories of things that happened to people who fucked with the dead. Terrors. Nightmares of it filled his childhood.
From that though, he learned respect.
It had guided him through a bad marriage, a dying parent, and FBI training. Shit, got him past HPD recruit school.
He wondered if the dead were getting pissed now.
Packing his gear into the car, he headed out, back to fricking traffic. All on the road at the same time. Shit. He remembered the short cut he had taken with his Dad, years back, and figured it was worth a try. The scenery would be better, as well. Green. Luscious. A good ten degrees cooler than here. He steered towards the Pali.
King Kamehameha had driven the warriors from Oahu to the sheer cliffs of the Pali, and without mercy, he had forced them to their death. He navigated the road, following what once was ancient trails, now covered in asphalt. It was cooler. The air crisp, fresh and full of life. Mists of rain hung in the canopy of the forest. He was cutting at least a half hour off his travel time. He might even get a work out in, he mused. He stopped, burst out of the car to just take in the beauty of it all. All you could hear was the breeze in the trees. He had to make it home; call in, and set up the deals that were in waiting.
There are a lot of bad dudes out he thought. That fuck wadd Conner, and his crew were raking in bucks, and killing kids without remorse. They just got a break by a snitch letting them know of the burial cave rip-offs. Pay back can be a bitch he assumed. He knew what he would do, if given the chance. Shove all the batu right up Connors ass. Then light it. It was so hard for him to comprehend the decay of his home. Batu, ice, chong, whatever they wanted to call it, was hacking up his home. Thefts were up. Murder is up. Fucking delusional kids hacking up there own parents in the middle of the night. The bad dudes were making money off it. Cheaper, easier to make than growing some killer bud, he knew. The dangers were greater, the labs, the waste, infecting the houses for months, if not years. The bad guys even scammed the tops off the flares at accident scenes to use to brew the unholy shit. He heard HFD had gone to a house that was so polluted, that the ground was flammable. What the hell is happening?
He pulled into the annex of a safe house, changed vehicles, and back on the road home.
The drive home was managed by way of soft Hawaiian music. The melodies masked the pain that he felt, yet opened his mind to the truths. Drug dealers like Conner were influencing youths by the handful. There was no doubt in that. Then by the addiction, they had stooped to stealing burial artifacts from caves. Artifacts sent to burial, never to be seen again. Treasures of untold beauty, meaning, and karma. Conner and his clan were selling the gains to mainland collectors, sight unseen. He had made a statement by selling 2 museum pieces that had been re-interred. Now the collectors called him. Black market scum, but willing to take a chance on unknown, yet unseen retribution. He pulled into his home, not knowing he had even driven the previous distance.
Lieutenant Kaiwi was on the phone before he could sit for a second. The bust was to happen tonight. Plans over heard on a wire tap led HPD to believe he was going to skirt the islands, perhaps to Manila. The man from the FBI had no time to wait. The minute he hung up the phone, a breeze blew in from the open window. His eyes burned. Tears streamed down his face, and although he wasn’t crying, a flood was coming from his ducts.
“What the fuck?” he mouthed to the wind.
The man from the FBI was brought to his knees, and no amount of strength, training or will could make him stand. He had less than 1 hour to make the bust. Grasping the counter, he pulled himself up, only to peer over the edge to see the fleeting image of a warrior, dressed in ancient Hawaiian malo, battle helmet, spear, and walking out of his home. “Jesus Christ on a ……” He fell, back to his knees, and then wind blew through him this time.
The man from the FBI knew the dead were pissed now.
With a new urgency, he headed for his car, gunned the engine, and raced to the bust.
There would be no bust today.
The papers colored up the story, about how a unified group of law enforcement made up of FBI, HPD and local informants ended an artifact selling/drug racket.
The man from the FBI only noticed the story about the bodies found at the bottom of the Pali, the steep cliffs that Kamehameha the great had vanquished the warriors of Oahu. It held his attention; the mainland news releases about the art collectors that were found with no faces, their homes immaculate, but missing a few collectors items. Items of great value had been left, while no forcible entry had been made. Authorities were stumped.
The man from the FBI had no doubt who, and what had sought revenge for the desecration of the burial caves. His heart knew what happened.
And his heart rested.
(I wrote this becuse of a TV special about how artifacts were being traded for Batu (or ice, or chong, or in the end, death from metamphetamine) Just thought I would throw it out to the world and see what becomes of it)
Anyhow,
Aloha.
Changes
Changes
Sunrise
GasGuy
J Johnson, ummm good, surfs pretty good, too
Dancing now...
How many guitars is he playing?
BudPhoto808Surfer
Gotta Junk?
Getting There....
Got Junk?...Or Stuff all over my bedroom...
