by Mike Denver

   

 We walked up the stairs from the basement bar, the overhead neon sign
buzzing like an external migrain cursing my world; Cha Myong's left arm
hooked around my right and her right hooked through Gemma's left.  Their
spirit's were booming, they'd begun singing a line from one of those
Brittany Spears pieces of shit that was playing in the bar as we left;
something like ' Oops ... I did it a-gain ... I played with your heart ...
lost in the blah blah blah ...; while I'd further receded into an ever
growing abyss of confusion, convolution, shock! at the strange scenario
that'd begun to unfurl over the course of the last hour; all the while I was
constantly puffing on his ManVannen Guernocco cigarettes and dealing with
the dual aquariums of ephemeral amoeba's swimming revolutions around my
eyeballs.

     "Yogi-yo" - here - " Let's take this cab.", he said, staggering over,
opening the door and pushing us in gently, first me by the arm and then her,
with his hand on her ass.  Before Cha-Myong could speak to the Korean Taxi
driver, Gemma let loose another finely pronounced volley of Hanguel Mal,
ordering him to take us to Gam-Jin Dong.

     Immediately, Cha Myong began to remark in English about how after
living her entire life in Pusan, except for a few years studying abroad in
Sydney, she had never heard of Gam-Jin Dong.

     Gemma replied, " Yeah, it's a bit out of the way, one of those cozy
little areas in which Pusan hides away it's well-to-do citizens.  Then I
looked over and saw that Gemma had given Cha Myong one of his ManVannen's
from a fresh pack, and was lighting it for her.

     I quickly asked her, " Cha Myong, since when did you start smoking?".

     "Since tonight, I reckon.", she replied blankly.  " Hey, ", she then
remarked, " These taste really funny," as I noticed her moonlit pupils
narrowing into pinpoints, " , not like the smell of those Marlboro's you
usually smoke Mikey ...", and then she trailed off, as she was probably just
coming on with those patented Guernocco speed lines that I'd encountered
earlier.  Just wait until you meet the amoebas I thought.   I glanced over
and noticed Gemma, watching us with a slight smirk perched above his
somewhat flabby weak chin.

     The taxi driver had responded instantly to Gemma's quick directions
given in Korean, and I'd been too preoccupied to notice the beginning turns
the driver had made; what with Cha Myong having taken up ManVannen smoking
and all.  By the time I began to pay any attention to the roads the driver
was taking, I found I had no clue as to our location in the city; a city
which other wise, after having driven a motor cycle on it's streets for the
past year, I know very well.  But in the few short minutes that we'd been
moving, we'd breached the area covered by my mental map of Pusan.

     To this day, I couldn't confidently tell you where we were in Pusan
that night; or even if we were in Pusan, which after endless hours of recall
and contemplation over the events that occurred that night, I don't think we
were; for all I know we were in New Jersey; we were in Soweto; maybe we were
in Kahlambrica; then again, maybe we were in a television studio set in
Heaven, or a sewage treatment plant in Hell.

     Hell, I thought, this has gone too far ... we have.  My mind was
spinning, I reached out to Cha Myong, her eye's all glazed over while she
puffed the cursed guernocco; I put my hand on her arm and squeezed hard
enough to leave a bruise, but she didn't respond.  Then, fighting back those
spectral amoeba's assaulting my own mind, I said in the most dire voice I
could muster to the taxi driver, " Aggashi," - Sir - " Yogi!", and then
turing to Gemma, who was seated on the far side, with Cha Myong between us,
" Gemma, this is fucked, I want out ... we're getting out here ... now!
Tell the driver to stop.".

     The driver didn't stop though, he merely flashed a wordless shrug of
helplessness in the rearview mirror, as if to say, " But there's nothing I
can do.".

     Gemma then replied, " Relax man, you can't get out here ... look where
we are.".

     I looked out the window and realized that we were driving along a
narrow suspension bridge ... a very long and very high  bridge ... in
keeping with all of the other events, it was a bridge I'd never before seen
during my time in Pusan.  Then Gemma let out a little laugh and said, "
Don't worry Denver, the ride's on me.  Look down there, at those black
waters.  It'd be a big jump, right before a long swim back to your part of
town.  Heh ha heh!".

     I began to feel sick to my stomach, the sort of feeling I've had in
those seconds before the couple-odd car accidents I've lived through in my
life ... like the reaper was working the grip end of his scythe  up my
anus.

     Then Gemma chimed in with more reassurances and of course, more
ManVannens.  " Listen man, I know a stranger taking you to a strange part of
town set's off the nerves in a man," he said sincerely, " I'm a traveler
too, I know the way it goes.  But for landsake, don't let your nerves crush
your sociability. Relax my friend, you're in good hands.".

     I looked out the window again; we were in a tunnel now; like the
bridge, longer than any other I've ever driven through in Pusan, or anywhere
else in Korea.  I'd missed the transition from bridge to tunnel ... I had
now idea what river we'd crossed or what mountain we'd entered ... my sense
of time was gone in a cloud of smoke ... the lights, the dark of night ... a
whirlpool of dust and gas ... familiar smells, strange smells ... the echo
of the car's wheels moving fast and heating up, rubber and asphalt becoming
one in a heated low friction viscosity cocktail; my head elongating and
becoming as long as the distance between point A and point B; my mind
growing into a continuum of doubt and uncertainty ... so thick and heavy
unlike a feather bleeding lead and dropping up.

      As the taxi sped up on the down sloping straightaway, the arched lines
of the tunnel segments moved through my peripherals in a way that made them
appear to be moving along with us ... as if we were traveling through the
gullet of a snake moving forward at full speed ... moving faster than we
were.

     I looked to Gemma again; yet again I found myself at a loss for words,
beginning to resign myself to ride the chaos, so to speak.  I see him
fishing in his pocket and removing a small green velvet pouch.  Then with
his index finger and thumb he parted the string drawn top open and removed a
small metal and plastic pipe, a familiar sort which I've used in ganja
smoking sessions since middle school, and a small plastic film canister.  "
It's your lucky night my friend, ", he says smiling, " Let's have a toke of
the good stuff. ".

     I see the driver looking back at us curiously in his extra-large
rearview mirror.  There's a triangle of eyes darting forth between myself,
Gemma and the taxi driver.  Then Gemma says, " No worries here boy, ha ha!",
and passes up a ManVannen to the driver, which he accepts, smiling in the
rearview as he leans forward to light it on the lit lighter Gemma is also
holding between the front bucket seats for him.

     I swallow hard and think, well, fuck it, " Yeah man, let's get high.".
I say.

     " Ha ha, ", laughed Gemma,  " Now you're back on the right track,
boy-o".

     I look out the window and see that we're still riding through the
tunnel, which is now leading up a winding incline.  There are no other cars
to be seen.

     As I watch him drop a pinch a substance which I can't see from between
his fingers into the bowl of the pipe I think, Christ, this is more fucked
up than Cambodia any day of the week.

     Cha Myong is still staring into space; and now I see that the driver's
eyes are ManVannened as well.  Another thought about making the driver stop
and let us out crosses my mind, but I fight it back, telling myself, shit,
you're still young and stupid, you get yourself into these things, just walk
away when it's all over and everything'll be alright ... ride it out, ride
it out.

     And then the pipe and lighter are in my hand.    I peer into the bowl
amidst the murky tunnel light and see what looks like average weed, broken
up into fine, seedless, stemless chunks.  I light it up, cooking the bowl
with the flame, puffing on the pipe's nipple to get it going.  It tastes
good, like the sort of decent grass that I'd all but forgotten while working
in a nearly grassless South Korea. " Ahhh," I sigh, exhaling my first toke
and feeling it go to my head in a comfortably eye-crossing, familiar manner,
" that's what I'm talkin' about.".   After the first few initial breaths,
I begin to feel better; grounded, I notice that the amoeba's have
retreated from my eyes; I begin to scold myself for being so paranoid about
this guy, who is probably just another benevolent freakazoid ... the type
that I usually end up feeling lucky for meeting.

     "Hey, ", asks Gemma, " You ever see that twisted David Lynch movie
'Blue Velvet'?".

     " Fuck off!", I say cracking a smile and choking on the smoke.  "
kaaaaaak aaaaak aaaak'".

     Gemma puts on a fake hurt look on his face, " Just asking ... jeeez".

    I pass the pipe to Cha Myong and she takes it and presses it to her lips
without saying anything.  I light it for her and she coughs too, " Kaaaaak
aaaak aaaak".   Then she passes the pipe to Gemma and says, " No more, it
makes me sleepy,", and puts her arms around me, pressing her head against my
neck and closing her eyes like a little angel.  I look over and see Gemma
re-packing the pipe and hitting it himself.

     By the time we roll out of the tunnel and the driver buttons the
windows open enough to air out he smoke, we're all chinese eye'd ... stoned
to the bone.  The black vinyl interior of the cab is wrapped around me and
Cha Myong like the living definition of comfort. Gemma says, "Hey were's the
fuckin' music?", and I second the motion with an ," Amen, brutha.".

     He speaks some more Korean to the driver and I see the white gloved
hand flip the radio onto a AM station; I pray for rock'n'roll ... good old
non-bizzare rock'n'roll ... and my prayers are answered as I hear the
light-fantastic organ tones of 'Riders on the Storm' fill the cab's
speakers.

      " Oh man, ", says Gemma, " This song cooks.  I saw The Zone Troopers
play this one live when they first hit the scene in like ... -12 ... dude
... we road tripped from Moentat, all the way vanth to Quayton City for the
show ... outdoors at  Steamdancer Amphitheater on an easy summer night with
all of my best buds and bud, on 3 tabs of vega-synth with my brain squirming
like a toad .... wooooo-babyboyo!... I'll never forget that ....".

     All my rising illusions that things with Gemma were okay instantly
re-shattered, " You Asshole!", I shouted, " Are you insane ... who are the
fucking 'Zone Troopers'? I have never heard of a band called the stinking
'Zone Troopers' ... this song ... ' Riders on the Storm' was recorded by the
late great Jim Morrison and the Doors ... the fucking Doors! ... it was
recorded before I was born ... in the late sixties or early seventies . ..
I'm not sure ... do you understand? the NINE-TEEN-SIX-TEES  or the
NINE-TEEN-SEVEN-TIES ... A.D.! ... but it has nothing to do with anybody
called 'the Zone Troopers' and there is no such thing as the year minus
twelve ... my friend, I'm starting to fear that you are mentally ill ... and
I'm worried that you're having some sort of osmosiatic effect of mental
illness on my girlfriend ... this sweet girl right here, who I dearly
love!".

     And then Cha Myong stirs and looks up to me with her sweet eyes, and
says, " I love you too baby, but this song is by the Zone Troopers.  I've
got the tape at home, I'll show you tomorrow.".  And then she smiles like a
fairy and closes her eyes again.

     With a slow quiet screech of break pads the car comes to a stop.  " Oh,
we're here!", says Gemma in a pleasant simple way, sitting forward in his
seat in  fishing in his pants pocket for the taxi fare, " Just in time, I
need a drink ... and Mike, you reeeeaaally need a drink.  You guys aren't
going to believe just how cool Moon Ta and her family are!".

part 1 Meeting The Maker