Don't Panic - Part 2

Read Part 1 first.

The driver’s door of the 4x4 flew open and out stepped the biggest bloke I have ever set eyes on. He must have been 6’ 9” in his socks and about 5’ wide. He looked like a cross between The Incredibile Hulk and Merv Hughes, the former Australian fast bowler. Hughes was a big lad with a big moustache, but this particular Hulk made old Merv look puny by comparison and, as for the moustache – well, a flock of sparrows could have set up home in it.

The Hulk had jet black hair and matching moustache. He was dressed in dark grey military fatigues and wore the biggest, blackest, shiniest boots imaginable. He also wore a couple of “accessories” the purpose of which was not to enhance his sartorial elegance. A pair of what looked Magnum 44s was strapped in holsters to each of his massive thighs.

It was clear to me that the Hulk was a member of the local constabulary and come to the cafe for his morning break. Nope - it was the wrong theory. He had come for us.

As he advanced towards Matthew and me the Hulk began grinning the biggest, widest, insane-looking grin, revealing the biggest, whitest set of teeth. His grinning visage reminded me of Jack Nicholson in the Shining. We were about to meet a 6’ 9”, fully tooled-up, psychopath.

He arrived at our table and thrust a huge hand out towards us, still grinning that insane grin. Matthew and I both stood up and we each shook his hand in turn. Well, it was less of a hand-shake and more of a hand-crush, really. I was in so much pain that I wasn’t concentrating on what he said as he spoke to introduce himself. In fact, he didn’t speak. He boomed. The decibel level of his voice was directly proportionate to the 3 tons per square inch of pressure that his huge mitt was exerting on my poor right hand. I tried to speak and say “How do you do” but could manage only a strangled yelp through gritted teeth.

After he had finished reducing our hands and fingers to mush, he stood there grinning and staring at us and eventually said – or rather, he shouted – “We go see Mr. Boy!”

Boy Tamzil was the owner of the company that we had come to see, so at last we knew what the Hulk had come for and that Main Man had sent him.

The Hulk turned and waved us towards the truck. We got in, Matthew in the front and me in the back. I was impressed. It was brand spanking new, with nice leather interior, all the gadgets, aircon, the lot. I had a good old look around the interior, taking it all in and then made the mistake of glancing over the back of the seat into the rear. In the back were about half-a-dozen machine guns, several high velocity rifles and a load of boxes with the word “ammunition” printed prominently on the top. I was having a problem figuring how all that stuff related to an organisation that dealt with computers and software. I decided not to try and work it out any further.

The Hulk fired up the truck, put it in gear and buried the throttle into the carpet. We shot off down the road like a bat out of hell.

The fact that he couldn’t drive didn’t matter too much because the streets were still empty, save for a couple stray dogs that were comatose in the heat at the side of the road. However, after a few minutes, another vehicle approached us on the other side of the road.

As we got closer the Hulk yanked the steering wheel to the right and we veered across the road into the path of the oncoming car. “What the fuck...” I muttered. Just before we were about to smash headlong into the approaching innocent and responsible road user he yanked the wheel back to the left and swerved on to the other side of the road. He then started laughing loudly and uncontrollably. The image of Jack Nicholson’s face flashed across my mind.

The Hulk repeated this entertaining manoeuvre again when the next car approached and again, a third time. It must have been a tactic aimed at softening Matthew and me up before our negotiations with Mr Boy. It worked a treat.

Having defied death by transport on this trip once again we arrived at Mr Boy’s place. Or, rather we roared to a halt in a cloud of dust as the Hulk stood on the brakes. The contents of the back of the truck crashed into the rear of my seat and I fully expected a 21 gun salute to go off in recognition of our safe arrival.

Being British, Matthew and I kept our composure like real men and thanked the Hulk very much for taking the time to deliver us safely to our destination. We fully expected him crush our hands again and bid a fond farewell before we entered Mr Boy’s establishment. However, it soon became apparent that the Hulk was a party to the meeting and he leapt out of the truck and beckoned us towards Mr. Boy’s place.

Mr Boy’s place was in fact a bungalow – a bungalow in a suburban street of bungalows in a Bandung suburb. It was akin to a bungalow in Northbourne, Bournemouth, only it was 3,000 feet in the hills above the West Java jungle.

There was a wrought iron gate at the front of the house, in the middle of a green privet hedge. A stone pathway led through the small front lawn to the front door.

Attached to the gate was a sign, in Indonesian. You didn’t need to be fluent in Indonesian to get the message. On either side of the wording were two images; one was the head of an Alsatian dog and the other was a machine gun.

Clearly, trespassers would either be eaten or shot, or perhaps both. In any event, it was clear that the local judiciary wouldn’t have to be troubled by tedious and time consuming prosecution proceedings.

None of this bothered the Hulk. He strode through the gate, up to the entrance and banged his huge fist against the wooden door. A dog barked. My buttocks clenched.

The door was opened by a short, slim chap wearing what looked like an ankle length pencil skirt. He was also wearing a fez-like cap on his head and black socks and black shiny shoes on his feet. His complexion was sallow and his face expressionless – dead pan.

The Hulk walked straight past the gate keeper and led us through a hallway to another door. He knocked gently and respectfully on the door with the knuckle of his right forefinger. This was the first thing that he had done that could remotely be described as subtle or discreet.

He waiting a couple of seconds and then opened the door gently and slowly entered the room ahead of us. It was obvious that Mr Boy was not to be messed with and that the Hulk held him in deep respect. It also occurred to me that if the Hulk was so much in awe of Mr Boy, Mr Boy must be a huge fucking bloke.

Mr Boy was tiny. He looked like the guy who had opened the front door, only tinier. He wore the same type of headgear, a white shirt, and I imagined he wore the same type of skirt, socks and shoes. I couldn’t be sure of this because Mr. Boy was sitting behind a large desk and didn’t stand up to greet us. I also couldn’t judge his age. He looked like he could be aged anything from 16 to 60 – a bit like the Fokker pilots. He had a thin moustache so he must have passed puberty at least. He also smoked and was smoking one of those hideous clove cigarettes.

The Hulk introduced us and we shook hands with the sedentary Mr Boy. Mr. Boy didn’t speak. His handshake was a limp wristed affair. Maybe the Hulk had broken every bone in his hand when they first met – dunno.

Matthew and I sat down in chairs which were lined up against the wall to the right of Mr Boy’s desk and the Hulk sat opposite us against the other wall. No one said anything. Mr Boy and the Hulk just stared at us, the Hulk was grinning and Mr Boy was expressionless.

Matthew decided to break the ice. “Thank you very much for sparing the time to see us” he said, or something along those lines. This was greeted by silence, more staring and grinning. Eventually the Hulk boomed, “Mr Boy welcomes you to Bandung”. Now, given that Mr. Boy hadn’t said a word since we had entered this office, I was slightly confused as to how this message of welcome had been conveyed to the Hulk. Maybe the pair of them were telepathic.

“Mr. Boy says; ‘Would you like some coffee?’” boomed the Hulk. Again, Mr. Boy hadn’t uttered a word. Nevertheless, not wishing to offend our hosts, we gratefully accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Personally, by this stage, I could have done with something a damn sight stronger.

As if by magic, and within a second of us accepting Mr. Boy’s kind offer of refreshment, the gate keeper entered the room carrying a tray of cups and saucers - more telepathy? “These guys must be aliens” I thought to myself. The tray also contained a plate some rather weird looking luminous green objects. “Definitely aliens” a voice in my head said.

Mr. Boy’s servant served the coffee and placed the plate of green objects on Mr. Boy’s desk.

Now, Indonesian coffee has the appearance and texture of hot bitumen. It is also incredibly strong and requires a shed load of sugar in order to make it palatable. The end result of this syrupy goo is that you don’t drink it or sip it. You can’t even pour it into your mouth. You have to suck it out of the cup or spread it over your tongue with a knife, like Marmite on toast.

After a couple of sucks I gave up and turned my attention to the green objects on Mr Boy’s desk.

Mr. Boy noticed my interest in the green stuff and immediately picked up the plate and thrust it in my direction. He still didn’t say a word and had the same blank expression on his face. However, he was clearly thinking “If you think the coffee’s weird, wait until you taste one of these babies”.

I looked across to the Hulk and was nodding his head like mad and grinning even more insanely than usual. I had no choice. I picked up one of the green things and inspected it. It was a cake! The rate of the Hulk’s head-nodding increased as he silently encouraged me to take a bite out of the alien cake. “Oh well, here goes. It was weird alright. The outer green surface was like marzipan only 10 times sweeter. The interior was yellow in colour and tasted and smelt like shit. I found out later that it was a sponge cake made out of durian covered in the Indonesian equivalent of marzipan. It was disgusting.

Durian is a tropical fruit that has no right to exist. It tastes and smells like the contents of a sewer and has the colour and texture of sloppy custard. It is a truly foul substance.

Anyway, I managed to swallow a gob full of shit and marzipan and then smiled at the Hulk. He stopped nodding immediately and his mad grin vanished from his big ugly mug. “Gotcha!” a voice in my head said.

We then attempted to get down to the nitty-gritty and talk business. This was not easy. In fact, the rest of the meeting was just as weird as what had gone before. Mr. Boy didn’t say a word, even in his native tongue. He simply stared at Matthew and me throughout.

The “conversation” went along these lines:

We would say something or ask a question to the Hulk. He would wait a few seconds and then respond with “Mr. Boy....”

The Hulk would then say something or ask a question. We would respond. The Hulk would then wait a few seconds and come back with “Mr. Boy...”

And so it went on. As I said earlier, we were dealing with telepathic aliens from Planet Weird.

After about half an hour of this madness Matthew and I had had enough and were ready to be beamed up and back to the normal world, or at the very least to the cocktail bar of the Borobudur Hotel – two or three extra dry martinis would just about restore my sanity.

We thanked Mr. Boy, by way of the Hulk, for his time and explained that we had to make our way back to Jakarta. Mr. Boy simply stared at us, smoking the clove stick. We shook hands with Mr. Boy. The Hulk then leapt to his feet, led us out of the house to the truck and we headed off back to the cafe were we first met the big man. It was a drama free journey for once.

We arrived back at the cafe in the traditional manner – the slamming on of the brakes, the cloud of dust etc. The Hulk then boomed; “I buy you drink and we talk price”. We had a bit of time available before the flight back to Jarkarta, so we said “OK”. Another mistake.

Matthew and I couldn’t take anymore of the local coffee and cakes, so we went for coke and a bowl of peanuts.

The drinks and nuts arrived and we then presented the Hulk with a copy of our price list. He didn’t even bother looking at it. “Gimme your best price” he hissed through that mad grin.

We explained that the prices were printed on the piece of paper that was on the table adjacent to his left hand. “Gimme your best price” he hissed once more.

We patiently explained that the prices were very competitive and included valuable additional services such as warranty, support and other such marvellous benefits for each of our distributors.

At this point the Hulk became very aggressive. He stopped grinning and started frowning. “I want best price” he boomed. He kept repeating this over and over – with each repetition his voice became louder.

Suddenly, a voice inside my head said “Right, I have enough of all this fucking crap. I’ve had enough fucking stress, shit and aggro today to last a fucking lifetime”. I then launched a verbal attack at him. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it was along the lines of; “If you don’t like what’s on offer you can shove it up your arse and fuck off”.

As I was delivering my pearls of wisdom to our large friend, Matthew started to kick me in the shins under the table. He was looking at me with a pleading expression on his face that said; “Shut the fuck up. He’s the one with the fucking guns not us!” I must have got the message pretty quickly and I immediately stopped ranting, in mid-rant.

Strangely, the Hulk didn’t reach for the Magnums and blow our brains out. Instead he became very calm, reasonable and almost serene. He began speaking in a normal voice and had a normal expression on his huge face. Maybe he thought that anyone who was prepared to mix it with the biggest armed and dangerous psycho in Indonesia must be confident of a successful outcome and decided that it was best not to push it too much.

It was all over in a flash. He thanked us for coming to visit Mr. Boy, got up from the table and drove off in to the distance. He didn’t even shake hands, which was a bonus as far as I was concerned.

To be continued...