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A Seven Foot Samaon Man

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Short Story

A Seven Foot Samoan Man By Christopher Kemp George Malacos woke up out of his bed around 7:00am. He made some coffee, black, and drank it on the patio of his condo on the fiftieth floor. It overlooked the beaches of the big island and all of the Pacific Ocean. Sitting there, reflecting for about an hour, his wife Susan came in and asked, “Georgy, why do you look so sad?” His gray-speckled face and dark brown eyes seen through his wirery-rimmed glasses looked up at her and said, “Too many regrets Susan. Too many regrets.” She just rubbed his neck and gave him a kiss on the forehead before leaving him to his peace. Every morning George went on a run. Whether they were here on vacation in Hawaii or back home in Ohio. It was George’s way to relieve stress, and get focused for the day. Mr. Malacos owned a successful construction company that built many condominiums, apartments, and even factories. Earning well into six digits, and having a district attorney wife, it is safe to say the couple has it made financially. They have no kids, but their nieces and nephews come over to hang out with Uncle George and Aunt Susan almost every Sunday afternoon. On this Friday morning run, George trotted into downtown Honolulu, and up to the mountains. His fifty eight year old body can’t take the endurance training it use to when he was younger. He has raced in over five marathons and has completed three Iron Mans. George’s wirery, yet muscular frame finally made it up the mountain that overlooked the city. His gray hair was soaked in sweat and his calve muscles were tightening up. “I am getting too old for this s***,” he said. After catching his breath, he started to walk the five-mile journey back to the beach. He hardly goes into downtown Honolulu; only to get groceries and wine of course. “It’s too busy here,” he would always tell Susan. “I prefer us, alone on the beach, with our Merlot.” George, out of curiosity, decided to walk around. He had nothing else to do that day. Susan would probably make him go to her Bible study at the local parish if he was home before eleven. He strolled down Main Street and crossed over to Coconut Drive. He told Susan the first time he took her to the Big Island that this was the “sketchy” part of town. All the young kids would come clubbing here and you could buy marijuana and prostitutes here. He walked past a trio of Asians with tattoos all up and down their arms. They were smoking Marlboro Reds, if George’s nose told him correctly. They starred at him with a look that said, “What the hell are you doing down here gramps?” Or even, “Somebody call the nursing home. One of their residents got loose!” “There is no way in hell I look that old!” he thought to himself. George shot back his mean, old person glance at the Nips like he always does when young people disrespect him. While still starring at them, George kept walking till he hit a brick wall. Well not really, but when he looked up he saw a seven-foot tall Samoan man with hair past his shoulders and tribal tattoos all over his right arm. “Excuse me sir,” he said in his deep voice. “No, no! Excuse me! I wasn’t looking where I was walking.” The Samoan warrior pointed at the three Japanese kids and asked, “Are those punks giving you trouble?” “They just weren’t showing me some respect at all.” The Samoan man’s eyes squinted at them, and said, “I’ll take care of this.” George pleaded with him, “Oh lay off buddy. It wasn’t that big of a deal.” George tried to pull him back, but his muscles couldn’t pull back 300 pounds of muscle. The Samoan man picked up the small Japanese kids and shoved him against the side of the building. “See that man over there!” he said, while pointing back at George. “He’s a good man. He’s-” The other Nips both slammed a two by four they found on the ground over his bead. Falling to his knee for only a few seconds, the Samoan man got up, and took a swing at the one and missed. He threw another punch, and this time he hit the Nip with the handlebar mustache right in the nose. These kids knew they couldn’t take on this Samoan warrior. I think they said, “F*** You!” in Japanese and ran off. George jogged over and said, “Why the hell did you start a fight with them on my cause? You don’t even know me!” The Samoan man smiled at George and said, “Oh, yes I do.” Puzzled by the response, George said, “I am not a resident here. I am on my annual vacation. So tell me how you know me?” The Samoan man sat down on a crate, and George did the same. He lit up a cigarette and said, “My brother went to college in the states. After he was finished with school, he took a job at your construction company. At first he was just making coffees and spreadsheets, then after a few months he became one of your assistants.” George couldn’t recognize the kid that the Samoan man was describing. He took a massive inhale of his cigarette and went on, “He began going on business trips with your executives. Things were going well. They were making a lot of money. Until one trip in Dallas, they all got drunk and ended up beating him to death-” “Wait one f*ing minute! I don’t remember any Hawaiian kid working for me. And I certainly don’t remember a murder taking place!” George was furious. The Samoan man sighed, and then looked angry. He said, “That’s because you were here. On the Big Island. On vacation. Your secretaries and partners cleaned up the whole thing while you were here last February.” George was here last February. He was gone from January 3rd to March 16th. Realizing that this story might actually be true, George said, “I was here in Hawaii at that time. No one ever called me about your brother.” There was a deep silence. Then George asked, “Are you sure he is dead? Your brother?” The Samoan replied, “Yes. Your executives mailed his body back here where somebody through it in a dumpster here on Coconut Drive.” “Oh my God!” George yelled. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This can’t be true,” he thought. My own partners doing this?” They sat there in silence for almost fifteen minutes. Cars and pedestrians passed. The Samoan man’s face had the same look on it the hold time. Serious, yet calm. George was deep in thought trying to imagine who did this. “Excuse me sir,” George said to the Samoan man. “I am going back to my condo and calling the airport so I can go home and figure out what the hell happened.” “Please don’t” said the Samoan. “Why not? Don’t you want to find out what happened to your brother?” “How?” asked George. The Samoan man closed his eyes and began chanting these phrases that George could not understand. They sounded like prayers. He finally opened his eyes and said, “The Sea Gods.” George being an atheist of all religions lost it. “You’re telling me that these f*ing Sea Gods told you about your brother and you don’t want to find his killers and get justice?” The Samoan man chuckled and said, “I am at peace. The justice belongs to the Gods.” George commanded, “Tell me what happened!” “Only the Sea Gods can tell you,” said the Samoan. “Well where on this f*ing island can I find the Sea Gods?” asked George. Slowly raising his finger, the Samoan pointed towards a volcano off in the water to the east. “Come,” he said. “At sundown, you will find out what happened.” Later that afternoon at the pool, George told his wife, “Honey, I forgot to tell you, a business partner from AK Steel is here on vacation as well. He wants to meet with me tonight…” She looked up at him, and said, “Work? We’re on vacation dear.” “I know, I know,” George said. “I just already promised I would see him tonight.” She sighed heavily, and said, “Go on. Go get drunk and go to a strip club with your business friend.” Choosing not to argue with his wife, George left the pool to go take a nap inside. The Samoan man told George to meet him at sundown at the tattoo parlor. George arrived in a plain black t-shirt, and khaki shorts. The Samoan man was in the same clothes as he was before. When the met, the Samoan asked, “Are you ready for the truth?” “I just need to know what happened. Innocent blood is on my hands!” “Well in that case,” said the Samoan, “Follow me.” The strolled down Coconut Drive and walked on the beach. It was starting to get dark, and high tide was rolling in. The Samoan man was humming a song while they walked. “Did the Sea Gods teach you that?” asked George. He turned to him and said, “No my dead grandmother did.” Embarrassed, George said, “I am sorry, I didn’t-” “Shhhh!!!” said the Samoan. “We’re here.” George watched the Samoan climb into this wooden, square raft. “Climb on!” he said. George hopped on and helped the Samoan paddle the raft to the volcano. “Who goes to see the Sea Gods?” asked George. “Every one who wants to find truth,” he said. “American Presidents, business men like yourself, college kids, and people of all sorts.” George just paddled, and thought to himself, “I bet Nixon came here to find truth!” The water wasn’t violent at all, and it was an easy ride. It took almost half an hour to get there, which left George’s arms sore from the work. When they arrived on the beach, the Samoan man gave George a necklace filled with shark teeth, and said “You must where this if you wish to see the Sea Gods.” George put it on with disgust. He knew by the smell of the necklace that it has never been sanitized. Then they walked out of the beach and into the woods. The Samoan man led the way with a flashlight. They walked down a dirt trail that winded left to right, and up and down. “Where are we going?” asked George. The only response he got back was the Samoan pointing his finger at the volcano. This could take awhile. They started to hike uphill, and climb up ledges of the mountain. They have been going at it for almost two hours and George was starting to wheeze. He had asthma, but never affected him because of his running regimen. The Samoan man stopped, and said, “Take this. Drink” George looked up, and gave a look of desperation. He took the clay bottle and drank. It tasted like strawberries, but was as thick as milk. It was sour when the liquid first hit your tongue, but it was soothing going down your throat. George drank the whole bottle. The Samoan grabbed it when he was finished and said, “Good. I knew you needed it.” “What was it?” “Water from the sea goddess herself; Palmyra.” George just shook his head and walked down the path with the Samoan man knowing this was the best he has felt during the whole night. Finally, the reached their destination. They came to the side of the volcano where a waterfall was. They stared at the drop that seemed like a mile. The Samoan shouted, “Follow me!” as he jumped into the waterfall. “What the f***!” George shouted. “Come back!” But, he was gone. “What the hell is going on?” George asked himself. The a voice talked to him through the wind, “Jump in the water George.” George felt urge to jump, but his conscience told him otherwise. “Don’t do it George. You’re hallucinating from the drink the Samoan man gave you. “I have to though,” he told himself. “I must find out who killed that man!” Without hesitation, George closed his eyes and jumped off the ledge. He felt the rush of adrenaline increase with every foot he fell. Finally, he hit the water and blacked out. He opened his eyes, and found himself lying on his belly, face down on sand. He looked up and saw the Samoan man with a torch. “I’m glad you jumped,” he said. “It’s the first step in finding the truth. Conquering your fears.” He helped George up and said, “Put on this.” He gave George a crown made of leaves and berries. George did so; he was going to find the truth. They walked over to where groups of people were circled around a fire. Whites, blacks, Asians, rich looking people, and bums, were all there seeking truth. The fire was large. You could feel the flames from twenty feet away. It’s smoke was making shapes of sea creatures. Sharks, whales, jellyfish, and starfish. “Hold on to this,” said the Samoan. He gave George a wooden staff with Samoan writing on it. “You’ll need it.” They joined the circle and closed their eyes, and George felt peace like he has never felt before. In George’s head, he could see nothing but white. It was bright, and he couldn’t open his eyes even if he wanted to. He could hear a voice calling out, “For what truth are seeking George.” George said, “I want to know who killed the Samoan brother at my hands!” “I see,” said the voice. “Why George do you care so much about this petty worker that you didn’t even know? It wasn’t your fault.” “Yes it is!” cried George. “When my father built the company he said, ‘the employees come first! They make the business’” The voice became angry, and said, “You don’t care about your employees George! If you did you wouldn’t have laid off three hundred workers last July!” “It wasn’t my fault,” pleaded George. “We were going to go bankrupt if we-” A sudden force hit George across the face. “Lies!” yelled the voice. “You could run your company successfully with all your workers! You just wanted to make sure you and your executives had enough money for yourselves!” George became offended, and yelled, “I have worked hard my whole life! I started delivering newspapers at fourteen because my dad wouldn’t give me a dime! I went to college for six years and studied my ass off so I could have a chance at running my father’s company! I have had-” “Enough!” cried the voice. “You want to know what happened to that young man? Fine.” A wind began to spin George around. He felt his limbs began to twist and pull in every direction. “AHHHHH!!!!” George blacked out. George opened his eyes. He wasn’t in Hawaii. He was in a big city with cars and people dressed in Cowboys jerseys. He was in Dallas. He began to walk down the street till he heard, “You dirty immigrant!” WHACK! He sharply turned around and saw his best friend since working at the company, Jack Proud hitting a young man across the face. “Go back to your surfing island!” SMASH! He saw his Vice President Larry Hayes kicking the young man in the side. “You think you’re as good as us? Think again. BAM! He saw his assistant Bo Brown slamming a beer bottle over the young man’s head. So this is how the Samoan’s brother died. He continued watching them slaughter the kid. His face was bloody and you could hear the bones break with every hit he took. “Stop! Stop!” yelled George. He ran over to them and tried to break it up, but he couldn’t. He was like a ghost; invisible to the drunken murdering bastards. They stopped, and walked off laughing saying, “Lets go watch the game inside.” They left the young kid there in the alley, left to die. The kid moaned and tried to move, but he couldn’t. He finally sat up against the side of the bar and rolled back his eyes. He was dead. “God damnit!” yelled George. He tried yell for help, but no one noticed. He tried waking the kid up, but he was gone. Then the wind that swirled and brought him here, took him back the island. He opened his eyes, and there was the fire. There were the people that were doing the same thing as him. George was panting. The stress, anger, and sadness was burying him. The Samoan man said, “Have you found the truth?” George looked over. His eyes were filled with rage. The muscles on his face were tightened. “Take the staff George!” yelled the voice. George picked it off the ground. “Stick it in the fire!” the voice commanded. George lunged it in the fire. “Run to the water, and throw the staff in the water! Your soul will be cleaned. George took off running. When he came to the end of the beach, he heaved the flaming staff with all his might and watched it hit the water. He turned around and saw the Samoan man. “You know what to do.” He said. Then George collapsed. He woke up in his bed, at the condo. His wife Susan turned over to him, “What time did come home last night?” “I don’t know,” George replied. “That isn’t a surprise,” Susan said. She rolled back over and fell asleep. George jumped out of his bed, and reached for his cell phone. He went out to the patio and started to dial numbers. “Hello?” “Jack. Its George.” “George! Buddy! How’s Hawaii?” “Just fine Jack. Just fine.” “What’s wrong man? Susan bugging ya?” “No actually my conscience is.” “What the hell is that suppose to mean? You aren’t spiritual not are you?” “Jack, is there something you want to tell me about the trip to Dallas last February?” “What? George? What are you talking about?” “I know what you, Larry, and Bo did. I know.”
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