The Atomic Hula by Mike Marino (most important books of all time .TXT) 📖

streets.
He was on his way to the boarding gate, when he passed a bank of public phones and noticed others making those last minute "I love you and just wanted you to know in case the plane crashes" phone calls. Mickey was overcome by a desire to dial and call home too, in case he personally crash landed, and not the planes own mass of metal. He just wanted to tell the folks what he was up to and that it would be alright. Hell, he had just turned 15 a month ago, right? A man of the world now by all accounts, but first he had to inseminate the world with himself, so he just kept moving past the phones, walking down the long tunnel halls of the airport to Gate 17B. Soon they called his plane and he boarded the jets pressurized belly for distant Los Angeles, where he would then transfer planes again and hop aboard a Pan Am flight across the wide Pacific. Next stop after that? Honolulu, Baby! Honolulu!!

The Hawaiian Islands transformed Mickey's world of Midwestern black and white into a peacock network of Polynesian color. In his minds eye, the nuns of the church would strip for his pleasure and dance bare chested before pleased pagan statues and the leering eyes of appreciative missionaries. Priests would cast aside their frocks, rosaries and piety, and shed their pale skin like the snakes of Eden, soon emerging as beautiful bronze men with brown eyes and ukuleles. The Catholic classroom walls imploded as the library shelves exploded with so much literature to be studied, homeworked and absorbed. The ordnance had now reduced the tomes of prose to the nuclear rubble of pocket-sized 17 syllable Japanese haikus.
Breeze of sea, heat of sand, trees of palm, played poi-boi games of a phallic nature with Mickey's budding sexuality, causing him to pop his cherry like a sunburned blister and loose his mainland virginity. All without a whimper or a cry for help from the young yelp. Young, naive and haoli, he had come to hear his first not so naive, yet very, very cocoa native "Aloha".
They were stacked like a great cord of hardwood outside a cabin in the forest. Honolulu's finest babies, goddesses really. Nubile all. Big beautiful saucer sized brown eyes, with matching, inviting "soft to the touch" cop a feel breasts; nipples standing tall and proud at full colonial attention for Mickey's personal inspection, The Muses descended from thrones of soft clouds and placed a scented boa of intoxicating Kapiolani flora gently over his head in welcome. A ceremonial "Aloha" at first, followed by a ceremonial "mahalo". At last, at long last, he realized what it was like to get "lei'd" in Hawaiian!
Honolulu. Bitchin' surfs up dude paradiso, eh, Freako? Soon the young modern day Capt. Cook would set out for his first day on the islands beach, kick off his sandals while the soles of his feet, still Midwest tender, would turn a gentle feminine pink, and then into a fiery bottom spanking red outrage. In time, they would harden and toughen, as tough as a Cherokee Indian Nation tanned leather hide, and he would be able to brave the hot beach sand as easily and as religiously as the most devout firewalkers in all of transcendental India.
He was a punk at 15 and ready to live life as a holy haiku hobo of Honolulu; a son of a beach in the land where armor plated coconuts make great protective furry bras for cocoa brown breasts, and the dance fantastico of the hula-girls make the grass skirts sway suggestively and sing silent songs of dripping, Bessie Smith sweaty blues, just as Suzi Quatro would do for tight leather pants in the future crotch erotica glitz and glamour of the 1970s.
August. 1963. Mickey was high on a pubic mushroom cloud of Godzillian proportions and the sexual heat of the Pacific Islands.
November, 1963.
Kennedy was dead and Camelot lost it's erection.
Mickey was also dead...dead broke, and marooned to the homeless madness of life on the beach. Yeah, he was dead alright, dead and fucked!

Chapter Two
"It was the kilts wot kilt 'im!"
Flashback - August 1963
First Day in Hawaii
The European penis had finally entered the volcanic vagina of paradise.
The semen of seaman and missionary machetes sliced and cut wide paths of Caucasian conquest through the paradise of Kamehameha's Kingdom, bearing a colonial gift basket of biblical Christian scripture and European syphllis. Don't ask how, but somehow, God and gonorrhea had teamed up in a macabre Faustian exchange for native land, bodies and souls.
Hawaii's seductive powers have captivated captains and cooks alike, luring heavily laden vessels of adventurers and sailors to her tranquil shores of warriors and maidens. The islands inject the soul with an invisible, living lava bed that carries warm ocean winds and exotic scents of intoxication that forces a gentle, willing "fall to your knees" submission of the spirit. Today, the seagoing scoundrels and run soaked salty dogs of olde, have been replaced by Honolulu high-rise hoteliers and jet-set jesters in search of the perfect Maui martini. The land on the runway and disembark the plane only to embark on a new journey into the ample, fleshy Waikiki waihini bosom of the Big Kahuna's Oahu Mama-cita herself.
Mickey’s middle-class, middle-west, plaid-proud sensibilities were poked Stooges style, in the eye and he numbly stumbled dumbly, clumsily, at first in a darkened room of frayed old wiring from 1910, broken light bulbs and an eerie blindness, caneless, with an equally blind three legged no seeing eye-dog appropriately named Tripod to guide him. Slowly, it dawned on him. This was freakin' Hawaii, man. Freakin' Hawaii. Ha! He made it, damn it after all. His sensory eyesight was returned to him along with the occasional nude muse as a gift from the harem bedrooms of unknown Polynesian kings, and their switch hitter queens, quite queer for the princess and bearing a bitch on a leash for the darling butch.
Happy teeny bop-hot humidity was everywhere in the air that warm August morning, slapping his face fanny spankin' red and ko'd him to the ten count canvas, like that ol' punch drunk broken down boxer his grandpa had talked about named Killer Bixby from the Bronx. The sun and wind rocketed Mickey down the quarter mile of his emotional dirt hotrod racetrack, fueled by hot 1963 teen-angst when he stepped from the Pan Am jet on the ground in Honolulu. Gliding on gilded wings he began to drown delightfully in the sea of rays that showered him in an erotic sunbath and had to admit that from now on he was hooked, lined and sinkered on hookers with hookahs and hip, swingin' hulas.
Mickey stepped outside the airport terminal to hail a hack to make the backseat trek into the land of beach blanket bingo. Soon from hack hell it appeared, a beat-up cab with an equally beat cabbie pulled up curbside and Mickey jumped into the backseat with one easy, fluid and poetic motion. The meter clicked up and he settled in to enjoy the scenery, his own personal thoughts and his own private past pass by.

The taxi was taxi tacky, and stunk that taxi stink that never quite goes away. A toxic mixture of a cheap pimps cologne, a hard working whores perfume and patchouli incense combined to create a blistering mustard gas of primping pansies powerful enough to lob in battle on the Western front creating a death trap trench of taxicab stench!
The door shut tight, not hermetically, but tight enough given its age and condition. Mickey noticed the dashboard with its protective statuary of little plastic St. Christopher, patron saint of all travelers. The kid swore he saw a lecherous grin on the saint’s face as it stood next to a gyrating hula dashboard ornament that wanted to rub against him the most holy. A plastic Mary Magdalene with full swing hula hip-action and a prophylactic profile.
The cab and the cabbie then roared to life. "Where to, Mate?" asked the cabbie. Mickey was startled, here the swarthy Hawaiian in the front seat let loose a spigot full of language that poured forth like a tankard full of the Queens English. Blimey! The cabbie was a Limey! "Not sure, not sure at all" was all he could stutter and stammer out. The cabble fixed his gaze on him through the looking glass of the rearview mirror and let out a laugh, a roar really. "Not to worry, lad. Mos' folks don' know where they's headed anyway, and my young friend, thats cuz, they don' know where they bin in the firs' place!". The last sentence exploded as if it were a landmine taking his leg off with it just above the kneecap.
The cabbie drove deftly with one hand on the steering wheels suicide knob while t'other hand reached for and fully orchestrated the downing of a handful of pills with the flair and precision of a flamboyant Bernstein, baton grasped firmly in his delicate ivory hand. Gawd dammit, these weren't just any old pills either. They were a colorful cornucopia Wizard of Oz over the rainbow assortment that would make Dorothy/Judy salivate and pant like a dog in heat.
There were ruby-red pills; yellow brick road pills; little blue smurfy Munchkin pills to munch and crunch; and some were twin engine two-toned Toto inhalers. There were numerous types of pills to choose from in the Mason jar/holy chalice gaping open mouthed on the seat next to him. It proved only that the cabbie was an enlightened pill popper and would not party-cipate in a policy of pharmaceutical apartied!
The yellow amphetamine submarine ripped away from curbside and began a cool cab cruise along the beachside highway of Kalakaua Avenue. "Names Doc, Doc Yucatan, kid. I may looks a little Hay-why-yan, but me pop was a kilt happy Scotsmun and me mum was a grass skirt'd native girl, when they met in '25. Pop was a missionary, holy pious man he was, trying to save the savages from the snake charmers!" Ha! "These native girls, lad, they'll bring you to your knees every time, with a wink in their coy eyes and of course, happy lip smackin' delicious hips! Anyway, they ends up in a most un-missionary like missionary position, and as a result they had me."
Doc was as colorful as a boxful of Crayolas. His rapid fire speaking in tongues intoxicated the young runaway enough to lure him staggering, stammering, drunken, deeper and deeper into the Cabbie Cave of giant ferns and even taller tales. A storytelling spelunkers Alice in Wonderland, and somehow, Mickey, somewhere, had broken through the looking glass guided by a happy hookah haiku hobo as his guide to all things new and outlandish in whacked out Wonderland.
Doc flipped the page and continued his story. "Strange it was, growin' up in that household. Me mum, she wore the grass skirts on occasion, ceremonial though most times in those days. Hell, they used to be bareassed nekid before the dammed priests and pastors got here. Anyways, Pop was partial to kilts, bein' a Scotsmun and all as he was. On more than one occasion Mum and me caught Pop dressed up in one'ov her grass skirts, just a sashayin' real nice like, all by himself in the bedroom. Strange thing though, is that it was alright with me mum. Sometimes she had pop dress up in one of her skirts and do a hula for her and damned if she didn't like to wear his damn kilts herself. We didn't have pants in the house, so Mum used to joke around that she was the one who wore the kilts