The Curse of Lono - By Hunter S. Thompson Page 0,56
not for real, and certainly not for long.
I could handle the fishing end, but the real estate market in Kona is so wretched these days that I could own every building on Alii Drive
and still go bankrupt by Christmas. The whole coast is for sale to the highest bidder -- or to any bidder at all, for that matter. Nobody is buying anything for more than a dime on the dollar. There are 600 real estate agents in Kona, and between them they have made only fifty (50) escrow closures since you left here in early January, six months ago.
That is not what you call a bull market.
Then one native broke from the crowd following him, advanced with a club, withdrew for fear he might turn, advanced again, raised the club and struck him a fearful blow. Cook staggered for several yards, and fell onto a hand and knee, his musket rattling onto the rocks beside him.
The captain was clearly not killed by this blow, though seriously stunned. Another native did the murder. He was recognized by several onlookers. The muscular Chief Ku'a leapt onto the big stooping form, raised his pahoa, and plunged it into the back of Cook's neck. Robust to the end, even this did not kill him. The shock of the blow caused him to fall into a rock crevice full of water from the high tide. Ku'a leapt onto him again, stabbing him repeatedly while others who had joined the murderer attempted to hold him down under the water. In one last gesture of defiance, Cook raised his head. Those in the pinnace saw his big craggy face clearly but momentarily. His lips were forming an unheard cry and he was waving an arm feebly towards them. He attempted to rise, received a second fearful club blow. And now it was all over -- all finished except for the dreadful performance of mutilation.
Henry Roberts from Shoreham, Sussex, master's mate, was among those who were unwitting eyewitnesses in the pinnace; and the sight would haunt them all for the remainder of their lives. The natives fell on the corpse like wolves upon a fallen moose, stabbing it, grabbing another's pahoa and thrusting it in again, stabbing with spears, too, and hitting it with rocks and clubs. At one point a number of them raised his body from the crevice and beat his head repeatedly against the rock face.
Richard Hough
The Last Voyage of Captain James Cook
But it is our market, Ralph. The chickens are already roosting here, and more come home every day. If we have any real cash by Labor Day we can buy the whole goddamn place, and mete out our own kind of justice.
Right. Yes. And so much for that. It is time to get back to basics. We can always buy real estate, Ralph. And we can always punish the guilty. . . But right now I think I should tell you the story of what happened when I finally caught a fish.
It was, as you know, my first. And it came at an awkward time. I was ready to leave. We had an eight o'clock flight to Honolulu, then an overnight haul to LA and Colorado. Fuck these people. Their lies are costing us money and I was losing my sense of humor.
That was when I decided to have one last talk with the remnants of Team 200: a business meeting, of sorts; ten o'clock sharp at the Yacht Club -- just ask a few critical questions, get the answers on tape, then get out of town the next day.
But the whole idea went wrong, due to booze, and by midnight my mood had turned so ugly that I decided -- for some genuinely perverse reason -- to go out and fish for marlin once again. It would be my last day in Kona and the plane didn't leave until eight, so why not?
I was still typing in a fit of cold rage when the sun came up and I realized that it was time, once again, to drive down to Union Jack Liquors for another two cases of Heineken, then back in the T-top Mustang for another high-speed run on the highway out there to the Honokahua and another long day at sea.
That will tell you all you need to know about my attitude at that point. I didn't pack that goddamn brutal Samoan war club in my seabag for the purpose of crushing ice. There is a fearful amount of