The Thousand Yard Stare and Other Stories

By Angelo Victor Mercure

From the author of NIGHT OF THE DRAGON and BLUE TIGER/YELLOW FANG........ come these torrid tales........ jaded, grim, corrupt, moody stories - yet each narrative retains a surge of life that is unforgettable......



Reading this book is like stepping into the lair of a lion.......Angelo Victor Mercure has created passionate and dramatic scenarios......crafted incredible tableaus of
savage subterranean worlds inhabited by junkies, speed freaks, alkies, gamblers, robbers, and whores......



No-holds-barred, in-your-face prose.
Carlo Popolus
Taboo Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462841417

Angelo Victor Mercure

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Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by Angelo Victor Mercure.

Photographs Copyright © 2007 by Angelo Victor Mercure

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

THE THOUSAND-YARD STARE

CHINA DOLL

JOSIE

LOSS OF FACE

BITTER TEA

SEX TOUR

DRAGON FIRE

CHEAP CHARLIE

SMOOTH OPERATOR

THE JEOPARDY ROOM

THE OGRE

THE BURN

IRON BAMBOO

TROPIC OF DECEIT

THE TERRIBLE SILENCE

DADDY’S GIRL

IN MEMORY OF HAROLD

THE RIDE

A MATTER OF EMPLOYMENT

A DEATH REMEMBERED (1970)

THE CHROME GREYHOUND

AND MAY ALL YOUR CHRISTMASES BE BRIGHT

BABY

Also authored by Angelo Victor Mercure:

NIGHT OF THE DRAGON

BLUE TIGER/YELLOW FANG and OTHER STORIES

This book is dedicated to Marvin Nelson, Craig Tomkinson,

Robert Gray, and Frank Canziani, dedicated artists all . . .

"Outside are dogs, sorcerers, sexual deviants, liars, idolaters, and

murderers."

—Book of Revelation

"People cling to their rotten memories, to all their misfortunes, and

you can’t pry them loose. They avenge themselves for the injustice

of the present by smearing their future with shit. They’re cowards

deep down. That’s their nature."

—Louis-Ferdinand Celine

 "

THE THOUSAND-YARD STARE"

Private First Class Evan Palantine’s baby-blue eyes had that vacant icy thousand-yard stare. He acquired this during the intense firefight at Tay Ninh, South Vietnam, March 22, 1971.

By that time, the war was being fought by young American soldiers from small towns that no one had ever heard of. These guys were chaff, debris, flotsam, jetsam, cannon fodder.

Raised in an orphanage and later bounced from foster home to foster home, Palantine had relatively high intelligence but hated school and dropped out in the eleventh grade. Always a troublesome kid, he was arrested at eighteen for assaulting a police officer. The court gave him two choices: jail or the army. The battle at Tay Ninh marked Private Palantine’s primary encounters with death—and what encounters they were! Three guys in his platoon were killed that day: a likable West Virginia hillbilly whose spongy white intestines spilled out all over the filthy brown muck of the rice paddy; a taciturn Mexican kid whose eyeballs hung out of their sockets by long fleshy threads; and a black guy who dazedly surveyed the short bloody stumps that were once his legs. In the end, all three men died exactly the same way: screaming at the tops of their lungs for their mothers.

One week later, Palantine was granted a much-desired three-day pass to Saigon. He never returned to his platoon in the bush.

American deserters tended to hide out in Cholon—the Chinese district of Saigon. Cholon was a veritable anthill of noisy, smelly open-air markets, maze-like blind alleys, and more cramped, rabbit-hutch apartments than anyone could even begin to count.

Palantine lived in one of the nicer firetraps of Cholon. His coffin-like room had a few sticks of furniture; a bare mattress on a wood floor; a squat toilet; a shower stall; a sink; an ancient gas stove; and a creaky ceiling fan. He supported himself by selling cheap low-grade heroin to active-duty GIs. Palantine’s shackmate—an older, hard-faced Vietnamese hooker named Mai—worked out of a navy bar on Saigon’s notorious Tu Do Street. Mai—who still possessed a sort of dissolute beauty—was oddly devoted to Palantine. Together, they combined incomes and did well enough.

Occasionally, Palantine and Mai would make a day trip to Vung Tau Beach. Not often, though—as the daytime movements of a deserter could easily attract the unwelcome attention of seemingly ubiquitous American MPs.

On the sun-dappled, palm-lined boardwalk, Palantine and Mai would spend time talking. One of their later conversations marked a pivotal point in their relationship.

Do you like my country? she asked

Very much.

How long can you stay here?

God only knows.

Will you one day return to your unit?

Never.

Do you have a family—anywhere in the world?

No.

Then I can be your family.

For a moment Mai thought Palantine might smile.

Thank you, Mai. That’s a very nice thing to say.

Will you accompany me to my home in the province someday?

Where exactly?

Ca Mau.

Maybe. Well . . . sure! Why the hell not?

You’re joking.

No. I never joke.

I know. And you never smile. Are you ever happy?

Happy? Happiness? No. It’s never been there for me.

I don’t make you happy?

Oh, sure you do.

She laughed.

You are so . . . strange. But I love you.

Yes.

Do you love me?

What is love?

Come on!

What is love?

You! You make me angry.

I’m sorry, Mai.

I like your mouth. Your lips. Your white teeth. You are the only man I allow to kiss me.

Yeah, right.

Her eyes blazed.

Hey! Why do you talk to me like that?

I’m sorry.

Shit!

She crossed her arms tightly over her small chest. You’re not sorry. You think I’m just a prostitute—nothing more. Somebody with no feelings—that’s what you think about me.

No, Mai . . .

Fuck you!

Mai, I said ‘I’m sorry’, okay?

Tell me something. Why does your voice say ‘sorry’ but your eyes say nothing?

What do you want from me, Mai?

Why do your eyes always say nothing?

You talk crazy.

She began crying.

I’m getting old. Why do I love you? Because I’m stupid. That’s why. I know I have no future with you, but I love you. I know you don’t care about me. You don’t even make love to me anymore. Why? Do you have someone else?

No, Palatine answered truthfully.

Mai rested her head on his shoulder and choked back a sob.

Is there something—anything—I can still do for you?

Yes, Palatine replied coldly.

Stoned on junk, Palantine sat buck-naked atop the thin mattress—resting his back against the clammy wall. His penis was strapped into a stocklike device with a hole in the center and bolts on the sides. Mai brandished a scalpel and knelt down next to Palantine. The thin, razor-sharp blade touched his penis lightly in passing. A trickle of blood was the immediate result. Mai deftly grazed Palantine’s organ again and again with the scalpel. It would be one slash, two slashes, three slashes—over and over in rapid succession—a progressive mangling of Palatine’s penis.

Palantine—completely drugged, his eyes rolled up in his head—derived a twisted, tormented sexual satisfaction from all this. Indeed, he saw himself as some sort of Olympic athlete—pushing the boundary of his endurance to the limit. Eventually, though, Palantine passed out.

Surveying the wretched mess of blood and pulpy flesh, Mai ran to the toilet and vomited.

After he healed, Palantine disappeared. When Mai came home in the wee hours of the morning, she found him and all his meager possessions gone. Mai attempted a frantic search of tangled, congested Cholon but her efforts proved to be hopeless.

Regardless of what might have happened to Palantine, Mai just couldn’t afford to pay all the rent on their old place. She soon relocated to a tiny apartment situated above her bar on Tu Do Street in central Saigon—splitting expenses with two other hostesses.

As months and then years went by, Mai seldom thought of Palantine. But she did occasionally dream of him. Each dream was very brief, very simple, and very much alike. Invariably, Mai would see a gentle image of Palantine’s face. He would have a warm look in his eyes and an angelic smile on his lips.

Mai felt good when she dreamed of him that way.

THE END

 "

CHINA DOLL"

In late 1970s’ San Diego, The China Doll was a small slice of the Orient transplanted to America’s largest military town. Every navy payday it was packed with young sailors who had more money than sense.

The China Doll was a modest go-go bar with character. The five dancers on staff were all Asian: three Filipinas; one Thai; and one Vietnamese (that would be Lanh).

I spotted her very late one quiet Tuesday evening. At that hour the bar was half-empty and only thirty minutes remained until closing time. Lanh was temporarily waiting tables. Soon, she would perform the final dance set of the evening.

When Lanh gracefully ascended centerstage in her black stiletto heels all eyes were glued to the petite figure with the long silky black hair.

She wore a white ankle-length satin robe that she sexily shrugged off her soft shoulders. Lanh let the robe fall slowly, teasingly, to the floor of the stage, then playfully kicked it aside. Her breasts were bare, uptilted, and ample with large, dark-brown nipples.

The China Doll was simply a topless joint, so this was about as much flesh as could be legally revealed during that era. Still, Lanh’s black panties, garterbelt, and stockings whipped at my senses. I’m a leg man and hers just went on and on . . .

Lanh’s dance routine was, predictably, a very erotic one and I was hooked from the start. After she descended the stage—wrapped in her robe once again—I bought her a drink. Lanh sat down at the bar rather cautiously.

Are you in the navy? Lanh asked warily.

No. I’m a civilian.

Are you married? Lanh gave me a sidelong look.

No. I’m single.

How long have you lived in San Diego?

Most of my life. I’m stable. I own my home.

She visibly perked up.

The bar will close very soon. Will you come to see me tomorrow night?

"Of