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The Curse of Lono (0000) Wikipedia - Link -

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Events in The Curse of Lono take place circa 1981

 

GTO

 


The black GTO had a menacing appearance, and Skinner looked meaner than the car. He was wearing a white linen reef jacket with at least thirteen custom-built pockets to fit everything from a phosphorous grenade to a waterproof pen.
He was a head taller than anyone else in the airport and his eyes were hidden behind blue-black Saigon-mirror sunglasses. The heavy, square-linked gold Bhat chain around his neck could only have been bought in some midnight jewelry store on a back street in Bangkok, and the watch on his wrist was a gold Rolex with a stainless steel band.

People get edgy when the Kona weather hits. After nine or ten straight days of high surf and no sun you can get your spleen kicked completely out of your body on any street in Honolulu, just for honking at a Samoan. There is a large and increasingly obvious Samoan population in Hawaii. They are big, dangerous people with uncontrollable tempers and their hearts are filled with hate by the sound of an automobile horn, regardless of who's getting honked at. Caucasians are called "haole people" by the native Hawaiians and racial violence is a standard item in the daily newspapers and on the evening TV news. The stories are grisly, and a few are probably true. A current favorite in Waikiki is the one about "A whole family from San Francisco" -- a lawyer, his wife and three children -- who got raped by a gang of Koreans while strolling on the beach at sunset, so close to the Hilton that people sipping pineapple daiquiris on the hotel veranda heard their screams until long after dark, but they shrugged off the noise as nothing more than the shrieking of sea gulls in a feeding frenzy. "Don't go near the beach after dark," Skinner warned, "unless you feel seriously bored." The Korean community in Honolulu is not ready, yet, for the melting pot. They are feared by the haoles, despised by the Japs and Chinese, scorned by Hawaiians and occasionally hunted for sport by gangs of drunken Samoans, who consider them vermin, like wharf rats and stray dogs. . . "And stay away from Korean bars," Skinner added. "They're degenerate scum -- cruel, bloodthirsty little bastards. They're meaner than rats and a hell of a lot bigger than most dogs, and they can kick the shit out of anything that walks on two legs, except maybe a Samoan."

LEE MARVIN

BIG GAME BOATS

FERRARI

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"with a distracted wave of his hand and the speedy behavior of a man with serious business on his mind." The black GTO had a menacing appearance, and Skinner looked meaner than the car. He was wearing a white linen reef jacket with at least thirteen custom-built pockets to fit everything from a phosphorous grenade to a waterproof pen. He was a head taller than anyone else in the airport and his eyes were hidden behind blue-black Saigon-mirror sunglasses. The heavy, square-linked gold Bhat chain around his neck could only have been bought in some midnight jewelry store on a back street in Bangkok, and the watch on his wrist was a gold Rolex with a stainless steel band. People get edgy when the Kona weather hits. After nine or ten straight days of high surf and no sun you can get your spleen kicked completely out of your body on any street in Honolulu, just for honking at a Samoan. There is a large and increasingly obvious Samoan population in Hawaii. They are big, dangerous people with uncontrollable tempers and their hearts are filled with hate by the sound of an automobile horn, regardless of who's getting honked at. Caucasians are called "haole people" by the native Hawaiians and racial violence is a standard item in the daily newspapers and on the evening TV news. The stories are grisly, and a few are probably true. A current favorite in Waikiki is the one about "A whole family from San Francisco" -- a lawyer, his wife and three children -- who got raped by a gang of Koreans while strolling on the beach at sunset, so close to the Hilton that people sipping pineapple daiquiris on the hotel veranda heard their screams until long after dark, but they shrugged off the noise as nothing more than the shrieking of sea gulls in a feeding frenzy. "Don't go near the beach after dark," Skinner warned, "unless you feel seriously bored." The Korean community in Honolulu is not ready, yet, for the melting pot. They are feared by the haoles, despised by the Japs and Chinese, scorned by Hawaiians and occasionally hunted for sport by gangs of drunken Samoans, who consider them vermin, like wharf rats and stray dogs. . . "And stay away from Korean bars," Skinner added. "They're degenerate scum -- cruel, bloodthirsty little bastards. They're meaner than rats and a hell of a lot bigger than most dogs, and they can kick the shit out of anything that walks on two legs, except maybe a Samoan." Journalism is a Ticket to Ride, to get personally involved in the same news other people watch on TV -- which is nice, but it won't pay the rent, and people who can't pay their rent in the Eighties are going to be in trouble. We are into a very nasty decade, a brutal Darwinian crunch that will not be a happy time for free-lancers. Indeed. The time has come to write books -- or even movies, for those who can keep a straight face. Because there is money in these things; and there is no money in journalism.

"Well," he said finally, "let's go to the volcano. They'll never look for us up there." He laughed and suddenly stood up.
   "That's it," he said. "We'll make a run for the high ground, maybe run the Saddle Road ."
   "The Saddle Road ?"
   "Yeah," he said. "You'll like it. We can go for the record -- one hour and seventeen minutes from Hilo to Waimea."
    "How far?" I said. "Fifty-three miles, at top speed."

When in doubt, bore it out. -- Harley Davidson

We were coming into Hilo very fast, running downhill in the rain through a residential district at just under a hundred miles an hour. The speedometer went up to 180, but I was not in the mood for unnecessary risks at this point, so I hit the accelerator and shifted down into second gear. . . Ackerman screamed something at me as a tin mailbox suddenly appeared right in front of us, but I missed it and punched the gas again as we hit the inside of the curve on a straight bounce and kept going. I had never driven a Ferrari before and it had taken me a while to get the hang of it. . . but now that I finally felt comfortable with the machine, I wanted to push it a bit, lean back and let it run. (Any car that costs $60,000, I felt, was built for some special purpose -- and until now I had not understood just exactly what this one had been built for, what it really wanted to do.) The numbers on the speedometer had fooled me, for a while, into thinking that the Ferrari 308 was made to go fast. But I was wrong about that. A lot of cars will go fast, and I have driven most of them. . . But I have never driven anything that I would dare to put through a five-mile stretch of downhill S-turns at 100 miles an hour in the rain on a two-lane blacktop highway from 10,000 feet above sea level down to zero in less than ten minutes. The drop is so steep and so fast that every once in a while, at 100 miles an hour, you get an eerie sense of freefall. It is almost like flying, or falling off a cliff. All the outside noise fades away and your eyes feel big in your head and the focus gets very, very sharp. We had already broken the record -- or at least I thought we had -- but I couldn't be sure and Ackerman had gone rigid in the passenger seat, no longer keeping track of the stopwatch. He had been yelling numbers at me every ten or fifteen seconds for almost an hour, but now he was getting nervous. His eyes were wild and his hands were braced on the black leather dashboard. I could see that his confidence was slipping. What he wanted now was a handle, but that was out of the question. We had left all our handles at the top of the hill, in the shadow of Hilo Prison, two minutes ahead of the record and miraculously still alive. Concentrate, I thought. Stay on the fall line, don't touch the brakes, use the gears and don't blink. . . This is dangerous, we are almost out of control. But not quite, and the car had amazing balance. It was finally on its own turf, functioning at the top of its form, and I didn't have the heart to slow it down. Far out in front of us I could see, through the clouds, a white line of surf hitting up on the rocks around Hilo harbor. It stretched off in both directions like a line drawn with chalk, the lush green coast of Hawaii on one side and the deep gray swell of the Pacific on the other. The bay was full of whitecaps, and no boats were out. . . a bleak Sunday morning in Hilo, the capital city of the BigIsland. The population is mainly Japanese, who tend to sleep in on Sundays, and not many of whom are good Catholics. I had already taken this into account, along with other ethnic factors, when the Speed Run was still in the planning stage. . . About six hours ago, in fact, when the bars closed in Kona and Ackerman let slip that he was planning to leave for a Tuna Tournament in Bimini the next day, or at least very soon. . . which alarmed me, because I had very definite plans to use his new yellow Ferrari to set a new land-speed record for running the Saddle Road.

 

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+ BIBLIOGRAPHY

+ SEE ALSO

- Other Locations in Monument Valley.

+ EXTERNAL LINKS

-Cinema Retro Wikipedia - Cinema Retro Link - Cinema Retro Magazine the journal of choice for motion pictures of the Sixties and Seventies.

- After the Battle Magazine Link - journal of historical research

+ BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

Action wristwatch FAQ - James Bond Film Locations - Sir Sean Connery Film Locations -

 

 

 

ETAOIN SHRDLU

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