Skip to main content

Looming vendetta

ONION-SKINNED we are as any bank’s armored vehicle, a segment of unreeling news events for a month or so has nudged our noggin to coyly rework within a local context and setting a 1970s kung-fu flick, Rikishi kuri. Doesn’t anybody remember one Dexter Won who was hitched as rickshaw boy in that no-brainer movie?

Viewers won’t mind an outright rip-off so let’s plunk down the same frayed plot in Tala, a convenient cross between agrestic idylls of Bulacan and the noisome concrete jungle of Caloocan City’s southern spread.

Begin with a blast in broad daylight-- a ragtag crew of cops moonlighting as holduppers pump buckets of ammo on a hapless purified water peddler who reportedly also works for RPN Channel 9 as camera man.

Fully perforated victim bleeds to death as the culprits cart away his day’s earnings.

Dump the rickshaw in Rikishi kuri, use a local vehicle relevant to our version of coolie labor. Yeah, a tricycle! Any convenient stand-in for Dexter Won witnesses the crime, recognizes the villains—well, two of them, SPO2 Inchtarugo and SPO10 Dimacatayo.

Protagonist a la Dexter Won becomes a reluctant star witness, under duress sings about ‘em jolly good felons, for they’re jolly good felons, for they’re jolly good felons… which nobody can deny.

After such awful singing, the villains move in. They make life a living hell for the poor triker. Say, during a neighborhood wake for star witness’ dead dad, the criminals’ cohorts hurl three grenades at the gathering. In that attack, two grenades explode leaving two more people dead, 21 wounded.

Pushed against the wall, the dead-scared character played by Dexter Won becomes too scarred to give a damn. He toughens up and toughs it out. He learns both the rudiments and advanced techniques in urban guerrilla warfare. He plunges into a crash course in stalking and surveillance operations. Plus marksmanship and close quarters battle. He turns into a cold-blooded assassin to turn the tables on his tormentors.

In due time Dexter Won nails ‘em baddies one at a time, kicking their teeth in, knifing their innards to ribbons, blowing their brains out, even defecating their dead carcasses and desecrating on their graves.

Such warped description isn’t exactly an awful prescription.

Such sickening plot unreeled in a movie called Rikishi kuri. Who can tell if art can’t imitate life?


Popular posts from this blog

Every single cell of my body's happy

I got this one from Carmelite Sisters from whose school three of my kids were graduated from. They have this snatch of a song that packs a fusion metal and liebeslaud beat and whose lyrics go like this:

"Every single cell of my body is happy. Every single cell of my body is well. I thank you, Lord. I feel so good. Every single cell of my body is well."

Biology-sharp nerds would readily agree with me in this digression... Over their lifetimes, cells are assaulted by a host of biological insults and injuries. The cells go through such ordeals as infection, trauma, extremes of temperature, exposure to toxins in the environment, and damage from metabolic processes-- this last item is often self-inflicted and includes a merry motley medley of smoking a deck a day of Philip Morris menthols, drinking currant-flavored vodka or suds, overindulgence in red meat or the choicest fat-marbled cuts of poultry and such carcass.

When the damage gets to a certain point, cells self-destruct. T…


Viagra au naturel

IT LOOKED eerie—a blaze of fireflies pulsing like stars in the nippy air, throbbing with mating passions. That show of lights somehow eased the shadows of a Holy Thursday night on a dry river bed a few kilometers trudge up Mount Makiling.

It’s likely that no river has lain in sleep for months on that moss-grown, boulder-strewn bed—except my 20-year old kid Kukudyu and I. We were out to spend the night, do on-site learning sessions by the next day. Usual father-and-son bonding. As the late Benjamin Franklin once begged: "Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn."

Past noon from the foot of the mountain’s northern section, it took us four hours ploughing non-stop through prickly bushes and forest undergrowth to get to that site. We got there in one bruised piece. By then, dusk was falling; the sylvan air hummed with a trill of crickets, cicadas, critters nameless in choral orison. That incessant “sh-r-r-e-eemmm---“ layered with “k-kr-r-eeengg--” …