From a distance I saw that Mr. Wong, I called him in mind, would book a table in my restaurant. Now that it is awfully quiet in Amed because of the vulcan threat, I drag the last tourists in personally: street marketing.
Mr. Wong, with his wife slooping behind him, looked around uncertainly. He had a round face and frog eyes, I estimated him as a Chinese, perhaps a Korean. A bit fat but less than ‘rocket man’ Kim. His pace slowed and he tried to avoid my gaze, while I radiantly radiated heat for the critical moment: the passing .
My default opening is: Hello, I think you are from … In this case I chose Korea, although I thought he would be Chinese. But with just a little wrong valuation, there is more emotion in the answer. ‘ No, no I Honkong, I Hong Kong. ” Bingo, there was contact. Within 10 seconds, the Wongs walked behind me like lambs and took place in my empty restaurant. With a little finger movement I signaled my co-worker: Bring the special menu. The only difference is the price of the wine, five times as high, the same bad stuff, Bali Hatten wine.
Mr. and Mrs. Wong rinsed the Foe Jong Hai away with two bottles of Hatten, looked at me in a gleaming and grateful way and promised to come back the next day. Thats for what you are doing it, being a professional.
The Wongs arrived that evening on a scooter rented in the morning. Our receptionist tried to help Mr. Wong to drop his helmet without success. The thing was stuck or as if attached to his skull with contact glue. The night watchman, a bodybuilder, was called to help. While he was making slightly circular movements with the helmet, the receptionist held Mr. Wong around his waist. In vain. I was called to help and understood what was going on. During the trip under the tropical sun, his head was blown up to a red-yellow ball that was sitting firmly in the helmet. Mr. Wong moaned loud, Mrs. Wong moaned softly, the night watchman cursed and put more power, the receptionist cried with compassion.
As always, the solution had to come from me. I had a basin filled with water and ice blocks and had it taken to our cold room. A few half pigs hanging on rails were pushed aside, there was room for Mr. Wong. His ankles were tied together and hung on a meat hook he could now cool down relaxed, his helmet in water and ice.
A new attempt to free him failed, so I ordered the receptionist to pour massage oil, always available, between head and helmet. When that did not help, I decided, at the end of options, to alert both the doctor and the village smith.
The village smith wanted to tackle the problem with a cutting torch, but when Mrs. Wong saw the flame, she begged: “No, no.” At that moment, Dr. Tan arrived, instructing to get Wong off the meat hook and lay him down. The face of Mr. Wong was now deathpale and the helmet could be put off without any effort. Dr Tan’s diagnosis was short but clear: Your Chinese is dead, dead. In view of the cause of death, I have to report this, waterboarding, heard of?