David Lo Pan

Of late, I have found it harder and harder to forget those green eyes.
Memory is a wicked thing.  Some have postulated that Hell is a
recounting of every moment of your life stretched out over eternity.
With the fog of forgetfulness torturously eradicated, every agonizing
mistake is seen with new clarity.

I will never know Hell.  I know only life, and it is just as bad.  For
years, millenia really, I have suffered the slings, arrows, and
bootknives of outrageous men, but I have always dodged Death’s mighty
scimitar.  Qin Shi Huang was, of course, helpful in instilling this
quality in me, eternal life with all the drawbacks.  In my time, I
have seen many glorious shitholes as well.  The Tuscan countryside was
never one of them, and so I have chosen to make this my most recent
home.

The arid climate does wonders for flesh as old as mine.  Prostitutes
with blue eyes, bank tellers with brown eyes, and “hip-hop” dancers
with purple contact lenses have all done their part for my corporeal
preservation as well.  Some would call my life “a terrific ride”.  But
over time, power fades, even for an immortal.  Not even the most
fastidious man can make plans for forever.  There are trends, you
understand.  Evil is just as prone to fads as handbags.  Uzis, for
example, are outdated and wicker headgear, even more so.  I have been
told that my style is “so over”.  I consider myself a well-informed
man, a perceptive one at the very least, and as a result, I
understand.

There was a period in my life when, I admit, I did not so readily
understand.  In the scope of time, it was not so long ago.  I spoke of
agonizing mistakes.  This was one of them.  Perhaps, the one, although
I have not yet made up my mind.  To underestimate a man is a
regrettable error.  But certainly my colleagues would have, in this
case, made the very same error.  I refuse to believe otherwise, in
fact.  If you were to tell me that the composition of an overblown
mullet, cut-off sleeves, and crotch-clinging Levis was a disguise, a
grand tactic, a redneck Trojan Horse, I might be at ease.  You would
be surprised to find me somewhat satisfied at being defeated by a
suitable foe.  But there is not creature on this earth or in the
underworld that could tell me that Jack Burton is more than an empty
socket, a dimpled boobie, an inflatable hero…

I have over-extended my energies.  The mere mention of his name, the
crude curvature of his initials causes unending rage to swell within
my unsuitable frame.  I must focus on the positive, the beauty that
surrounds me.  There is nothing quite as stunning as a golden sunset
over a golden field.  The shadows of grape vines grow long in those
final moments of daylight.  I regret that I have spent too much time
in the soggy underworld; too much time ruling the dark streets of San
Francisco; too much time bending the brutal yet fashionable Wing Kong
to my will.  Although unlimited time awaits me and I shall crumble
into the earth here, at what is almost certainly the most beautiful
spot in the world, I fear it still is not enough.

Ugh.  This sunset overwhelms me.  It highlights every color around me.
As ever, I am drawn to green.  Mesmerized by green.  Tortured by
green.  Had I eyelids, I would close them but they have rotted away
like my ears and the thin bits between my fingers.  My nose will
almost certainly be next.  But my eyes will remain.  They will remain
to see.  See until I see the green eyes I lost not so long ago.  Oh,
Miao Yin.  I did love you.  I hope you know.

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