Free Manpot's Tales of the Tropics by Malcolm Boyes

Manpot's Tales of the Tropics
By Malcolm Boyes
Cover Art by Aaron and Carl
Wells
Copyright 2011 Malcolm Boyes
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table
of Contents
    1. Big Red the Gangster
    2. Wacko Jacko, The Oddfather and…
    3. Johnnie One Nut
    4. Don’t call me Ray…or Stevie
Wonder
    5. The Last Great Beach
Bonfire
    6. Yes…he is a Pirate
    7. "Mon…Dat be Icin’!!"
    8. The Million Dollar Chaise
Longue
    9. "Lord" Land Crab and the Flying
Donkey
    10. The Islanders…of
Montana
    11. Four Red Stripes and a Funeral
    12. She Came Down…from Sturgis, South
Dakota
    13. Bongo the Pelican…Bonus chapter for kids
(and those of us who still act like them.)
    About
the Author

BIG RED THE GANGSTER
    It’s a long haul from California down to the island
paradise of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. But after
fourteen hours of flying south east to latitude 18 there’s one
sight that instantly makes it all worthwhile. Stumbling out of
customs and immigration at Tortola’s Beef Island airport into the
warm, moist tropical air I’m greeted by a big white and gold grin
and two outstretched arms….one to give me a “welcome home” hug, the
other to give me an ice cold Red Stripe beer.
    My longtime buddy’s name is Darkie and in these
oh-so-politically correct times a name like that really needs a
brief explanation. Darkie is, well, very dark but he comes by the
only name anyone ever calls him because his eyes are light
sensitive and he wears sunglasses day and night.
    “My momma calls me Darkie”, my friend said when we
first met and I told him how uncomfortable it made me feel to use
that name, “so if you don’t call me ‘Darkie’ I’ll be very
offended.”
    So Darkie it is.
    Seems few folks in the islands have names like Fred,
Jim or Bob. My island buddies have names like Bomba, Boots,
Sandman, Shadow, Quito, Daddy Magic, Landcrab, and of course,
Darkie. I even have this weird island name Manpot.
    So how does a white boy from middle class North
London end up with the moniker "Manpot" in the Caribbean?
    Of course, there's a colourful tale to tell.
    I first walked into the now famous Bomba Shack on a
very hot summer day back in 1984. The shack hangs over the water's
edge of Little Apple Bay, about eight feet above the beach. It's
literally a giant sandbox made of corroding roofing materials, old
surfboards, rusted outboard motors, even discarded computers and
stereos. Basically anything that washes up on the beach or ends up
on the roadside becomes part of the Shack.
    Someone once asked me what would happen to the Shack
in a hurricane. I answered that no one could tell any difference.
On a good day the place looks like a category five just blew
through.
    Anyway on my first visit to the Shack I was greeted
by a mountain of a man sitting on a giant cooler. He was at least
six feet four and hadn't seen the downside of three hundred pounds
in many a year. He fixed me with one eye, the other pointing in a
decidedly easterly direction. The trade winds blew through the
shack mixing a smell of barbecue, stale beer and rum…..the smells
of paradise in other words.
    "Got any cold beer?" I asked.
    "Got any money?" he responded.
    "Yup," said I."
    "Got cold beer," said the man I soon found out was
Bomba himself.
    That was the beginning of a generally fond friendship
between Bomba and I. OK ...he wasn’t exactly thrilled when a friend
of mine took out part of the Shack with his Jeep in the dead of
night, but that's tale for another day.
    Anyway Bomba loves to give his pal's names and,