And if you believe the subject line, I've got some oceanfront property
next door to my place for sale...

     The big Freightliner truck seemed out of place as it drove along 
the narrow highway through a blinding rainstorm. Smaller Izusu and 
Mitsubishi rigs stayed well clear of the Freightliner, whose driver 
seemed hell-bent on jacknifing his truck and taking everyone on 
both sides of the road with him. As the truck hurtled past a road 
sign, it became apparent why the truck seemed so out of place.
     The road sign was in Japanese.



     Hiro Ohata had been in worse situations, but at the moment he 
was cold, wet, wounded, and hungry, and couldn�t seem to get past 
his current predicament to reflect on those past miseries. The rain 
was slamming into his poncho with hailstone force. It streamed 
down his hood and into his shirt, which then drained down his 
sleeves to join the water in ever growing pools that were now up 
to his ankles. He tried shivering to keep warm, but as he was 
soaked through and through, it wasn�t having much effect. 
     He reminded himself that this was the last time he ever took a 
job with the Triad...
     The sight of headlights through the watery gloom brightened 
his spirits. Truck drivers were known for their generosity towards 
down-on-their-luck travelers. He stepped up to the wet asphalt and 
began waving his arms frantically.
     The truck, a Toyota hauling propane, hurtled past him with a blast 
of its horn. The rush of wind in the truck�s wake knocked Hiro off 
his feet and propelled him tumbling onto the roadway. As he scrambled 
to his feet in the freezing rain, his pupils shrank to tiny black points 
in the light of the oncoming truck, a truck that rose titan like above 
its brethren. A horn blasted, throaty and deep. The hiss and groan of 
pneumatic brakes was followed by the shudder and squeal of tires on 
wet asphalt.
     Hiro had enough presence of mind to throw himself out of the way. 
His backpack was struck by the truck as it thundered by, which spun him 
around violently into the brush and mud by the side of the road. He lay 
there in a daze for a few moments while he went over a bodily inventory. 
Everything seemed intact.
     Red and amber lights suffused the gloom as the truck ground to a 
stop some distance away. Hiro pulled himself to his feet as the truck�s 
hazard lights came on and a man stepped out of the cab with a weakly 
powered hand lantern. The man struck a flare and threw it on the road.
     Hiro began to walk stiffly towards the truck. The driver saw him and 
flashed his lamp in Hiro�s face.
     �<Jesus Christ!>� The man began. �<You crazy or something? 
A man could get himself killed walking along the highway on a night 
like this.>�
     Hiro knew immediately that the truck driver was American. He was 
dressed in a coarse knit wool surfer sweater, blue jeans, knee high boots 
that laced up the sides, and wore a leather Harley-Davidson ball cap 
that just managed to keep the rain out of his eyes. His face was 
rugged, complete with three days without a shave, which seemed to 
Hiro as exactly the way the man wanted it to be.
     �<You speak any English?>� The man asked while Hiro looked 
at him.
     �<Enough to get by,>� Hiro replied.
     �<Good. You hurt?>�
     �<I don�t think so.>�
     �<Good. Get in the truck and out of the rain.>�
     Hiro wasn�t going to argue on that point. He made for the truck 
as the man kicked the road flare off the road and into the wet grass. 
The man opened the passenger side door of the cab for him. As 
Hiro climbed up into the cab he noticed the cartoon pig painted on the 
side of truck next to the legends �The Pork Chop Express,� and 
�Burton Trucking Co. Irvine, California.�
     �<You�re a long way from California,>� Hiro remarked to the man 
as he settled into his seat and put the truck in gear.
     �<Tell me about it,>� The man growled, and stomped on the gas 
as he let off the clutch. The truck leaped forward with a roar of power, 
successfully cutting off a truck behind them. An angry horn blared, 
and brights flashed in the mirrors.
     �<Eat that, you little bastard!>� the man cried righteously. 
�<Six point nine on the Richter scale!>� 
     Before Hiro could add anything to this, the man turned his 
attention away from the road and offered his hand.
     �<Jack Burton�s the name, pleased to meetya.>�
     �<Hiro Ohata,>� Hiro replied, shaking Burton�s hand.
     �<Damn fine to meetya, Hiro. Welcome aboard the Pork Chop Express.>�



     Hiro watched Jack Burton as he managed to keep one knee on 
the wheel while using one hand to hold his over-stuffed sandwich and 
the other to hold the CB radio mike. He would alternate between bites 
from his sandwich and some kind of running monologue over the CB. 
Rarely did anyone ever reply to what Burton was saying, and when 
they did, it was usually to the effect of �shut up,� which, as Burton 
didn�t speak a word of Japanese, went unheeded. Burton was between 
bites and rambling as usual.
     �<It�s like I was telling my last wife; Honey, I never drive faster 
than I can see, and besides: it�s all in the reflexes...>�
     Bite.
     �<So I�m visiting this friend in �Frisco. Chinatown to get right down 
to it, and the next thing I know I�m goin� mano-a-mano with this seven 
foot tall basket case whose tryin� to rule the universe from beyond the 
grave...>�
     Bite.
     �<So I just looked that big sucker right in the eye and said, �give 
me your best shot, pal, I can take it...>��
     Bite.
     Hiro had by now learned to tune out Burton�s monologue, a feat 
the other truckers over the ether were still having trouble mastering. 
The angry demands for him to shut up were slowly and inexorably 
being replaced by impassioned, nay, even desperate pleas. Again, as 
Jack Burton didn�t speak Japanese, he continued without breaking 
stride from the consumption of his sandwich and the torture of the 
other truckers on the road.
     "<So, uh, Mister Burton-->" Hiro began.
     "<Call me Jack.>"
     "<So, uh, Jack. What brings you and your truck to Japan?>"
     Jack took a bite of his sandwich.
     "<I'm laying low for awhile. Got in a bit of a scrape back in 
the States, and I'm just doing a favor for a friend while the heat 
dies down.>"
     "<Favor?>" Hiro couldn't possibly imagine what favor would send 
this Yankee blow-hard to Japan. He did figure that Burton was desperate 
for someone to talk to, and would gleefully answer any question he put 
forth on the subject.
     "<Yeah, this guy named Egg Shen got me an entry visa to Japan. 
I figure what the hell, the cops'll never look for me there. In 
exchange I gotta track down this guy in a place outside a' Tokyo 
called Nerima. Seems he stole something from Egg a long time ago.>"
     "<Nerima? It just so happens that I'm bound for Nerima.>" This 
wasn't exactly true, as Hiro didn't have a clue where he wanted to go, 
but Nerima sounded like as good a place as any.
     Burton grinned. "<Outstanding. Does that mean you know where the 
hell Nerima is?>"
     "<I can find it,>" Hiro replied. "<I know a few people in Nerima 
who could probably help you with your search. Who is this guy you're 
looking for again?>"
     Burton took another bite of his sandwich and thought about it. 
     "<Hap... Happo... Happo something... Happosai, I think.>"
     Hiro shrugged. "<Never heard of him. Maybe my friends have.>"
     Burton aped his shrug and gave him a good natured grin.
     "<Ya never know 'til ya try.>"



        COMING QUITE POSSIBLY NEVER TO A MAILING LIST NEAR YOU...


                 "AN AMERICAN LOUDMOUTH IN NERIMA" 
                                or 
               "EVEN BIGGER TROUBLE IN LITTLE NERIMA"