Friendly Traveller or Serial Killer?
At what point does the human mind, after going through a subconcious checklist, decide a person to be possibly harmful? In most situations its quite obvious when you feel your life or body may be in danger. Driving with Wallace is one of those situations. I don't like to admit this, but I've driven with Julio San-Chan while he was blitzed out of his mind, and felt safer. Apparently Lisa likes to check the vehicle's VIN number and the person ahead for prostate cancer, while driving. I'd rather sky dive with a bed sheet. Those of you who don't know, seriously, it's terrifying. Those of you who do, you have angels looking out for you. Those of you who continue to hitch rides with her, seek professional help.
As I was saying before my slight ramble, you can usually tell when you are in danger. However, it is more difficult to tell if someone is dangerous to you when the person you are talking with is someone who's well dressed, a great conversationalist, extremely knowledgable and very polite.
Jennie and I met such a fellow who struck up a conversation with us on our bus ride, taking us back to Bangkok from Koh Chang. He carried the entire conversation single handedly and Jennie and I were impressed with his ability to re-create places in Japan, Indonesia, China, Thailand, Myanmar and just about every other part of the world with unbeleivable description and clarity. We (he) talked for some time about travelling, politics, economics etc. before introducing ourselves. He (here forthwith will be known respectfully as Mr. Oldguy) had a charisma that most people would take as, well, charismatic but this was the point at which something in the back of my head clicked. We carried on in coversation about anything and everything until the topic of Canada arose; how he liked the views, didn't like the winters but loved the food. Now this was the point at which I could've claimed I'd lived on the planet Zorgatron in the Galaxy Splik-Splak and without so much as a hiccup, a studder or even the most brief of pauses, he would've described in the most unbeleivable detail my home planet of Zorgatron. But I kept it cool because I'm a cool cat.
Then Jennie got up from the table to grab some water.
Cool Cat Corey turned into Pee Pants Backman. He kept talking but he became ever-slightly suggestive. His tone changed. His body language shifted. He became Creepersaurus Rex. I felt like saying, "listen buddy, back on Zorgatron, we know your kind, there's creepersaurus rex's running rampant (Cole)." Now it was at this point that I realized that he had talked for so long, about so much, had managed to slither his way into so many facets and obtain so many facts about my life but he had yet to truly share one detail about himself with us. He had obtained so much of my information while not releasing any information about himself.
They make assassin moves based on this shit. He was pro.
Now was he a trained super assassin? Clearly not. He was about 174 years old. He looked frail enough that I'd kill him if I punched him in the toe. Maybe he knew I'd size him up and that's what he was banking on? Maybe he was an old soviet assassin, relying on his brains, not his bowflex.
Or maybe he was a self taught Bangkok surgeon and his plans were to hand me his business card and drug me with an unknown substance, take me to his 26th floor apartment over looking Bangkok and I'd wake up on a rigid, stainless steel table with my insides hanging out with him having taken what he wanted from my body (clearly not my liver).
Or maybe he was just a really nice old guy who perhaps enjoyed that we listened to his stories intently, shared his love of travel and appreciated that we weren't so quick to jump to conclusions about him.
Or maybe he came back in time to settle a debt...