The Buddh Identity

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Geo: 36.0846, -115.172

Barcelona has a dark and dangerous underbelly that few tourists see - those few that are unlucky enough to come across this depraved world often never again see the light of day, forever trapped in the sewers of this criminal underworld. Escape? Good luck with that. Sure, breaking free of this world is possible in theory, but more often than not, the only way out is in a body bag, or floating face down in the Mediterranean, in front of Barceloneta beach.

I could not tell this story until I verified the truth for myself, but after the boys went to bed early on our last night in Barcelona, I was off in search of some more exciting after-hours pursuits. Night clubs, underground raves, opium dens, brothels ... I did it all that night, constantly seeking but never quite finding, that ultimate high. That is, until I finally ended up at an underground fight club. I've lived thousands of years, so trust me - nothing makes you feel as alive as beating the living crap out of someone.

The first six guys I dismantled posed no challenge, and were nothing more than a light warm up - the problem is that the Buddhzilian Jiu Jitsu I invented and fine tuned over the past thousand years is meant for slaughtering dozens of attackers at once. Unfortunately, I was never able to use my patented finishing move, as none of those jokers was worthy enough for me to dirty my fingers - the two that I raise are not only to make the peace sign, but they become lethal when I use them in a rising uppercut, jamming my fingers in an attacker's nostrils, as I fly over top his head, and do a 180 as I land on the back side.

With a deft flick of the wrist that can only be honed through centuries of noodle making, I snap my victims neck at the third cervical verterbra, decapitating him in one smooth gesture. Even better, I can then fling that head like a bowling ball, taking out any other attackers foolish enough to challenge me. But I digress - back to the story at hand. My final opponent of the night was finally a worthy one, and was in fact, an old adversary named Tyler Durden.

I've never been able to kill Tyler, because of his line of work - being a manufacturer of luxury soaps, he has access to all kinds of fats and oils that he uses to smartly lubricate the inside of his nostrils. Because of that, my fingers are never able to get enough grip to pull off a decapitation - until that night ... Tyler had been so disgusted by the sad state of Barcelona's food scene, that he completely forgot about lubricating his nostrils. His ass was mine, as I viciously jammed by fingers up his nose ...

But then, he quickly cried out "Wait! I have something you want! Something you need! Muahahaha!!!"

What could it be? A pintxo? A good meal? A half decent sandwich? It couldn't be any of those, since they don't exist in Barcelona!

"I have ... Buddhita!!!"

"Liar!!! She disappeared years ago in Cape Town!"

"Silly Buddha, that's what I led you to believe! She didn't disappear. I kidnapped her, and sold her to human traffickers! If you kindly extract your fingers from my nose, I'll tell you who paid a pretty penny for that perfectly-formed little piece of plastic ass!"

You see, I'm a man of many talents, ones that extend far beyond peace, love, noodle making, and no-holds-barred-to-the-death underground fighting. I have a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for badasses like Tyler. I'm capable of finding anyone, provided I had even the tiniest of leads. In a previous life, I worked for an ultra secret agency buried deep within the CIA, based out of a Parisian boulangerie, code named Operation Breadstone.

It was there that I learned the skills of a super spy, and subsequently adopted the pen name Robert Ludlum, writing a slew of novels based upon those experiences. I had wanted to call my first novel The Buddh Identity, but the publisher thought that the Bourne Identity was catchier, and that the protagonist should be a tall white guy instead of a little pink Buddha, but that's a story for another day ... back to Tyler.

This most recent encounter with Tyler was just what I was looking for, having exhausted any previous leads on the stag, in the little Basque fishing village of Getaria, Buddhita's current incarnation's birthplace. I had hoped to find some clues there as to her whereabouts, but came up empty-handed. After beating the truth out of him in Barcelona, Tyler finally told me what I needed to know ... Boris AKA The Bear. The Russian Mafia. Las Vegas. That would be enough ...

I returned to Calgary with this information, and formulated plans to find and rescue Buddhita. A few weeks later, I caught a fight to Vegas and headed straight to the Red Rock Resort and Casino - my sources indicated that Buddhita may have been forced to work as a go-go dancer at the resort's nightclub. After hitting on ... uh ... I mean, interviewing - all of the go go dancers, I realized that she had already been shipped to another location, months prior.

This wasn't good, but I had at least obtained some new information that would hopefully bring me one step closer to Buddhita - Boris was rumoured to have set up a candy store at the Shops of Summerlin, for money laundering purposes. After a little recon, I realized that I needed to gain a little weight to take on such a massive adversary, and headed back to the Red Rock - if I needed to quickly gain weight, only an all-you-can-eat Las Vegas buffet would do!

All those plates of food were just the advantage I needed, and Boris spilled the beans after I cut off his claws, deep fried them, dusted them with powdered sugar, and had an afternoon snack. "Check the farmers market! I sold her to some farmers, who force her to till the fields!" I checked the market ... and it was a complete bust, not having a single vendor that actually sold any produce, only trinkets and junk food. The trail had gone cold ... until I felt a bit peckish and had dinner at a French bistro ...

I caught a glimpse of an Albanian man named Le Chiffre enter, a man known for a litany of criminal activities, including terrorist attacks, arms dealing, large scale trade of narcotics, human trafficking, and apparently, running suspect tacky imitation French bistros. Le Chiffre was a tough one to crack, and all of my usual interrogation and torture methods fell short - until I spotted his well-stocked wine cellar ...

Lesson learned - you want to make a rich criminal genius talk, you threaten to dump his bottle of 1869 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild down the drain, and he'll melt like butter on a warm baguette. He sobbed like a little baby, even shedding tears of blood, and told me that he had forced Buddhita to do the most dangerous job imaginable for her - washing dishes! It could have been catastrophic for someone so tiny and plastic, as she easily could've drowned or melted in the scalding water!

I made Le Chiffre pay dearly for his offences, ending his life in the most brutal way possible - by boiling him to death in a vat of overheated and broken hollandaise sauce! But not before I found out Buddhita's fate - she had been turned over to the Italian mob ...

To be continued ...

Lil B

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Photos

Shops at Summerlin ...
... the only thing within stumbling distance of the Red Rock Resort. Proximity is a key factor when deciding where to go when the temperature is already over 35 C in the morning! The weekend farmers market was a total bust - but what did I expect? It's a friggin desert, after all, so what could they possibly grow besides cactus and aloe?

Blogging Is Hard Work ...
... I definitely needed a snack and drink after a session of blogging on the flight to Vegas - do you know how hard it is for a little guy like me to work the keyboard AND the touch screen? Running back and forth to type letters at opposite ends of the keyboards is like repeatedly doing the shuttle run, and don't even get me started no having to use the shift button to capitalize a letter! Even worse, tapping the screen near the top of the screen is the equivalent of jumping four times your height! NBA players are jealous over my supreme vertical jump, and in fact, I've been coaching Lebron James to to improve his inferior leaping abilities.

Red Rock Buffet Round #1 ...
... a little light prep, with some fruits and veggies. Pineapple, mixed greens salad, tomatoes, and grilled zucchini - the best of the lot was the cauliflower salad.

Round #2 ...
... an ok green chilli pork taco, oily guacamole, suspect sushi, and a chewy sopapilla. The best parts were the tender curry chicken and crisp shrimp salad.

Round #3 ...
... some bland but tender pork shoulder might have been the highlight, especially with some grainy mustard. The corn bread was dry and a bit nasty, the pizza was McCain's frozen quality, but the hush puppy was decent, despite being a bit burnt. The Italian sausage was like a fennel explosion, so how could it not be good? Continuing with the sausage theme, the kielbasa was pretty decent as well. Some mediocre mac and cheese, soggy potato wedges, and mushy green beans, broccoli rabe, and zucchini rounded out the dish.

Round #4 ...
... the sopapilla was far better this go round, with an interesting and crispy dough. This was a bit of a greatest hits fish - some more Italian sausage, curry chicken, and juicy, fatty pork. The BBQ chicken wasn't half bad, and the creamed corn was quite good, though it didn't look or taste much like creamed corn.

Round #5 ...
... desserts! They all seemed to be factory made, and none of them were particularly memorable. The German chocolate cake would've been ok without the cavity-inducing sweet topping - very moist. The cherry cheesecake was especially heavy, but quite tasty. The strawberry shortcake had a distinctly artificial quality about it. Of course, that was still preferable to the synthetic bathroom cleaner aroma that the lemon meringue pie had!
While the overall quality of the buffet wasn't the best, you couldn't help but admire the variety - American, Italian, Asian, BBQ, and Mexican. Plus, who am I to complain so much, when I stuffed myself until I felt ill?

Mon Ami Gabi ...
... a somewhat-cheesy French-style bistro in the Paris hotel. Australian sea bass - nicely cooked and crisp, but bland. The saffron aioli was also quite gluey. The lentils were a bit overdone, but still quite tasty.

Hanger Steak ...
... quite tender, yet it had an odd, almost crunchy texture to it, and was a tad below medium rare. The fries were soggy, though that didn't stop me from devouring most of them. The best part about dinner? The wicked French bread, war,, crisp, and absolutely delicious with butter.