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Canary Air	By : Nos4a2 Category: DC Verse Comics > Birds Of Prey Views: 7065 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Birds of Prey,nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Rating: R for violence and sexuality
Disclaimer: I do not own these DC characters, nor do I profit from their use. Sadly.
Author’s Note: The Lonely Planet’s Guide to Thailand (http://www.lonelyplanet.com/destinations/south_east_asia/thailand/) was an invaluable source for this story, as was John Burdett’s fiction novel Bangkok 8. “Canary 8” serves as a sequel, of sorts, to Burdett’s detective story/travel narrative about the murder of an American serviceman in Thailand. It’s definitely worth a look. I also utilized some of the information available in Andrew Vachss’ novel Batman: The Ultimate Evil, which examines the Caped Crusader’s efforts to disrupt the child sex trade in Thailand (thinly disguised as the fictional country of Udon Kai). Those of you who have read either of these books will notice similarities in this Black Canary story; those of you who have not, please seek them out.
Child prostitution and exploitation is a global problem, one I am firmly committed to ending. Through raising money and awareness (even if it’s just through a Black Canary fanfic) I believe we can help end the sexual slavery of children both overseas and here in North America. If you want to familiarize yourself about this issue through fiction and see a master at work, read any of Andrew Vachss’ books, including Ultimate Evil (if you’re a Batman fan). You’ll learn a lot, and most of it will make you angry. Hopefully, you’ll want to take action. Please consider joining PROTECT, The National Association for the Protection of Children (http://www.protect.org/). Kids are our greatest resources; make sure they get to grow up.
Summary: Black Canary heads to Thailand to track down a missing Oliver Queen. Soon she becomes entangled in a mystery involving drugs, child prostitution and murder by python.
Canary Air
by Alexis M.
The plane touches down at 6:45am, just as dawn is breaking over the hot, muggy megalopolis known to Westerns as Bangkok, Thailand. I close my eyes in relief that the wheels descended at all, that the plane’s wings didn’t fall off, that the fuselage retained its integrity and that Thai Air Flight 104 didn’t crash into the Andaman Sea.
It’s been that kind of day.
Barbara’s voice in my ear, worried. I resist the urge to sever the comm link completely: I’ve never been to Bangkok and I’ll need her help, so I put up with the disapproval in her low, even tone. We’ve been partners for four years and I like to think I’ve gotten to know her pretty welo I o I know that Barbara hates these kinds of missions. I wonder if it’s because of the way she grew up in this business. Personal missions were always kinda frowned on in the Bat family, or so I gather.
I wait patiently for the ground crew to wheel the giant metal staircase into place outside the little plane, glad Babs worked her magic to put me in first class. I’ve made trips to East Asia before, in everything from a cargo container to a private Lear jet. Those experiences have taught me to never travel anywhere in the Third World without easy access to a bathroom and lots of elbowroom.
“I’ve booked you into a hotel on Wireless Road, near the American Embassy,” Barbara is saying, that tight note still in her voice.
“I didn’t know the Embassy was still standi I r I reply; I’m used to keeping my pitch soft and my mouth fairly immobile in order to avoid looking like a complete lunatic as I chat with a disembodied Oracle 35,000 miles away.
“They rebuilt in ’98, after the bombings in Kenya and Tanzania. I guess we were a little concerned about those porous borders Thailand shares with Cambodia and Myanmar. This isn’t exactly a friendly corner of the world for the good ol’ US of A.”
I step back from the aisle as a fat businessman pushes past.
“No place is safe these days.”
Babs doesn’t have much to say about that.
“Thanks for the hotel,” I tell her. “I won’t bother checking in right away. I want to see if I can dig up something at the Hilton.”
“While you’re in the neighborhood,” Barbara says off-handedly, way too casual to mean anything but trouble, “mind checking out a few things for me?”
“Thundersticks or joy drops?” I want to know, watching as the stewardess explains in rapid English why the pushy whale in the three-piece can’t disembark before the staircase is secure.
“Drugs,” Barbara clarifies.
I don’t respond, seeing red for an instant. Thinking of Roy in my arms, shaking through withdrawarugsrugs maim, guns kill, but the outcome is the same. Victims.
I pull down my slim carry-on out of the overhead compartment. The sturdy Samsonite bag contains a spare uniform, my oh-so-important ID, which claims me as a member of both the JLA and the JSA, some toiletries and a change of clothes. I learned a long time ago to shed everything but the essentials.
“Give me the skinnI suI suggest, guessing that it’s going to be a long wait inside the small airplane. “Heroin?”
“It’s a methamphetamine mix called yaa baa, a designer drug that everyone and his dog is hooked on in this country. There’s a special strain emerging among the upper echelon of Thai tourists, particularly those frequenting the sex trade in Bang Kwan. And it’s deadly.”
“And it’s in the US,” I finish needlessly. Barbara clears her throat.
“We need to know how it’s getting in, and who’s responsible.”
“Doesn’t the CIA have spooks who can handle this?”
“The CIA,” Barbara replies, “doesn’t have your flare.”
“You can say that again, sister,” I tell her, and then nod to the stewardess, who beckons me forward. “Gotta go and acquaint myself with the locals.” I cut the connection between this small arm of GoldGolden Triangle and the dark cloud that is Gotham City without waiting for a response. I figure the great Oracle has better things to do than keep me company.
The hot air hits me as soon as I step off the plane. Everywhere is activity; the ground crews are alternately frantic and languid as they refuel planes, toss luggage and direct traffic. The chaos and confusion of a Thai airport is comfortingly familiar, even though I’ve never been to this particular corner of the universe. The tarmac is like everywhere I’ve been to in Asia: crowded, hot, completely alien. I stop myself before wondering too deeply why I’m more at ease in a strange country than I’ve ever been back in States. Homesickness is an illness I’ve long been immunized against, and it hurts that I suddenly realize this on an oven-hot runway a world away from home.
I used to miss things. Now I just feel numb.
The terminal is a blast of air-conditioned coolness after the long flight from Paris. My fellow travelers are easy to read as I watch them shuffle through the airport. We boarded in France for various reasons, secrecy being the primary reason for the circuitous flight path. We were all Americans on Flight 104 and none of us had come to Thailand for the beaches or the historical sites. Sex is a booming business in Asia, perhaps nowhere more than in Thailand, where bored Americans eager for a little taste of heaven bring in more than $1.5 billion. I glance over the rack of English-language pamphlets and brochures advertising for hotels and attractions in Bangkok. One in particular catches my eye, one I’ve seen before:
The text is superimposed over a picture of a prepubescent girl naked from the waist up, appealing to the large market of American and European pedophiles who make the yearly pilgrimage to Thailand. “If you can suck it, use it, eat it, feel it, taste it, abuse it or see it, then it’s available in the country that never truly sleeps. Thailand is not for prudes,” the brochure claims.
I work hard to keep the disgust off my face, reminding myself that I’m not here to battle the kind of monsters that prey on children. I content myself with glaring at a few of the middle-aged single men on the flight with me, who either avoid my gaze or leer openly, their eyes never quite making it to my face.
I head back out into the repressive heat of early-morning Bangkok, and even though I’m prepared for my first breath of the steamy, diesel soup that somehow passes for air in Southwest Asian countries, my lungs still burn and my eyes immediately water. A 200 cc Suzuki, which must have been sexy when new but has fallen victim to the humidity and dangerous traffic patterns of an overcrowded metropolis, pulls up before me.
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“In a hurry?” the kid on the rusted, dented bike asks with only the bare trace of an accent. I climb on behind him, the Suzuki bending slightly as it acclimates itself to my weight. I’m not in a hurry, of course, but my mind is starting to implode now that Barbara’s voice has been banished from my head. I don’t like silence.
I nod, and the kid’s eyes gleam as he presses the start button.
I enjoy the ride because I’m sure the kid is on some kind of drug or another, and I tell myself that I’m going to die quite on a few occasions as we roar through the twisting, permanently grid locked Thai traffic. I’m a little disappointed to catch sight of the tall spires of the Bangkok Hilton and discover that I’m still in one piece.
I climb off the bike and pay the kid but he lingers, looking perhaps for a tip or another glimpse of my legs. “What?” I prompt. He frowns, screwing up his round, flat face, then leans in close to me.
“Want fun?” he invites, his breath hot and suggestive on my face even as his voice cracks in the late stages of adolescent unease.
“What kind of fun?” I ask, playing along, reminding myself about Barbara’s chemicals and my own agenda. As I’d known he would, the kid pulls out five ounces of finely-pressed white powder wrapped in a broken Zip-Loc bag, sealed with a green twist-tie. “What is it?”
“Yaa baa,” the kid replies. “Very best for very pretty lady.”
I smile, shake my head like any hip, with-it chick would, shrugging off the compliment but showing him I’m still interested in the low-grade heroin. “How much?”
“Two hundred baht,” he replies, still flirting. I shake my head. $2 US. Too much.
“Okay,” he sighs with the flair for drama I’ve come to anticipate in entrepreneurs of any race or culture, “One hundred.”
“No deal, kid,” I tell him, paying him for the ride in from the airport. “Not your lucky day.”
He shrugs and powers up the bike, disappearing into the chaos of rush hour without a second glance.
“Guess I’m losing my touch,” I mutter, heading for the Hilton’s lobby.
It’s quite a trip, through palatial gardens filled with exotic plants and flowers, peacocks and winding stone pathways lined with fragrant blossoms I’ve never seen before. I stop halfway through, my mouth hanging open. Now, I’ve been around. It takes a lot to impress me. I don’t think there’s a continent I haven’t set foot on or a metahuman I’ve let get the drop on me. But this…this was surprising. I find myself liking Thailand, at least a little.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
Babs again, back in my brain. I nod dumbly, unable to resist. I walk up to one of the sculptures bedecked in a hibiscus lai, touching the tip of the warm bronze, unable to really process what it is I’m seeing before me.
The garden is filled with dicks of every shape, size and description, in every state of arousal, all cast in shimmering bronze and complete with a perfect pair of testicles. Each sculpture is about four feet high, three feet in diameter. Thai men obviously think much of themselves.
“What, exactly, am I looking at?”
I can practically hear Barbara smile as she launches into one of her lectures. I sometimes think Oracle is in love with the sound of her own voice, and maybe the attraction isn’t completely lost on me. That voice has pulled me through a hell of a lot of death-defying escapes and personal tragedies. I can’t help but smile as I listen to that beloved voice deliver a monologue on the history of the Thai penis.
“Thailand is an overwhelmingly Buddhist nation, a culture deeply steeped in animism as much as it is interested in spiritual enlightenment. The male member is seen as a life-giving force, the yin to the female yang. The sculptures are thought to be at home in this fertile garden.”
“Not the most subtle of metaphors,” I smile. Barbara chuckles in my ear.
“Not really,” she agrees. “Still, must be quite a sight.”
“And the flowers?” I ask, my fingertips brushing the bright hibiscus garland strung around the head of one of the enormous penises.
monks decorate the sculptures,” Barbara explains. “They believe it will bring good luck and fortune to the people of Bangkok.”
I turn, heading back towards the hotel’s lobby. “I wonder why the Hilton puts up with it.”
“They don’t have much of a choice. This isn’t their home turf.”
The lobby is like all Western hotels: tastefully decorated in neutral colors so as not to offend even the most mild of palates, the detailing all teak and mahogany to take advantage of less-than-strict laws regarding endangered wood and the rainforests. I glance around, then set my bag down by the front desk. A bright, officious young woman looks up at me eagerly. Like most of the Thais I’ve encountered so far, she has more than a passing familiarity with English.
“I’m here to join my husband,” I explain quickly. “Oliver Queen, room 1205.”
The girl taps a few keys on the electronic registry, nodding as a name pops up. I silently bless Babs and her cold little fiber optic heart, letting the bellboy take my bag as I accept a room key from the desk clerk and head for the bank of elevators along the lobby’s north wall.
The ride up is whisper-quiet, efficient, Western. I suddenly long to be back out in the hot, confusing streets, zipping back to the airport on that boy’s Suzuki. I know I’m not going to like what I find in Room 1205.
The bellboy waits as I unlock the door, sweltering in his too-small velvet uniform. I take pity, offering him a good tip, but he stares me down. Thais haven’t yet embraced the concept of the gratuity. I tell myself they’ll learn their bad habits from the West soon enough.
The room is dark and airless despite the presence of the excellent air-conditioning system Barbara researched for me yesterday. Air-conditioning vents are like subways in our line of work: they can take you anywhere you want to go, and it pays to memorize their layout before starting any kind of job.
I step into the deserted hotel room, wrinkling my nose at the unmistakable scent of human waste. The bellboy has had the good sense to depart and I want to follow him, but I force myself to take in the room - the rotting food, the clothes and papers strewn about the place. I even look at the discarded condoms floating in the toilet, the half-finished lines of coke on a hand mirror in the bathroom, and the neat line of white plastic bags lining the edge of the Jacuzzi tub. Yaa baa.
“Ollie, what the hell have you done to yourself?” I ask the dying room.
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Canary Air