Sombat slumped forlorn into his seat.
Days, months, years of toil, tilling the scorched earth of Thailand's northeast, continued to provide scant remittance, and with Christmas approaching he was once again resigned to endure the sanguine expressions on his children's faces diminish into raw disappointment.
He took a consolatory slurp of Lau Khao, and pondered the options.
His offspring, Sagsnatch and Manchester United, had been making hopeful noises regarding this year's gifts; a karaoke set and a high-powered air rifle respectively.
Sagsnatch was now in her first year at primary school and fancied herself as the next Da Endorphin, while her older brother Manchester United, or Man U, had a penchant for stalking rodents and reptiles through thickets and dining on them. After having been savaged by a squirrel who removed the entirety of his left nostril, Man U thought it pragmatic to request a more efficient means of executing his lunch - the slingshot no longer cut the mustard.
But for now, the possibility of receiving these presents seemed decidedly touch and go.
"Think man, think!"
It was lunchtime on Christmas Eve and Sombat had achieved nothing save for ending the existence of a large bottle of liquid Semtex, which isn't very conducive to thinking at all. Indeed the next shot would see him enter the realms of irredeemable spastication. Time was indeed of the essence.
A grin, a calculating, shrewd grin, slowly etched its way onto his sun-baked features. Sombat, evidently, had a plan...
"That fat fucker. That fat, white fucker. The one who lives on brow of yonder hill. He's got money. I'll rob him. I'll get him drunk, then I'll rob the kunt."
On the brow of yonder hill, a portly, fair gentleman nonchalantly strolled the boundaries of his property, occasionally kicking cats in the face. Oh, how he hated cats. He hated them more than he hated snakes, and he despised snakes, although probably not as much as wandering vagrant drunkards.
Wandering...vagrant...drunkards...
"Good lord!
I say, you! Yes, you! The one that looks like he's been dead for five years. Remove yourself from my land this instant or shall be forced to assault you with this." The portly gent then brandished a chainsaw which he revved in the peasant's face.
"But sir, I've merely come to offer you a festive aperitif" Sombat slurred apologetically.
"It looks and smell like death," said the portly squire, "what on Earth is it?"
"Ya-dong sir, the best quality ya-dong in the eastern hemisphere."
I suppose humouring this repulsive individual won't hurt, mused the westerner
"Very well, you may pour me a glass."
Three days later he came to naked. His skin was liberally swabbed with piss, puke, semen and shit. He felt awful.
In the distance he heard the crooning of a karaoke party in full flow, punctuated by the snaps of an air rifle.