Three unfamiliar faces greeted me at my local drinking emporium yesterday evensong. One immediately thrust a shot glass in the direction of my face and with a toothless grin shouted at me to ‘drink it!’ Another, who was covered in tattoos which looked like they’d been administered by an acute Parkinson’s sufferer, glared at me with such fucking malice that you would’ve thought I’d just likened his dear old mother to a disabled orangutan with tourettes; which incidentally most middle-aged women tend to resemble around these parts. A third party was simultaneously shouting obscenities in the vague direction of his bottom-end Nokia mobile telephone and urinating in a neighbouring sugar cane plantation, so as I breached the entrance of the watering hole (shop if you like) an introduction had yet to be made, although if his extension was anything akin to his ink- donned, sociopathic acquaintance then he could take it and ram it with a fucking sledge hammer – I felt like readdressing Mr. Demonic Glarer and informing him that manners indeed go a long way and are totally free of charge – so the price is right. Peasant!
Of course, the usual suspects were already in attendance and as is their wont, in an advanced state of intoxication. When I say ‘advanced’ I don’t mean a little raucous or a loss of inhabitations, no, I’m talking unconscious piles on the floor which must be stepped over to gain access to the fucking refrigerator. I tip-toed past a semi-conscious rice harvesting operator who was clutching an M150 bottle full of liquid death to his chest like a crucifix – disturbing him from his dormant state of being would’ve immediately incited 15 minutes of incomprehensible clap-trap, so stealth was imperative here.
After relieving the fridge of a large bottle of a high-end Australian Award Winning lager beer, I turned around only to find myself the focal point of the gentleman of crop urination fame. He moved towards me with such momentum and purpose that I found my grip subconsciously tightening on the recently liberated Australian Award Winning beverage with a view to smash it over the on-coming psychopath’s face. In hindsight this would’ve probably been the most appropriate course of action. As well as sporting the, what appeared to be very much ‘en vogue’ selection of half-baked scrawl that apparently passes as a tattoo nowadays, this chap had taken it upon himself to decorate his facial features with two tones of scrap metal. Everywhere you looked there were hoops, studs, chains, iron fucking bars etc, so you can imagine my horror when the Tin Man here, greeted me like some long lost blood brother who had once dragged him from a burning vehicle.
There’s normally only one explanation for such homosexual behavior and I would’ve bought him the ten baht shot of lau khao if he hadn’t of so openly begged for it – come now, have some fucking dignity!
I sort out a seat next to the gentleman of demonic glaring fame, took several large, thirsty gulps of lager, lit a tailor-made cigarette with tall flame from disposable lighter and proceeded to question the newcomers.
“So, gentlemen” I said. “What is it that brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“We live here” replied Metal Mickey, eyeing my Award Winning ale like Gollum.
“Is that so?” I mused vocally. “Well, if this is the case, gentlemen, then why is it I haven’t happened upon your, quite frankly, hideous presence previously?”
“We’ve just spent four years in Klong Pai Correctional Facility for aggravated assault with a loaded weapon.” Mr. Shotglass piped up.
With this, Mr. Demonic Glarer shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. Now I understood the reason behind his perpetual bad mood; he’d just been buggered senseless for four years.
I’m hoping this trio of individuals don’t plan on making the shop a regular haunt. We’ve no need for such riff-raff here, thank you very much.