Post Number Thirty Four

“The King ‘n’ Me”

It seems the drunken bonhomie I semi-remembered the other day was definitely not wasted on “Tocsin Rashapoon” (so-called) because his real name– I finally found out– is actually “Wangadang Singalot”. CHIEF INSPECTOR Wangadang Singalot… to be precise. I know this for certain coz he turned up at the (somewhat disappointing) backpacker hostel called The Bangkok Hilton (where I’d been spending a few nights) and flexed a bit of the old “Wangadang Muscle”. For some strange reason, the concierges at said hostel didn’t want me to leave– right up until my main man the Chief Inspector gave them some of the Baht I gave him, to pay for the nights I “enjoyed” there.

“Enjoyed”? How can anyone “enjoy” the type of dorm room where guys with knives ‘n’ scars kept on gesturing at the very laptop I’m now bloggin’ from, and making scary “I’d-like-to-check-my-e-mails-NOW-please” voicings in a language I barely (if at all) understand? Fortunately, my mate Wangadang (or “Wanga” for short) had my Baht-laden roll bag for safe-keeping, because my spider sense told me that those knife guys were the types who’d borrow money and be very, very tardy in paying it back, I jus’ know they would…

Speakin’ of the polymer stuff, now’s prob’ly a good moment for me to mention that when I found the brief-case that I myself borrowed from the Corpo Crim at the airport (that is, the same Corpo Crim I accidentally {even though it served him right} knocked out with my cast-iron elbow) I never actually bothered “counting” (as the bean counters call it) how much dough I scored. Why? Because “counting beans” is ECONOMICS, and I fuckin’ hate economics!


(Hate beans, too.) As a result, I sort of, y’know, “dozed off” while the girl at the Cash Swap Zone counted my cash for me. And when I woke again– VIOLA! That is the name of the stringed instrument a busker was playing when the swap girl stuffed my roll bag full of Baht, thereby proving once and for all time that a few choice Aussie notes go far when they come from a medium-sized fiddle. Especially when measured against our friend, the cute little Bahty-wahty.

But enough talk on the subject of so-called “money”. It’s time I told you instead about the word I heard on The Street. My sources along Porn Pong Road have told me the “truth” (if you believe in that sort’a thing) regarding what happened on- and around the lost weekend I might’ve “enjoyed” last Wednesday (and possibly Thursday). See, while it may be “true” (according to my sources) that BIG PHARMA had something to do with my memory-loss, that doesn’t mean it had everything to do with it. Landing on my head when I got in a brawl with my own penis may have been a factor there, too. That’s according to the self-same appendage itself, who pointed out (in his prickly way) that I prob’ly got “pain-related amnesia” again, like he said in another Post.

Anyway, my Cock (the lyin’ prick) then went on to say that the Bangkok Hilton I woke up in was really a (quote) “penile institution”, and I was incarcerated there because I (quote) “got arrested” or some such nonsense. In plain English, I think he was trying to tell me that the hostel was actually a prison– but when it comes to dungeons, I’m a serial visitor, which made his fibs all too easy to pooh-pooh. And yet still he persisted with his bald-faced lies. He said that right after I caught a nasty dose of brain damage, I put my heels up and sat back to watch a show there on the main stage of the nightclub.

Here is my Todger’s version: a girl climbed on stage. At first blush, the casual pervoid might think she was just your common or bar-room variety stripper, but this girl got on stage PRE-STRIPPED. I was intrigued (or so my Dick tells me). She lit a cigarette. Now, normally I’m no fan of Big Tobacco (especially since it merged with Big Pharma and became {wait for it} BIG TOBACCO-PHARMA {ZAM!!}) but on this occasion I forgave them both. Because the way that stripper planned on smokin’ her fag was richly deserving of kudos.

Or so my Cock thought.

But when I staggered up close ‘n’ pervable to the stage for a more detailed gawk, I saw the thing that (allegedly) started a chain of smoking events that may (or may not) have got me arrested. I gazed into the orifice from whence came the smoke signals and cried:

“Wait one polyester-pickin’ minute! She not blowin’ smoke out her lady parts. She blowin’ smoke out her ARSE! What the HELL’S goin’ ON here??”

Chaos ensued. Most– okay, all– of it caused by me. My Unreliable Source told me that I loudly declared I would be taking my outrage all the way to Town Hall.

“No,” I allegedly seethed. “Town Hall’s not high-up enough. I shall take this particular brand of outrage all the way to” (insert regal fanfare here) “the KING OF SIAM!!’

And the rumour mill says that I got “arrested” right outside the palace gates. If you believe that sort’a thing…