Post Number Thirty Two

“Enter the Drunken”

They say “to find what you need on Porn Pong Road, all you have to do is follow that fleshy compass in the middle of your face: your nose”. They also say that Westerners (like me) who follow their noses do so for longer periods than Easterners because (racially-speaking) (if you believe in that sort’a thing) Westerners have longer noses. Than Easterners. Of course, “they” conveniently leave out a couple o’ facts:

  1. Westerners take longer to find what they need because they don’t come from these parts; and
  2. the “parts” they do “come from” are (just like their noses) much LONGER than Easterner’s parts! Ka-CHING!!

 

On this, my Penis would surely agree– but I haven’t heard a peep out of the pee-pee for several days now, so perhaps neither one of us will ever know. There’s one thing I do know, though, and it’s this: Porn Pong Road is a strip of no holes barred action. That means (of course) that you have to keep your immoral compass peeled and your big, floppy Western ears to the ground– but with extra special care. Because putting those Dumbo ears to the road may also put your small occidental head in the path of a fast motion BOWLING BALL.

Speaking of which, I almost got smote on mine by one of those when (ignoring my future advice) I put an ear to the road in order to get my bearings. All of a sudden, I heard (in spite of my ear being blocked by Road) the abovementioned bowling ball tumbling my way. Luckily, my other ear was unblocked, otherwise I wouldn’t have lifted my head “in the neck of time” (never really understood that phrase– until now). But I raised my head so quickly that I rattled a memory loose– namely, the one pertaining to the safety speech given by that air stewardess guy on the D.C-11, and how he told me (and others) to “Beware Of Bowling Balls Fired From The Well-Versed Lips Of A Highly-Trained Beaver” (or something).

When I craned my beak to sniff out the source of that bowling ball (yes, it had a smell) I saw said source through the gaping doorway of a bar. Not the type of bar you find on the fencing of certain “Kiddy Kare Centres”, though. No, this was a much less evil bar. One full of wholesome, recreational stuff. Like pussy. And grog. I went in. I looked around in the dimness. Beyond the dimness all I could see was darkness and beyond the darkness all I could see was a void– or I should say void-ZZ (plural) because there were two of them: a MALE void and a FEMALE void (or at least that’s what the two silhouettes on the doors of the two voids were telling me). (Although, on second thoughts, they may have been toilets.) But sitting near those two “Bladder ‘n’ Bowel Voids”– in the darkness beyond the dimness– was another, more full-bodied (AKA fat) silhouette, this one wearing a pair of glow-in-the-void socks. And it was those that signalled where he was.

Now, the closer I got, the more I could see the sock-wearing silhouette filling out into a chubby chappy with a bar girl hangin’ off each of his (two) arms and a third one hangin’ off his leg. And even though I’d never met him before, I’d recognize that fat silhouette anywhere: TOCSIN RASHAPOON.

“Well, well, well,” said I. “We finally meet.”

“Yes, we do,” said Rashapoon. “That’ll be five thousan’ Baht.”

“FUCK, these Thais are expensive!” I shouted under my breath, as I pulled out another wad from the top of my roll bag and slapped it in his pudgy silhouette hand. On seeing this transaction, the brazen bar hussy on his leg (who may have been a transaction-sexual) said:

“Oooooo! Give ME five thousan’, toooooO!”

“Yair, but y’see, the thing is: you haven’t actually done anything for me,” I haggled, shrewdly. In response, she detached from the leg of Tocsin Rashapoon and fastened herself onto my leg instead.

“HAMPERING SOMEONE’S ABILITY TO WALK DOES NOT COUNT AS ‘DOING SOMETHING’ F’ SOMEONE!!” is what I said. “And furthermore, get your fist out’a my roll bag.”

With a sulky sigh, the transaction-sexual did as requested, and re-attached herself to the leg of Tocsin Rashapoon. I looked at the latter (who actually did look a bit like a “ladder”, what with girls climbing all ove– ah, forget it) and while I did so, dropped a name I thought would open Rashapoon doors for me.

“Two words,” I numerated. “Mike. Spilligan.”

“Two words back,” he counter-counted. “Who. Dat.”

“Oh, dat, my sock-wearing pseudo-silhouette, is a close personal business arse-ociate of a certain– shall we say?– TOCSIN RASHAPOON, otherwise known as You.”

“I’m no Tocsin Rashapoon,” he declared. “I’m WANGADANG SINGALOT.”

Whoa! (I thought). Spanner-in-the-wok time here– or so it seemed. But I mean, REALLY. What’re the odds of me going into a random bar in a town of ten million (plus) people searching for a guy I’d never seen before in my life and actually finding the wrong man? Pretty damn slim, I’d say. So there must’a been something else goin’ down. Then I twigged. The bar was up the wrong end of Porn Pong Road! (By “wrong end” I mean the ‘Ask a Misleading Local’ end.) Which in turn could only mean one thing: “Wangadang Singalot” (as he misleadingly called himself) was actually Tocsin Rashapoon, just as I first expected! He firmly disagreed, but added:

“If I am this Rashapoon guy…” (said that Rashapoon guy), “will you give me… I dunno… five thousan’ Baht, minimum?”

“Yes, I will!” I declared, confidently.

“Okay, said Mister T. Rashapoon, as he held out his hand, palm up. “I’m Tocsin Rashapoon.”

“I fucking KNEW it!” I cried in triumph as I pulled out another wad.

And then the rest of the night was a bit of a blur, because my generous new friend bought me a drink. A big one.

 

 

 

 

 

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