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Rosta and his selection of weirdos (including the writer). Action-packed, tragic adventure in Soi 8, Pattaya... Join Rosta on his travels and meet James Bond and Captain Hook into the bargain, not to mention bar-girls, sois and a yaba-taking tourist.

Humor / Action
Jonathan Finch
Age Rating:

Chapter 1

Jimmie has always been a good friend to Captain Hook. Captain Hook has always been a bad friend to Jimmie. And Rosta has always been a bad friend to both. Before Jimmie’s brain succumbed to an overdose of coke and whiskey, Jimmie informed Rosta that the Hook was a cunt, and the two, sharing the same opinion, hit it off immediately.

Time passed and they always met up on Jim’s night out. One night in, one night out. It was Rosta who rechristened Dave Captain Hook because of Dave’s substitute arm and it was Rosta who called Jimmie James Bond. “Collected Selected Words” by yours truly at Amazon.com has all the sensational details, and all these guys make their appearances there where they get into as much hot water as possible, but it is here that they can take another bow because they have outperformed themselves if such a thing is possible — which it is. The Hook, or Captain Hook, will shortly be asked to sleep on the floor of his Thai lover’s abode because her husband returns to the ramshackle room for a week. Apart from having no money and no ATM card, Dave also has no choice in the matter. If he blabs and blurges and billows and blows, he can get nicked.

At the time of writing, the Hook lies hidden and lives hidden in darkest Isaan. Naturally, he has no money and no ATM card. He clings to his self-respect like a crab to a rock in heavy seas. His Isaan lady has everything, and on a certain day every month she poodles off to get his monthly invalid allowance. Dave, incarcerated, deported (to Phitsanulok), together with his deplorable brain, illnesses, intestine-bags, hides well in the Isaan with its long-haired buffalo, its hillocks of grey grass, its white egrets, and its proliferating bacteria. Earth, air, water and fire, bloody well just about everything and anything up there in the Isaan, has a good infestation of bacteria. It is Dave’s element, and boy is he in it! Until he gets nicked, that is, but even then he never stays in one prison for long because he gets air-lifted to others. Yes, it is common knowledge that jailers take one look at Dave and are frightened to death; they just know he will die on them. They get him air-lifted quickly to another prison where the authorities phone for another helicopter. And so on. No self-respecting jailer wants to face the Irish Embassy asking why Dave died in his prison.

Jimmie, or James Bond, tries to protect Dave and gives him money and booze and visits. Ah, the kind-hearted panel-beater!

Rosta got Jimmie to repaint his car. It was done well. Jimmie got Rosta to repay him in booze. It was done fairly well. Jimmie got Rosta to uplift him where he had fallen (off a baht bus) which Rosta dutifully did. And that was done fairly well, too.

Two nights before departure, Jimmie invited Rosta to accompany him and his Thai lady to a great bar in Soi 8. Soi 8 has many bars, two a go gos, a British pub imitating a British pub, two pharmacies, a Seven Eleven and a Family Mart. Quite a little soi! Rosta declined because two’s company, three’s a crowd. He was also fed up with watching Bond getting drunk and watching Bond’s lady (who gives Bond freebies and food and cuddles and cuffs) getting drunk. Did premonition also grasp Rosta’s incomplete knowledge of the dangers drinking with Jimmie could present? I imagine so. Rosta is not just a pretty face.

Bondie and Nitty could be seen downing the alcohol in Soi 8 in a bar facing the soi where bar-girls called to punters and pundits to throw away expertise and the rest and believe in booze and bottoms and everything else a Thai bar-girl can offer. Sexy pundits and punters indeed, and even sexier Thai ladies. Bondie and Nit were celebrating a departure, a conventional departure, comprising taxi, Jimmie, cases, smiles, hugs, kisses, swear-words, Thai hands held out to receive parting money. A Brit could be seen downing the alcohol, too, but no one had seen him downing the yaba tablets. He had, however, downed them.

“Hey, cunt!” he shouted at Jimmie. “Who are you calling a cunt?” responded Jimmie. “I’m calling you a cunt,” responded the stranger. “You shouldn’t!” responded Jimmie. Jim’s lady asked, “What a cun’?” “Shut the fuck up!” shouts Jim, “or I’ll....” but he is already being charged upon by the stranger and by a big bottle of beer upheld in as threatening a manner as can be. Jim is 68 and his attacker is 43. Jim jumps up and grabs the stranger’s arm (the bottle of beer crashes to the ground) and the stranger bundles Jim out of the bar, over a parked motorbike which just happens to be Jim’s, and on and into the street the pair of them roll. Jim’s ankle is already broken but adrenalin, alcohol, grunts and pushing take the pain away for the moment. Yes, the two drunks go to it and at it as if their lives depended on a win. They pummel and pound and punch and poke for a while, two mad alcoholics showing the little world of Soi 8, Pattaya, the dubious advantages of madness and booze (you can get your ankle broken without feeling much pain being just one of them!) while the bar-girls take off their stilettos and penetrate the stranger’s skull and cheek-bones and chin. (It is getting pretty unfair for the stranger at this point and I must also inform my reader that heads, chins and especially cheeks, even this guy’s cheeks, were and are not made for stiletto stabbery.) He resembles a bloody sieve by the end of it all, which end also includes Pattaya’s brownest five Thai policemen, brownly attired, dragging the two (and twenty-two bar-girls) apart, tearing Jimmie’s smart trousers on the rough road and the yaba farang’s arm on a badge that dislodges itself from one official’s brown uniform and works its way into the woozy guy’s white arm-flesh. An ambulance rushes in on the scene, straps Jimmie down, and carries him off to the wailing lamentation of sirens, the shrieks of his fans, the bar-girls, and to the revolvement of blue lightnings. The pierced and downtrodden yaba-and-alcohol-frenzy-fuelled foreigner is bundled off, too, but not to hospital, and over many weeks he pays bail to the wrong people and remains in prison until, going mad, he gets incarcerated in a prison-hospital for the criminally insane. Dad can no longer send over money, it has run out, but in the process has enriched five corrupt Thai policemen and twenty-seven retainer-families. The British Embassy, one can only presume, did their best for this particular Brit but that best was not enough. Or can it be the embassy officials shrugged their shoulders, knowing they could do little for this one, particular, mentally unstable citizen whose hot water was of his own doing and whose poor dad from far-off Preston had given up and gone bankrupt? Thais and their prisons are not embassy-ties and offices with whacking privileges, so whacking they disincline their receivers from doing a difficult job responsibly. Yes, it’s probably another case for Amnesty International, for outrage, misery and tears.

James Bond is now in England along with an ankle far from OK, feeling tepidly awake to feeling and to aluminium-support syndrome. He is probably still shouting and pontificating over there without having understood a bugger about what was going on over here in Soi 8 that night. Rosta is still in Pattaya and goes out for drinkies with me. James Bond’s freebie lady is pregnant or that is what she tells us pointing to a stomach that looks more full of food than Bond foetus-feet-fingers-aluminium-support ankle-syndrome. She also tells Rosta she likes him a lot, and wouldn’t it be sweet to gropsy-gropesy-groupsy behind Bond’s back. Rosta says, “No way will I do that to a friend’s lady especially a friend’s pregnant lady.” “Oh, yes, you will,” she tells him loudly, grabbing his excrescence-projectile and making it vertical. “Nooo,” moans Rosta, pushing her off, and zipping himself up for she has indeed succeeded in giving him a quick, nimble-fingered unzippery.

As for the venerable Captain Hook, well, he lives a strange life, far from Ireland, Cork, mackerel, Guinness, and Atlantic storms. There are no storm petrels where he is, and the only storm petrels he sees are patrols, those comprising Isaan’s finest browns who poke up over the horizon every so often and send the worthy captain into frenzies of fear. He even dreams a brown policeman is prodding and poking his parts and saying, “Now, come on and show me that visa of yours. I know it’s expired, matey! However limp it may be, I need to find it, see it, fine it and stamp it!”

He was a great addition to “Collected Selected Words” and I am still keeping track of him because sooner or later with his elapsed visa and his elapsed brain, he is going to come to the Thai police’s attention once again, and the scene, worthy of great tragedy, will be seized upon by this writer who has never suffered the block from the moment he set eyes on Hook. Thanks yet again to the good Rosta who scours the fifty-eight corners of this little globe of ours and always meets up with the best and most severely compromised misfits, duds, dudes, mire-ons and hard-ons — who make writing such a pleasant and rewarding activity especially when helicopters rush in to take them away to “better” jails.

Long live Rostaranaloss, and let there be cheers, sweetness and light wherever he goes! Let his researchers belittle him howsoever much they can, he is still a number one for me and I can always pay him, play him, laud him and ode him till blue in the face. A number one in the echelons of numerical ONE-ERY. A bestest in the nestest of the bestest! Superlatives can never superlativate how great is his great!

And on that happy and most meritocratic note, I’ll blog off for now. But never fear, I’ll be back, blogging well back, and pretty soon into the bargain.

Hark! Do I hear a helicopter hovering overhead?

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