(I want to take a moment and say that Thailand rocks! That is all.)
029. A conversation begins. His words hide behind a thick accent and endlessly curious combinations of profanity. Despite this I learn where to go for certain things a man with money might need.
“Can’t find that in the states!”
“I can never go to the United States,” he says.
Initially I don’t care, but my imagination quickly begins creating plausible reasons a person can be banned from entering the United States. I need to know.
“Oh yeah?”
The heavily tattooed man doesn’t budge. His significantly younger Asian girlfriend giggles and gushes at something cute – a lost puppy. He responds with a string of profanity ending with, “Yes, that little [F]ucker is cute.”
I grab my drink and change the subject. Though I could give two shits about whore houses in Bangkok, I learn where to find them. Drugs too.
“No, no, no…,” I grab my drink, pensively pause, than take a swig, “I don’t do that shit anymore.”
I see a flash of genuine interest. I prepare myself for an Oscar-winning performance. The questions, slow at first, start flying. I list a string of friendly drugs, good places and good times. Then I pause.
“Yeah, but meth fucked up… ”
I flashback. I ramble. The Oscar is within my grasps. And finally, with a generous gulp of my drink, I end the performance.
Curious combinations of profanity begin in earnest and the heavily tattooed man prattles on about meth.
“Well, if you go to the US, skip over that shit hole in the Midwest I was talking about.”
“[F]uck… I want to go, but I can’t…” he says.
“Oh… yeah, that‘s right.” I grab my drink and pause.
“Yeah I can’t go in cause of arms transportation.”
Score!!! … and then a thought occurs.
What if this guy really is/was an arms dealer? I can deal with pimps and drug pushers, but as a pacifist, with my heightened moral integrity, I simply can not condone illegal international arms dealing.
I settle on the comforting thought that he works in a cubicle in Manchester’s financial district.
I’m probably wrong.