Thomas1
02-25-2013, 11:10 AM
‘It takes about two weeks until you’re conditioned to the poverty out here. I’d say two weeks is the average, depending on whether or not you’re squeamish. Eventually, you’ll have to accept it as part of the scenery. We all do. Hell, even the purest of humanitarians have to at some point, or another. Funny thing is that you won’t even notice it. The change in you, that is. Have you seen the beggar that drags himself along outside your hotel? The one with no legs and one arm? Sure you have. I bet you’ve even given him a **** load of change. Anyway, the day will come when you just step over him. Right over him as if he’s nothing but a muddy puddle that will ruin your shoes if you step in it. He’ll be dragging himself along, pushing that donation cup of his with his nose and you won’t even bat an eyelid. That’s when you’ll know. ****, the day you actually realise that you’ve been doing it, you’ll probably feel bad. But hell, some things are just out of your control, man. There’s a sickness that comes from worrying over things that you can’t change – a sickness that I wouldn’t wish on anybody. Anyhow, what brings you to Bangkok? Business? The women? Both? You’re not into those ladyboys, are you?’ I ordered myself another whisky and water and told the old man that I was here for business.
He carried on: ‘I remember this one guy who used to drink in here almost every night. The phrase ‘****ed-up’ didn’t do him any justice. He was into anything and everything. Jesus, this one time I saw him leave with a boy no older than sixteen and that wasn’t even frowned upon. And guess what? He told me he was out here on business as well. So, why are you really here? I don’t care if you’re a pervert, man, but if you’re looking to find yourself, or some other hippy ****, I’ll tell you now. Don’t bother. Many people come out here with that in mind and it doesn’t end well. They get themselves into all sorts of trouble. I’ve seen **** that you wouldn’t believe.’ As the old man continued to ramble a young girl in a yellow dress came into the bar. She must have been no older than eight years old and was selling bouquets of flowers. Really ****ty flowers, if you ask me. The old man just shook his hand at her, ushering her to move along. ‘See what I mean about the poverty? It’s everywhere, man. The point I’m trying to make though about finding yourself is that people come out here and try to do good. It’s like they’re trying to cleanse themselves for all the ****ty things that they’ve done back home. And there are people here that are waiting for them. People that convince them that they’re here to help too and that they want to make the world a better place. Before you know it you’ll be back at their hippy headquarters worshipping some man that you’ve never met before as if he was God himself. Then they’ll have you undertake some tasks for them. They seem harmless at first. You know, raising money and the like. But I swear to you, man, these people have had people killed. Businessmen. Bankers. Those types. I know this because I was one of their targets. I still am.’ The little girl came back to where we were sitting and handed the old man a bouquet of flowers. ‘Free. Free for you, sir.’
There’s a problem with drunks where they’re always trying to impress someone. You have to wade through hectares of bull**** just to get to an acre of truth. I had my doubts about the old man before his fairy tale about being a target. Maybe he saw my copy of Cults in Our Midst: The Hidden Menace in Our Everyday Lives poking out of the top of my bag and decided to have a bit of fun. Maybe not. Either way, I downed my drink and left the old man with the little girl.
He carried on: ‘I remember this one guy who used to drink in here almost every night. The phrase ‘****ed-up’ didn’t do him any justice. He was into anything and everything. Jesus, this one time I saw him leave with a boy no older than sixteen and that wasn’t even frowned upon. And guess what? He told me he was out here on business as well. So, why are you really here? I don’t care if you’re a pervert, man, but if you’re looking to find yourself, or some other hippy ****, I’ll tell you now. Don’t bother. Many people come out here with that in mind and it doesn’t end well. They get themselves into all sorts of trouble. I’ve seen **** that you wouldn’t believe.’ As the old man continued to ramble a young girl in a yellow dress came into the bar. She must have been no older than eight years old and was selling bouquets of flowers. Really ****ty flowers, if you ask me. The old man just shook his hand at her, ushering her to move along. ‘See what I mean about the poverty? It’s everywhere, man. The point I’m trying to make though about finding yourself is that people come out here and try to do good. It’s like they’re trying to cleanse themselves for all the ****ty things that they’ve done back home. And there are people here that are waiting for them. People that convince them that they’re here to help too and that they want to make the world a better place. Before you know it you’ll be back at their hippy headquarters worshipping some man that you’ve never met before as if he was God himself. Then they’ll have you undertake some tasks for them. They seem harmless at first. You know, raising money and the like. But I swear to you, man, these people have had people killed. Businessmen. Bankers. Those types. I know this because I was one of their targets. I still am.’ The little girl came back to where we were sitting and handed the old man a bouquet of flowers. ‘Free. Free for you, sir.’
There’s a problem with drunks where they’re always trying to impress someone. You have to wade through hectares of bull**** just to get to an acre of truth. I had my doubts about the old man before his fairy tale about being a target. Maybe he saw my copy of Cults in Our Midst: The Hidden Menace in Our Everyday Lives poking out of the top of my bag and decided to have a bit of fun. Maybe not. Either way, I downed my drink and left the old man with the little girl.