“Piss American! Piss American!” Then a flash of gut-wrenching light. That must have been what it looked like when God made the Heavens. “Piss American!” I wanted to throw up and I knew it wouldn’t be long until I was again. I always seemed to be vomiting or refusing something from my body in those days. “Piss American! You piss, American!” Good God what the Hell was this. “Shut it,” I coughed, “I’m not an American.” As the blinding haze withdrew from my weathered retinas I saw a skinny little gook boy leaning towards me with his hands on his knees. Black hair, standard issue slit blackholes instead of eyes, cracked lips, and skinnier than I was in college. He was dark like most of them, poor, or working class back home. At least he didn’t look like he crawled out of a petri dish of a woman thanks to some contemporary American conquest. Poor fuckers… He wore only tattered sandals and basketball shorts, but I soon realized he was still more dressed than I. His use of the word piss was not just a dirty word he had picked up from watching too much Hollywood.
I lifted my head from the dirt alley it was resting on and looked across over my exposed and bloated belly to realize I had managed to wake up literally pissed drunk. Again. This was not an uncommon occurrence nowadays, in fact, it had never really been that uncommon. I coughed some more and then, heaving my loaf of a body up from the damp ground, waved my arms at him until he took off around the corner. Fucking dinks. I tried to set myself up, but immediately began to vomit. I failed miserably at the task of avoiding impact with my grazed and straw like legs. I wiped the sick off of my face and began taking stock. I really don’t know what I should have expected. No wallet, no tobacco, and no shoes. I hated not wearing shoes. I hated gooks. I hated this place.
As this thought crossed my polluted mind, however, I realized I actually had no idea where I was. Another habit I’d picked up somewhere between here and my childhood. I hoped I was still in Cambodia, but had long since given up expectations. Those were things for people who don’t wake up half naked in a pile of their own regret. I limped out of the alley, but not before coughing up more good times from the night, or rather the entire day before, or however long this had been going on for. Every God damned street in this backwater shit hole looked the same. Muddy motorbikes, always Japanese, street vendors pushing flayed dogs and rotting fruit, and rundown colonial architecture. I couldn’t figure which would be more insulting to who. That these fuckers live in the old homes of their rapists, or that these ruins of an ancient civilization were inhabited by such undesirables. The thoughts swirled in my head like Sally-May’s whoopsie with Brad down the shitter. I wheezed...
To my dismay I didn’t see any Bah-Rang around. That’s what they called us. I think so, at least, everything they said sounded so damned ridiculous. They talked like gagging infants. I knew what that sounded like, but not in the way one probably thinks when they hear a man too old to be using those two words in the same breath. This disappointed me, as I was unsure how I’d get myself out of here and drunk without some tourists. I’d been told on numerous occasions that they actually have strong religious and moral values here. I wasn’t buying it. I didn’t see too many crosses around, but that’s why I’d came here after all. On some kind of casual stroll into the deepest and darkest corner of Hell. Just like Dante. Not like in the book, though, I hadn’t read it. Regardless, I didn’t think they’d take kindly to me slurring my Western words and smelling of bile and urine. I set on the curb and prayed for rain, knowing damn well it wasn’t the season for it. So damned hot. I felt sick. Tired. Unfortunately, however, I no longer had the luxury of giving up. I already had. Why else would I be here?