The Incredible Indelible Origin Story of Yawk

Part IV - The auspicious night of fateful gropings, mysterious occult elixirs, wobbly high-heels, ladydong exposures, epic billiard battles, and the naming of a bar.

Written by Johnny Speedcakes | Thimphu, Bhutan | April 20, 2022

The streets of Bangkok were swimming in a stultifying stench of steaming perniciousness. The sticky waves of filth attached themselves to one's face and arms like ripe skunk spray on a street dog. It made one's skin feel like a used fly trap strip thrown into a reeking back alley dumpster to fester and stew. On top of this, Pee Brett had just spent the last 30 hours traveling to this magical point in time and place - the guest drop off for the Hotel Metropole in Sukhumvit.

The moments until then had been comprised of a morning spent training oil engineers in Equatorial Guinea, a 2-and-a-half hour car ride through the jungle, an hour and a half sitting in the un-air-conditioned gas-station-outside-of-Bakersfield confines of the Bata airport, 30 minutes inside a flying pencil to the island capital of Malabo, a drudging, 2-hour sweat in the merry delight that is the Malabo Airport, a 4-and-a-half hour pleasure jaunt crammed next to a large Cameroonian lady exuding a cripplingly thick funky musk from her weave and a fidgeting, constantly coughing Chinese mainlander, a fully submersed waterboarding in the running-of-the-bulls shitshow that was the Addis Ababa airport in Ethiopia, in other words, 3 hours of standing in sadistic lines test piloted in Dante's 5th concentric circle of hellish torture, taking off shoes, taking off belts, getting one's internal organs and genitals blasted with safe and prudent amounts of radiation, putting shoes and belts back on, taking out laptops, taking out phones, putting them back, throwing out that $1 bottle of water at a checkpoint, going to buy another $1 bottle of water at a shop 10 feet away, lining up again, doing it all again, just in case Boko Haram or Al-Qaeda had teleported a bomb into an in transit passenger's personal effects, followed beautifully by the serene bliss that was the 7-hour red eye flight from Addis Abba to Bangkok, resplendent with PA announcements all through the night at volume 11, the cabin lights always on full blast, and the large Cameroonian funk lady substituted out for a 120-pound Vietnamese kid twitching and fidgeting on the second flight of his life, tapping and slapping moronically at the screen in front of him, trying to figure out the seatbelt, losing his mind when the tray table was lowered for him, and so forth, until one was able to stagger, blurry-eyed and confused, to the health screening line at the Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok where vaccination cards for yellow fever were scrupulously checked, then to the back of the line of thousands of squawking newly arrived Chinese mainlanders waiting to go through immigration, followed by baggage claim, and the fever dream that was the taxi ride into Sukhumvit, the driver hopped up on local red bull, the interior of his cab dripping with monk blessing and bobble head Buddhas whilst simultaneously hawking brochures of ping pong shows, soapy massages, and ladyboy cabarets featuring the greatest hits of Cher and Sheena Easton.

Was that one sentence? Yes, it was. It was a long journey. Hence, the long sentence.

Now, Pee Brett squinted in the lemon sunlight blaring through oceans of hazy car exhaust, the soapy massage parlors across Phetchaburi Street winking, the hot pungency of fried garlic careening from nearby food stalls and punching people in the face, the haggard faces of tuktuk drivers drawing at cheap cigarettes and gazing at the new hotel arrivals like mental patients staring blankly out the window at falling snowflakes. He felt his skin adhering to his shirt and jeans like fried chicken left overnight in a paper bag. All Brett could think of was chiseling his clothes off, showering, opening a bitingly cold Asahi, and taking his clothes to the hotel balcony to burn them in a trash can. After that, his plans were simple. Go downstairs to Arroy Sushi and order a mess of Japanese food, go next door to 7-11 and buy a wheelbarrow full of Asahi, and come back upstairs to the fresh sheets of his air-conditioned wonderland to get blasted while watching season 1 of Manimal until he passed out into a coma of alcohol and exhaustion.

However, making plans was always an unwise practice, and Pee Brett soon proved that axiom. Once in his room he abandoned his checklist, first taking a beer from the fridge, a non-Asahi, and firing it down. Better already, he said to himself. Next, he took out his phone and casually began firing "I've made it, I've arrived, etc." messages. As he was, an unexpected communique blasted through the ether. It was from Nong Serena.

"Where are you?"
"BKK," Pee Brett wrote. "I just arrived."
"So am I!"
"WTF?"
"Where in BKK?"
"Soi 55 (55th street). Where are you?"
"Soi 22."
"Come up here tonight. There are good restaurants and bars here."
"I'm busy doing this event. Why don't you come to Soi 22?"
"For fuck's sake, I've been traveling for over a day."
"Great, so I'll see you here around 9pm."

Nong Serena sent a pin of a hotel swimming in a morass of girlie bars. Perfect fucking location, Serena, Brett said. He tossed the phone to the bed, drained the rest of the beer, and fired the empty can haphazardly towards the kitchenette. And with that, resting and recharging with a fridge of beers and Manimal in a cool, clean, refreshing room was out the window.

Pee Brett ambled down Soi 55, stopping in various bars and sushi restaurants along the way to wipe the grimy sweat from his brow and medicate with a motley assortment of IPA's, Asahi, and Sapporo. He was well-lacquered in oily filth, exhaustion, and medium inebriation when he rounded the corner at Soi 22 and headed south past the Holiday Inn, the cat calls and whistles, the pungent smell of cheap lemongrass massage and cigarettes, the sprawling, violet-painted toes hanging like octopus appendages from dime-store high heels, the burnt sienna skin emblazoned with dripping Buddhist tattoos on the back shoulder, faded butterflies, twisted blood-red roses, and contorting, fire breathing dragons.

Skin slick with salty sweat as if he had just taken a plunge in the Dead Sea, shirt glued to his back like wet paper mâché, Pee Brett chose a street table on the outer shores of a morass of back alley bars bathed in black light, haphazardly strewn up Christmas tree lights, and breathing forth like animated mummies the dank, chilly, musty smell of well-worn air conditioners laboring through filters lambasted by years of cigarette smoke.

"Beer me," he told the waitress, wobbling like a new born fawn in her high heels.
"Lady?" she smiled, motioning with her arm to three bashful, giggling Issan girls partly hiding behind a dripping fern.
"No thanks," Brett waved her away.

She awkwardly hobbled away on her heels before screeching out a series of ear-grating commands. A brief, buzzing commotion ensued in the back reaches of the bar. From this bustling commotion, the waitress soon returned, wide smile beaming as she teetered on her high heels.

"Excuse me, sir. Have," she proudly announced.

She motioned with her arm to a quickly assembling row of ladydudes stuffed into miniskirts, broad shoulders blasting out of her sultry tops like NBA power forwards.

"Sawadee KAAAAAA," one of them rumbled through a latex face shellacked in burlesque makeup.
"I have a pussy," another growled.
"Congratulations," Brett said.
"I show you," he offered, beginning to lift lift up his miniskirt for exhibit A.
"Oh hell no!" Brett protested. "Beer," he emphatically clarified to the waitress. "Only beer!"

The smile immediately melted off the waitress's face. What was with this dingbat vanilla face? Dejected, the waitress dismissed the starting lineup for the Detroit Bad Boys and sauntered off, returning a short time later with a sweating bottle of beer in a well-worn styrofoam holder. Brett worked at the beer, wondering what was next. With ladies and ladydudes crossed off, what was the third option? Goats? Grandmas? He doubted it was going to be supermodel twins.

Pee Brett drained off his lukewarm Singha and shoved a few bills into a small wooden cup containing the check. He followed Nong Serena across the street, and they posted up at a long table perched on Soi 22 just near a row of ATM's. Two other people were already there kicking back some Beer Laos. These bottles of beer were zipped up smartly in black wet suits with a label that read: The Hangover. No drips, no leakage. The people were Serena's boss, Pee Tan, and her new colleague, Nong Kitty Boom Boom. Brett made the introductions with his new drinking mates and ordered a Beer Lao with a glass of ice.

"A farang boy alone in Bangkok," Nong Kitty Boom Boom smiled. "So dangerous."
"He was getting attacked by ladyboys across the street," Serena reported. "I saved him."
"My body odor saved me."
"You need to be careful," Nong Kitty Boom Boom warned. "A farang puppy all alone in the city of boom boom."
"He has his unique aroma protecting him," Pee Tan said. "And this..."
Pee Tan grabbed at a lose tag and threads hanging off the sleeve of Brett's Super Dry t-shirt.
"A unique limited edition Super Dry shirt. He has full protection from ladies," Pee Tan laughed. "Don't worry. No one will bother him."
Brett pulled the sleeve of his shirt around to inspect the frayed tag.
"Oh shit. My shirt is falling apart."
"It's a good look," Pee Tan smiled. "Lady killer."
"I was just in Saudi Arabia and Africa for over a year. What do you want from me?"
"I want you to discover this new invention we have at 7-11 called soap."
"Enough about Brett's hygiene. He was in the jungle."
"Okay, fuck it," Pee Tan said. "Yawk!"
"Yawk!" everyone said to each other, toasting their drinks.

As the table downed their golden, bubbly hops and collectively let out a cooing "ahh" in revelry, a pink, middle-aged European of indistinct origin slaggered to the ATM's. His cheeks were candy apple red in drink, white, thinning hair adrift in a boozy sea breeze on his shiny head, a faded polo shirt covering his gut like a bed sheet attempting to hide a dead body in the middle of the living room on Christmas morning, well-worn khaki shorts wrinkled and frayed, and a pair of swollen, hairless legs outfitted with mental health patient flip flops. Flip flops in public. In the middle of a city. Cool. His arms were flabby chicken skin and liver spots. He eyed the table of ladies and bubbled in giddiness.

"How much I should taking out?" he laughed and wheezed.
Serena glanced back over her shoulder and then shot Brett a "what in the fuck" look.
"For the girls. How much am I needing?" he continued on, wobbling slightly as he waited for the ATM to puke out pieces of paper with numbers on them.
"From the looks of you, you're gonna need a lot," Brett said.
"What's that?" the man laughed, collecting his money and beginning to stagger over.
"No, no, no," Brett said. "Wrong direction, angel pants. You're headed across the street."
The words sailed over the man's head.
"So many wonderful ladies. Am I buying a round of drinks?"
"You are," Serena said. "Across the street. Not here."
"How about..." the man began.
"She said, 'Fuck off!'" Pee Tan elucidated.
"Oh," the old retired Norwegian dock worker finally comprendo'd.
Nong Kitty Boom Boom glared at him an icy, hideous gaze and hissed vehemently as her raven black hair dripped across her face.
"Fucking asshole!"
She gritted her teeth.
"Okay, right," the old geezer stuttered. "Right, have a great evening. Cheers."

Almost getting hit by a passing scooter, the old man wobbled across the street in the blue neon shadiness and haphazard Christmas tree lights of bargirl Xanadu and ladyboy Shangri-la.

"Notice how Brett got up so quickly to defend us," Serena said. "This guy was breathing down my neck. Brett didn't move a muscle."
"He moved his beer to his face," Pee Tan defended Pee Brett.
"Other than that."
"Some farangs," Nong Kitty Boom Boom seethed. "Some of these farangs have to pay."
She stewed and simmered in her seat.
"Someone needs to teach them a lesson."
"Farangs?" Brett asked.
"Yes!"
"Good luck with that."
"I mean it!"
"Chill out, Kitty Boom Boom," Brett advised, topping up his beer. "Let's drink. Yawk!"
"Yawk!" everyone said, clinking glasses.
"How's everything at the bar? Are you guys still there at the Santitham roundabout?" Brett asked Serena.
"We moved now to the moat, near the south gate. It's called The Moonlight Garden."
"How's that going?"
"Same shit as before. I work, I slave, I hustle, and the owner takes the cream. I'm hoping to open my own bar."
"This is something! Excellent!"
"Yeah, no more breaking my back while some jerk off makes bank off my precious toil."
"Yeah, you gotta be your own boss or you're just a sucker."
"Precisely. I'm ready to do it. I'm trying to think...what do I want it to look like? What should the style be? What should we offer? And location, location, location. Where's the location?"
"Just a bar - beers, waitresses. A cash register. A fridge. Maybe a toilet."
"Yeah, don't reinvent the wheel, Pinky," Pee Tan said, addressing Serena with her nickname. "A bar."
"Fine, but how about the name? I'm having trouble coming up with a name."
"I know! Call it Yawk!" said Pee Brett.
"Yawk?"
"Yes, Yawk!"
"Yawk? No."
"Yawk! It's perfect!"
"Yeah, Yawk is good," Pee Tan said. "Keep it simple. Yawk - cheers. It's a bar, duh!"
"Yawk!" Brett said proudly, raising his glass to demonstrate as he clinked his beer against everyone else's. "It's a word you always say. It makes you happy. It's synonymous with drinking and good times."
"Yawk? It's so derivative."
"It is f-u-c-k-i-n-g perfect."
"Yawk?"
"Yawk. Yawk Bar. That's it! Boom! Done."
"I was thinking The Hole in One."
"Say what? Are we on a golf course?"
"Have you even played golf?" Pee Tan asked.
"That's not the point. It's a catchy, fun name."
"How about Pinky's Paradisio?" Pee Tan suggested.
"What the fuck?"
"That's good," Brett said. "Let's go with this. Pinky's Palladium."
"Serena's Supper Club," Pee Tan countered.
"Oh! Hi-so!"
"Pretty in Pinky."
"The Rainbow Room."
"Oh yeah!"
"The Vampire Dungeon," Nong Kitty Boom Boom said.
"Whuut?"
"Dorsia."
"Barcadia."
"The Black Orchid."
"The White Whiskey."
"Chapeau Rouge."
"Marquis d'Sade."
"Scarlet O'Hara's."
"Cocktails at Tiffany's."
"Jack the Ripper's," Nong Kitty Boom Boom said.
"Kitty Boom Boom, what the hell?"
"Kitty Boom Boom, we're being serious here."
"These names are not serious," Nong Serena protested.
"Okay, let's go. More!" Pee Brett said to Pee Tan.
"HFIOW - Holy Fuck, It's Only Wednesday."
"FFMIOT - Face Fuck Me, It's Only Tuesday."
"The Grindhouse."
"The Clam House."
"The House of Gik."
"Mia Noi's Hideaway."
"Pussy Cat's."
"Nymph Nouvelle."
"The Bewbage Brasserie."
"The Mumu Lounge."
"The Velvet Mumu."
"Guys, don't go porno," Serena said.
"Don't go porno? You said Hole in One."
"That's golf!"
"Studio 69."
"Sweet Clams."
"Honey Dolls."
"Dyatlov Pass," said Nong Kitty Boom Boom.
"Kitty Boom Boom! 4Play."
"Discreet Encounters."
"Behind the Green Door."
"The Boom Boom Lounge."
"The Stank Box."
"The Headless Horseman," Kitty Boom Boom chimed in.
"The G-Spot."
"The O-Ring Adventure."
"The Magic Donut."
"The Double Reverse Cowgirl."
"The Siam Steamer."
"The Glaswegian Snowball."
"The Swedish Snickerdoodle."
"Le Mumu Menage."
"Boobs 'n Brewski."
"Jonestown," Nong Kitty Boom Boom said.
"Big Jim's Roadhouse."
"Who's Big Jim?" Serena asked.
"The mascot," Brett explained.
"Noodle Pleasures," Pee Tan continued.
"He's hung like a damn horse," Brett said.
"Smoking Lips."
"He's got the open shirt, the gold chain, the chest hair, a stash with some cocaine in it..."
"The Zodiac Code," Nong Kitty Boom Boom said.
"Kitty Boom Boom, we're going porno."
"Hannibal's...," she thought for a moment. "Hannibal's Sex Toilet."
"Toilet! Glory hole! That's good. Godzilla's Glory Hole."
"Michelle Obama's 10-Pound Golden Cockring."
"2 Deks, 1 Cup."
"2 Giks, 1 Cup."
"4 Mia Noi's, 3 Gik's, 2 Kunan's, 1 Cup."
"Pink Fingercuffs."
"Dreamgirls."
"We're not selling girls. We're selling beer and french fries," Serena complained. "Your names suck!"
"Sucky Longtime's."
"Street Doggy 3-Way."
"Sheriff Beaufort Buchanon's Hot Smoke Truck Stop Booty Bonanza."
"Freddie Nippleworth's Burgeoning Bush Bazaar."
"Felix Cuntworthy's Sweet Clam Circus."
"Guys, stop!"
"Maximillian Cockburn's Red Eye Regalia."
"Cosby's Clubhouse," Nong Kitty Boom Boom laughed.
"Blackboot Jack's Liverpool Stankhouse."
"Simon Cuntagely's Dek Sideline Review."
"Professor Phillip Pennycock's Pussycat Penthouse."
"Ryan Seacrest Presents...Thunder Boobs."
"Tyler Perry's A Sweet Clam Christmas."
"Sadaku's Secret," Nong Kitty Boom Boom giggled.
"The Geisha Garden."
"Madame Orlovsky's Hairy Clam Cave."
"Pussy Galore."
"That's it!" Pee Brett slammed the table. "Pussy Galore! We have a winner!"
Pee Brett high-fived Pee Tan.
"Elizabeth Bathory's Love Bath," Nong Kitty Boom Boom went on.
"Kitty Boom Boom, we're all done. We have it. Pussy Galore!"
"Let's drink," Brett said. "Yawk!"
"Yawk!"
"You know, I still think Yawk isn't bad," Brett thought aloud.
"You just said it's Pussy Galore," Pee Tan protested.
"Is it Pussy Galore or Pussy Galore's?"
"Guys, it's not Pussy Galore!" Serena said. "It's not Pussy anything!"
"I'm not sure. We'll drink more and decide."
"The logo is like a Marilyn Monroe type, red lipstick, winking."
"Yeah, the name in cursive script, pink neon. Pussy Galore!"
"Yes, yes! We have it! We've fucking nailed it!"
"I was also thinking maybe Central Pint," Nong Serena said. "You know, like Central Perk in Friends. But this is pint."
Pee Tan and Brett groaned.
"Central Pint. Get it?" Serena effused to a hostile audience.
"Hey, look at all these beauty girls at one table!"
Out of the balmy stench of Soi 22, suddenly another middle-aged, drunk, nondescript European asshead with eyes rubbed raw in drink, skin sunburned pink and cheeks scarlet red was upon this foursome's table breathing gasoline dragon's breath onto everyone's eyes.
"Beauty girls all around!" he croaked.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Brett sighed as he picked up his beer in disgust and drained it. "We have got to get away from these ATM's!" Brett slammed the empty glass down. "It's like cheese and rats. Come on. Across the street. Let's go!"
"No! We don't want to go over to smut town," Serena declared.
"Yeah, we do. It might be fun," Pee Tan said.
"They have pool," Pee Brett added.
"Pool!?! Come on, let's rack 'em up!" Pee Tan said as he drained his beer.
"Guys," Serena protested.
"Kitty Boom Boom, are you in?"
"Smut town? Hell yes!" she effused, quickly applying a fresh coat of deep magenta lipstick to her pouting, vampiric mouth.
She finished the application and gave herself a breath check.
"Gawd, do I reek of garlic?" she asked. "I ate a hell ton of garlic at dinner."
"Probably, but Brett's stench is covering for you," Pee Tan said.
"Okay, good."
"That's it. 3-1, Serena. We're moving," Pee Tan announced.
Surrendering, Serena lifted up her Beer Lao in black wet suit, drained it, and pounded it onto the table.
"Fine, fuckers."

The group ambled across the street and set up inside a dim, smoke-filled bunker flanked on every side by hole-in-the-wall caves dressed up meagerly with Christmas tree lights, dark skin, darker tattoos, and hoop earrings. Darting eyes lacquered in uncouth face paint prowled around in the shadows.

The inebriated band ordered a round a beers and got to work on the pool table. The "pee's" [older brothers] played against the "nong's" [younger sisters], the pee's taking no prisoners, as the drinks flew down and the evening eased lugubriously into a lagoon of alcohol.

With the pee's up 3 games to 0, they took their foot off the gas to a degree, and in the fourth game, to the pee's utter shock and stupefaction, Nong Kitty Boom Boom had a chance to knock in an orange striped 13 ball, setting up a chance to go for the 8-ball and a miraculous victory.

Nong Kitty Boom Boom leaned over the table and eyed up her shot, her jet-black gothic mascara and chimney rose lipstick accentuating a face seeped in steely focus. It was a cross-table shot, sneaking the striped orange hopefully into the corner pocket. Kitty Boom Boom and Serena talked strategy, Serena instructing Kitty Boom Boom where to hit the ball in hopes that the cue ball would settle nicely for a clean kill shot at the black lone wolf.

"Stop with the deliberating," Pee Tan protested. "Just go ahead and miss the shot."
"We're 'strategerizing'."
"Your 'strategery' is simple: lose the game, and go buy us another round."
"Yeah, the pee's are thirsty. Let's go!" Brett clambered as he drained off his umpteenth beer.
"Okay," Nong Kitty Boom Boom said. "I got this."
She bent over the table and stretched forward to bring herself within range of the cue ball.
"You can do it."
Nong Kitty Boom Boom closed her left eye and squinted as she eyed up the shot. Brett watched her hands of black nails icily lining up the cue. He looked over at Pee Tan and smiled.
"No fucking way."

Nong Kitty Boom Boom bit her ox blood lip and readied to let it fly. The pool cue rocked back and forth on her knuckles dusted with baby powder readying to pounce. She visualized the cue ball sailing true and striking the orange striped 13 just slightly on the right side, sending it on a beeline to the corner pocket as the cue ball ricocheted off the bumper and settled in the middle of the table for the 8-ball coup de grâce. I can do this, she said to herself. She coiled back the pool cue. Here it goes.

And at that precise moment, the feeling of a rough, calloused, leathery baseball glove ran up the back of Nong Kitty Boom Boom's thigh and squeezed juicily at her milky white ass cheek. The only thing was - it wasn't a baseball glove. It was a hand. An old, weathered, dry, crackly, drunk farang geezer hand.

Nong Kitty Boom Boom shrieked as she jumped up in shock and revulsion. The pool cue leaped forward like a motorcycle crudely dropped into gear, hammering the cue ball. The cue ball went spinning like a top down the velvet where it promptly scratched into the corner pocket. An old, lecherous, drunk farang laughed and wheezed, his face cheery red, the fat gut under his knockoff polo shirt jiggling in merriment.

"Motherfucker!" Kitty Boom Boom screamed at the farang.
"Oh, she missed!" Pee Tan and Brett rejoiced in elation. "Scratch!"
"No!" Kitty Boom Boom fumed. "That doesn't count!"
"Of course that counts. That's life."
"You're dead motherfucker!" Kitty Boom Boom seethed at the farang.
He chuckled and winked at Kitty Boom Boom before wobbling back to his table of fat candy-appled geezers deep into the drink.
"Okay, redo," Nong Kitty said as she tried to center herself, the rage and fury bubbling within her like a rattling teapot.
"Bullshit!" Pee Tan and Brett protested.
"Redo! That sick fuck grabbed my ass!"
"You were bent over the table with a miniskirt on. You asked for it."
"Redo!"
Pee Tan put the cue ball on the table and paused for a moment.
"Okay, redo," he began, "but we raise the stakes. Round of beers AND tequila shots."
"Fine!" Kitty Boom Boom spat.
Pee Tan rolled the cue ball to Kitty Boom Boom. She set the ball in roughly in the same place it had been before the assault on her ass cheeks. Pee Tan winked at Brett. Kitty Boom Boom lined up the shot, her gothic eyes billowing in anger, her face flushed in a tumultuously angry brew.
"No one's behind you," Serena said. "Just relax."
"No one better be behind me, or he will lose his fucking balls!"

Nong Kitty Boom Boom let out a hot, seething breath, trying to get centered for the shot. After a moment of eying it up cruelly, with bitterly tense jaw and fiery eyes, she hammered the cue ball.

Shot out of a cannon, the cue ball zipped like a projectile at the orange striped 13. Bam! The orange striped ball fired at the corner pocket like a race car spinning out of control on a tight curve. It hit the left lip of the pocket like smashing into a guard rail, ricocheted hard, hit the other lip, and then blasted free of the cup like a comet shooting across the sky.

"Fuck basket!" Kitty Boom Boom shrieked, her face cherry red.
"The champions!" Pee Tan celebrated as he raised his fists in the air.
He coolly took his cue, lined up the shot, knocked the orange-striped 13 into the far corner, put a touch of draw on the cue ball, bringing it back to himself nice and slow, and setting up the 8-ball serenade. Free of any hesitancy, Pee Tan sized it up, and with dispassionate, assassin eyes, knocked it down.
"Absolute bullshit!" Kitty Boom Boom spat.
"Beers and shots!" Pee Tan exclaimed in glee.
"It's not fair!"
"Beers and shots, let's go!" Brett said. "Chop, chop!"
"That farang asshole did this!"
"Get trottin'! We're thirsty!"
"Shots! Shots! Shots!"

Nong Kitty slammed her pool stick onto the stained velvet of the table and excreted a furious scream through her clenched teeth. These inane, uncouth, tactless animals, Nong Kitty thought, brooding about the rapey westerners. They needed to be taught a lesson. They needed retribution, and in the worst way. Nong Kitty could have skinned them alive at that moment. Pee Tan and Pee Brett congregated at a small round table to burn down Chinese Ligun cigarettes and revel in their victory.

"Undefeated," they boasted.
"The G.O.A.T.'s."
They paid no mind to Nong Kitty as she tersely grabbed her bag and stormed away to the bar.
"No one can touch us."
"The invincibles."
"The indomitables."

Nong Kitty threw her bag down on the bar with a thud and immediately began digging into it. The burning rage was stewing within her, a volcanic, poisoned ivy which crawled up her spine and wrapped its cruel metallic claws around her mind in a buzzing death grip.

"Little sister," Nong Kitty said as she busied herself rummaging through her bag.
A bashful, yet tattooed and mini-skirted waitress approached sheepishly from behind the bar.
"Ma'am," she said demurely.
"I need 4 shots of tequila gold."
"4 shots," the waitresses blankly repeated.
Nong Kitty froze in mid-rummage and looked up coldly at the waitress.
"Tequila gold," she said icily.
"Tequila," the waitress said, as if pronouncing the word for the first time.
"4 shots."
"4 shots," the waitress parroted blankly.
"Yes! Go!"
Worriedly, the waitress scurried over to an older, plump lady behind the bar and began asking for help.
"Tequila gold?" the plump woman asked.
"Tequila!" Nong Kitty fumed. "4 shots! Fuck!"

The plump woman instructed the young waitress on what to do, and Nong Kitty, shaking her head in annoyance, continued her dig. Everyone needs to be taught a lesson, she fumed. These useless eaters need to get what's coming to them. This planet has had it soft for far too long! Finally, her desperate fingers with those long black nails landed on that which they had sought. Voile! A small, burgundy velvet bag with a golden tassel. She exuded a cooing sigh of relief and brought the bag to her bosom in thanks.

Undoing the golden tassel, she pulled out 4 small vials looking like perfume samples. She twisted them around in her revenge-filled gaze, her eyes drinking them in through heavy dark mascara and midnight eyelash extensions. Wuhan Surprise, read one label. No way, too slow. The next - Starlight Circus. No chance. Then - Sleeping Beauty. No. Lastly - St. Elmo's Fire. Yes! Suck on this, fuckers, Nong Kitty seethed as she dropped the three other vials back into the burgundy pouch and returned it to her bag.

In her hand, clandestinely, she unscrewed the cap on what she thought was St. Elmo's Fire and placed the bottle in her palm, concealing it entirely in her clenched paw. I say "what she thought" because unbeknown to Nong Kitty Boom Boom, the vials had in fact suffered an occurrence of human error. Two of the vials had unfortunately been mislabeled. Hidden within her vial of "St. Elmo's Fire" was in fact Starlight Circus, and, vis-versa, within the Starlight Circus vial was actually St. Elmo's Fire.

In subtle trepidation, the waitress approached with a tray of 4 tequila shots, a small dish with lime wedges, and a blue and white salt shaker.

"Okay," Nong Kitty gathered herself. "I need another tray, just like this, with 4 more shots."
The waitress stared blankly at her.
"Let's try again. Make another one of these," Nong Kitty explained as she waved her left hand over the tray of tequila. "That means 2 trays with 4 shots of tequila on each one."
"8 shots," the waitress blankly repeated.
"2 trays. 2 identical trays."
The waitress stared at Nong Kitty with a facial expression that said I may not actually be a human life form.
"For fuck's sake," Nong Kitty seethed under her breath. "Older sister! Please, can you help! I need one more tray of 4 tequilas, just like this."

The plump lady came over and told the young waitress to get busy. Nong Kitty continued to shake her head as she slid the tray of tequilas over to her small enclave of the bar where her body and her bag for all intents and purposes blocked the drinks from the view of anyone. Sayonara fuckers, Nong Kitty whispered her curse over the elixirs as she adroitly added 3 drops of secret potion to each shot. Burn in hell! Keeping the small container concealed, she replaced the cap and slid her hand into her bag, releasing the tiny bottle to freedom amid the secret shadows of her bag's confines.

Nong Kitty Boom Boom's heart was beating in exhilaration and excitement. She found it nearly impossible to contain herself. All of her boiling rage and fury was dissipating into giddiness. Those inane idiots are mine, she congratulated herself. Nong Kitty began bouncing her shoulders and moving her body merrily to the all-pervading and encompassing beats of Cardi B's "Bodak Yellow". The waitress returned with another tray of 4 tequila shots.

"Alright," Nong Kitty leaned into the bar to get as close to the waitress as possible. "These," Nong Kitty paused to emphasize the tray nearest her. "T-H-E-S-E go to the old farangs over there. It's a gift. T-H-O-S-E," she said pointing to the newest tray just arrived by the waitress, "go to my table."
Nong Kitty pointed to Pee Brett, Pee Tan, and Nong Serena as they churned out Ligun smoke and fired down beer.
"Yawk!" the gleefully shouted to one another.
"Pussy Galore's!"
"Stankpocalypse!"
"Guys, Central Pint!"
"Okay?" Nong Kitty asked as she fixed her piercing, shadowy eyes on the waitress. "Do you understand?"
The waitress nodded.
"Bravo," Nong Kitty congratulated her.

Nong Kitty pushed off from her meeting of the minds and gleefully strutted around the bar to the restrooms. A much needed emptying of the bladder and then I can sit back in full relaxation and watch showtime. This night is turning out to be great, Nong Kitty merrily concluded.

Back in the bar, the waitress assessed the situation and made a prudent decision. Just 2 days ago she had spilled a tray of vodka fruit juice shots all over the place. Wearing high-heels, balancing trays filled with drinks - she had been at it for less than a week. She found the experience nerve-racking, not to mention the chiding and incessant teasing she had been receiving from her tattooed, high-heeled, hoop-earringed, and more seasoned colleagues. That wasn't going to happen this time. She wasn't going to give any of them a reason to make fun of her. That's why, prudently, she walked around to the front of the bar, thus reducing her "carrying" distance by half. Okay, she said as she collected herself. Let's do the easy one first, the one with the shortest distance. Carefully, she picked up the tray of tequilas nearest to her and gingerly walked the 10 feet or so to the table with Pee Tan, Pee Brett, and Nong Serena. Yes, the irritated gothic girl had said take this one to the farangs and that one to her table, but what difference did it make. The drinks were the same. That goth girl was crazy.

"Alright!" the table of Pee Tan, Pee Brett, and Nong Serena exclaimed. "Shot time!"
The waitress sat the tray down on the table and stood back to smile. I did it! She beamed in relief. Okay, just one more. She walked back to the bar, now feeling more confident, and slid the most recently prepared tray of tequila towards her. You can do this, she said to herself. Step by step. Like a fawn, she moved gingerly on her breakneck heels to the table of farangs.
"We didn't order this!" a bloated, red-faced middle-aged buffoon shouted.
"Take it back, we didn't order these," another one bellowed.
"Free!" the chubby waitress behind the bar shouted.
"Free?"
The farangs' eyes grew wide together.
"Free! No pay!" the chubby bartender reiterated.
The farangs chuckled in glee and delight. The bar was giving them free drinks because they were awesome, they presumed.
"Okay, okay!" they motioned jubilantly to the waitress.
Carefully, she lowered the tray down onto the table of sweating beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. I did it, she exclaimed to herself as the tray calmly came to a rest on the table. Just as she did, a rough, sandpapery, grizzled paw shot up the side of her leg to grab her ass.
"Ahh!" she squeaked as she slapped the liver-spotted appendage away.
A farang wheezed a hearty chuckle at her. She smiled and on her stilts awkwardly walked back to the bar. As she was just about to round the corner, Nong Kitty appeared from the bathroom.
"Oh, you did it!" Nong Kitty said as she peered past the waitress to see the farangs readying their shots of tequila. "Good job!"
Nong Kitty reached into her purse and pulled out 20 baht (60 cents).
"Here, for you! Good girl."
The waitress smiled and took the 20 baht joyfully. Lighter in step, she returned to behind the bar, a sparkle in her eyes. Maybe the goth girl wasn't so bad. This is a good day, she said to herself. I'm getting the hang of this. People won't make fun of me anymore.

In a rush of exuberance, Nong Kitty joined the others at the table.
"I'm back! Let's do this!" Nong Kitty shouted in glee.
"Someone's demeanor has changed," Pee Tan observed.
"I just needed to pee."
"It must have been some pee."
"It was a game changer!"
The gang lined up salt bumpers on their left hands and readied their drinks.
"I gotta feelin'!" Nong Kitty began to sing. "That tonight's gonna be a good night!"
"To Serena's new bar - Pussy Galore!" Pee Brett said.
Pee Tan's phone went off.
"Fucker!" Pee Tan shouted.
Angrily, she muted her phone.
"Fuck me, make it stop!"
"Okay, let's go! To Pussy Galore!"
There was a loud bang on the window next to their table.
"Hey!" a shadowy figure on the other side of the window squawked in an ear-grating duck voice. "I have a pussy!"
A tall ladyboy with broad shoulders and muscular, veiny arms began lifting up her skirt.
"Dude, not interested," Pee Brett waved her away.
"Scram! Shoo!" Nong Serena joined in.
Dejectedly, the ladyboy lowered her skirt back down and stomped off into the shadows.
"To Pussy Galore's!" Pee Brett struck up again.
"How about...to Monkey Mumu!" Pee Tan suggested.
"Fuck, that's a keeper also," Pee Brett said.
"To Central Pint," Serena corrected them.
"To divine retribution," Nong Kitty giggled, preparing to relish deliciously the front row seat to her demented schadenfreude.
"Yawk!" they said as they clanked glasses.

They fired back the tequila and smacked their lips as they worked at their lime wedges. They were now officially on the clock. They had roughly an hour or so until things would become unchangeably interesting.