I offer this with no further commentary. Here it is, unedited, from Jim Fairthorne on the front lines.
I’ve made my way to Bangkok, hitch hiking my way up the coast. I didn’t know what the word destitute meant until I came to this country. The roadside is littered with cows and Coca Cola advertisements, so much so that people have made little huts out of the billboards. They look ate me with hate and wonder at the same time. It’s surprising that I even got a ride. Each time I’m picked up, I get the same look of pity. It’s not too often that they see a foreigner that looks like a bum. I guess it doesn’t help that I smell like Toronto during a garbage strike.
I stole a phone in Hong Kong from some suit and have been using it ever since. Don’t even ask me how I’m charging it. The joke’s on me because it’s a pay-as-you-go and can’t call home. All I can use it for is digital transmission. Jeff, if you’re reading this: SEND ME SOME FUCKING MONEY
Staying alive by stealing is no way to live. Living off of lychee’s and rice gets old after about a day, but I really don’t have much of a choice. I have no choice. I’m not even sure how the fuck I got here in the first place. All I know is that I’m here, and am back on assignment- find the woman on found David Carradine. Still haven’t found her yet, but I haven’t hit up every brothel in the city yet.
This place reminds me of the first time I met Jeff. I was in an opium den in Calcutta sprawled out on a couch with some burly looking Brit beside me.
Brit: “So the Bastards are back to collect their come-uppins’ as I get ready for an outing. I’d met them before once at the pub, and there had been a scuffle. Being wildly irritable at the moment, ‘you pansy farmers, get outta here before I smash thine loins’
I acknowledged him with a over exaggerated grunt.
“Ah, the derelict speaks. You fucker.”
Me: (completely in my own universe) “Fuck.”
Brit: “I’ll scream with the best of ye, in summertime blooms, smackity-sam. Three punch fisticuffs and bent golf clubs drenched in bloody goop.”
All I needed was a shot of rye. Salt sweat drips in my eye. I barrel down the flower carpet stairwell, fleeing the scene, and see Jeff on the way out. An exchange of nods was made, and he knew what I was up to.
Jeff: “Oi, the cleanup shop is down the street,” he says to me with a smirk. “I know the fucking way.” I’m simmering with fear, away with metaphors.
“Jeff, I didn’t think you were coming ’till Sunburn Saturday,” the proprietor of Wenvig, a Bolshevik themed toy store said. I thought his name was Roy, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually Belov. A dirty fellow. I was later told he was KGB, but who knows. Belov took down an old box from the shelf behind him. “Russian jack-o-lantern.”
Jeff: “I need to see the big man.”
Belov: “Forget it. Go home, you fucking peasant. Go home to your mommy!”
Jeff (to me: “I really hate having my buttons pushed. Especially when I don’t get my own way. This salamander’s fate has just been sealed.”
Belov: “Switzerwatchmar, confuddlekat blew!”
Jeff: “I’m sorry, the doctor’s not in right now. Would you like to leave a message?” Belov was ready for the heat, and we were ready for the business. Salt sweat drips in my eye.
The room turned black, and red Christmas twinklers took their turn at illumination. The stability of the universe was changing. The shelves parted, and the floor opened up. Light and a train car full of fog rushed upwards, blinding the two of us.
“Comrade,” the Bulgarian spoke yet he was shrouded by the fog. “This way.” For a moment, the light was blocked as he made his way down the hole.
Jeff paused, and looked up to me. “If you know any girls that don’t give head, don’t introduce them to me,” he scratched his testicles as he spoke.
Being in the afternoon sun with the Jeff had struck something inside of me. With a full wardrobe, sleeping bag, unlimited amounts of food (from unknown sources), chronic, he was comfortable. The philosopher, rebel, prophet, municipal treasure was the perfect inspiration for the revolution. “I am the authority, but you have the power.” His words not mine.
We passed the grass back and forth rhythmic with the music from auto rickshaws near by. The city charged through midday as we sat on the sidewalk.
“Daddy! Daddy!” He screamed at an old aristocrat walking with his grandchildren. “I’m your son!” The family, in disgust by the shoeless, shit smelling hobo, attempted to flee the scene. Jeff was relentless though. He would do anything to invoke some sort of feeling from the ‘powerful’ breed he interacts with.
I’ll report back when I have more news from the front.