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The Battle Royal I'd just fought had left my face in a state on par with the thrashed, bloodied room I was standing in. The two corpses on the floor were irrefutable proof that I'd won, but I was in a bad way – and fucking steaming over it. I really struggled to come to terms with the fact that Deano had smashed my teeth with a kettle. I mean OK, fair dues, he was dead. In fact, he was mutilated beyond recognition. His leaking body was lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed while his head – with it's matted, sticky-looking hair and overly dramatic oh-no-I'm-being-decapitated freeze framed facial expression – was on the bathroom floor. It  made my anger towards him feel somewhat unreasonable, but I still couldn't forgive him. I looked like a fucking hobo every time I opened my mouth. I had to stop myself from tossing coins at the bathroom mirror.
There was no two ways about it, my mood was darkening. It was ludicrous really, given how successful – in broad terms – the day had been. I decided to jump over Deano's head and into the shower again to see if I couldn't brighten myself up. The water jet blasting into the back of my kneck helped, but the stress induced by the idiotic face starring up at me from the red floor below neutralised any holistic benefit I might have otherwise enjoyed. There was only one thing for it. Happily, both the rim and the lid clacked closed with room to spare.
Suitably refreshed and with only a few hours left to kill before my flight to Bangkok via Doha, I got dressed, bid my two gallant countrymen a farewell and popped the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door so they could enjoy some privacy. I slowed my roll on the way out of the empty lobby when I noticed that a total cracker of a girl had been slotted in behind the reception desk. She had a typical Irish head – blue eyes, dark hair and an expression that told all comers they would need a miracle to get into her uncomfortably tight knickers.
“Graveyard shift eh?” I commented, casually nodding toward the clock behind her which indicated that it was knocking on for four am.
“Something like that sir,” she responded icily.
“OK.... well I'd like to check out of room 307 but my friends in 308 will be staying for another two nights.”
Within moments the formalities were finished and she was thanking me for my custom with sickeningly contrived politeness.
“No, don't thank me sweetheart,” I responded. “Thank you. Thank you for reminding me why I'm getting the fuck out of this country and away from cunts like you.” And with that I threw my room key over my shoulder onto the carpet and strutted towards the exit.
I killed the few hours before my flight by buying up a range of legal narcotics in a pharmacy near the airport, which I hoped would make the trip a bit more bearable, and by perusing the web for a decent-looking Bangkok dentist that I could book into for the following day. And that more-or-less brings us up to the present – my teeth may be in the room of that Dublin Airport hotel, but both me and my money are safe and sound in Bangkok.

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I skip the elevator and nip down the stairs in that wondrous manner in which your feet hardly touch the steps – the one you do less and less the older you get. Once off the last one I quickly scan the lobby of Soi five's Sahara Hotel; both bent bell-boy Manuel and the bitch who seized my passport before permitting me to check in are present. It's icy stares at dawn in here, but I couldn't really give a flying fuck at this stage of the game.
I thought it best to ditch my mobile in Dublin Airport, which means I'm forced to get old skool and make use of that arcane device so beloved by drug dealers and drunk people looking for somewhere to piss, the phone box.
“Hulloo,” says Noy cautiously.
“Hi sweetheart, it's Michael. I've arrived in Bangkok,” I tell the greasy black receiver.
“Ohh. OK, great. When can we meet?”
“Wow, you sound chuffed. I've a few things to do today, but we can meet tonight if you're free?”
“Ahh, OK. Can you come see me in Hillary Bar on Soi Nana? Where we meet first time na?”
“Can do, can do. I'll see ya there at around nine bells. And try to cheer the fuck up, will ya? You don't exactly come across as being happy to hear from me,” I say, doing my best to keep my temper amid the lack of enthusiasm and heroic heat.
“I am happy! I'm want to see you soon and...”
She keeps babbling, but I stop listening. A few feet away some bint is cooking the most grotesque looking meal I have ever clapped eyes on – atop one of those Thai-style mobile kitchens that can be unloaded onto a street from a Nazi-esque motorbike with side car. The fat grubby bitch is stirring what can only be described as a cauldron which contains a thin brown liquid. Bobbing around in it are clumps of undecipherable meat, some bewildered greens and the rigid intestines of some unfortunate beast. The worst of it is that master chef here is looking at me as if I might actually be willing to ingest some of the putrid gank.
“You can hear me Michael?” says the greasy black receiver, ruining my warm, angry revere.
“Course I can! What am I, a retard? Nine bells in Hillary on Nana. Fucking rocket science right enough.” I respond with appropriate indignity before hanging up.
And with that unpleasantness out of the way I successfully fend off the urge to kick that gross bitch's eye-of-newt-and-guts-of-homeless-person-stew all over the soi and head towards the dentist.

To be continued.
All rights reserved by the author.

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