Foster Foskin and the Big Mango Buddha

“Bloody hell mate! Didja see them bloody women when I asked ‘em if they was up fer it?”

Who else did Jack know who talked like that? It had to be his old Aussie mate Foster Foskin. Yep, there was no doubt about it. There he was with his best friend Bluey, and the most attractive looking woman Jack had ever seen.

“Barman, four Vic Bitters and a….” he squinted at the far table, “and whatever the lady over there is drinking.”

The drinks arrived and Jack carried them over to the table. As he walked, he thought back to that fateful night when he’d met the curiously named Foster in a small bar in Soi Nana. Bluey had tripped drunkenly as he walked past, spilling his beer over Jack. Before he could recover, a tall, well-built man wearing a black Australian cowboy hat was at his side wiping up the spill.

“I’m real sorry about me mate, mate. Bluey likes ‘is suds a bit causin’ ‘im ter lose ‘is equilibrium, ya see? ‘Ere, let me buy youse another beer.”

Jack had nothing better to do, and he did need another beer, so he joined the tall Aussie.

“Me name’s Foster Foskin, and this is me mate Bluey.”

Foster was tall, with a solid body. He wore a pair of jeans, and elastic-sided boots. Bluey wore much the same, but he was shorter and looked like he’d passed his use by date. They shook hands.

The beautiful woman with them was dressed in an exquisite red dress that barely covered her best bits. She had long black hair down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were exotically Asian, curving up at the outside. Her large well-shaped breasts heaved against the tight red fabric. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off her: Until she opened her mouth that is. Then he saw the Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He knew immediately she was a katoey, or a shim, as he liked to call them.

As the night wore on Jack realized that Foskin didn’t have a clue he was chatting up a man. Jack whispered in his ear while the gorgeous hulk was in the bathroom, the ladies of course.

“Crikey! Ya mean she’s a bloody bloke?” Foster blurted out loud. The whole place turned to stare.

Foster gave the Shim the big heave-ho when he came back. Ever since then, Foster, Bluey, and Jack had been good mates.

But the last place Jack expected to see Foster was down here at the Boathouse in Phuket. He liked Foster, but he also knew that Fos and Bluey were very rough diamonds. And the Boathouse does have high standards. He just hoped Bluey wouldn’t chunder…always a distinct possibility after his first half dozen beers.

“So, what are you doing down here Fos?”

“Bluey and me are lookin’ fer a bloke called Trinket. Have youse run into ‘im?”

“Why?”

“He stole a bloody big gold medallion they call the Big Mango Buddha. I’ve been hired ter get it back fer the real owner.”

“Yeah? Who is the real owner then?”

“Some bastard in Bangkok called Flatulent Fred, aka Fred the Med, on account of his penchant fer scoffin' bloody meds all the time. They tend ter bloat ‘im, hence the multiple monikers."

Just then Trinket himself waddled in. Jack pointed him out. Foster stared at the stooped old man with a large belly, rheumy eyes and an irascible manner.

"I want to sit looking out over the ocean." He quavered. His female companion, nearly as old as him, led him to a seat and then wobbled down onto a seat opposite.

Foster leaned over to Jack. "That's the old bastard right there isn't it? I’ve got ‘is picture here."

Jack nodded. “Yep, that’s him. He used to be a famous writer once, but he’s past it these days.”

As the drinks arrived at the other table Trinket's wife got up and shuffled off to the ladies room. Foster decided there was no time like the present to take back the gold medallion. He said to Bluey, "Mate, drink yer beer now and get the car around ter the front door."

Bluey never hesitated. He got up and staggered outside.

Foster walked casually to Trinket's table and stood looking down at the venerable old man.

"G'day there mate."

"What do you want?" Trinket snapped.

"I was just admirin' that medallion youse are wearin'. Solid gold isn't it?"

"So what if it is? Get out of here!"

Foster leaned down, grabbed the fake gold chain around Trinket's neck and yanked hard. It snapped and Foster was streaking out the door before anyone could stop him. He jumped into the waiting car. The two Aussies sped off into the night, or at least as fast as the wheezing old car would go.

They exited the car park and slammed into a Tuk-Tuk puttering down the road. Chickens, feathers, and a red-faced Thai emerged from the carnage. He started running around trying to collect his chickens. Foster and Bluey took one look and decided discretion was the better part of valour. The Thai saw them start running, forgot about his chickens and chased them instead, screaming and cursing as he went.

The Tuk-Tuk driver joined the chase, scattering chickens in his wake. Jack chased after them, while the Boathouse crew stood outside the restaurant, their mouths agape.

Meanwhile, Trinket's wife came tottering down the driveway screaming, "Stop thief! He steal gold my man me!"  But it was too late. The duo were gone in a cloud of dust.

As they ran, Foster and Bluey looked around wild eyed, seeking an escape. Just then, a policeman jumped up from a bowl of noodles he'd been eating at a roadside stall. He blew his whistle, shouting for the duo to stop. A couple sitting near the policeman shrieked as Bluey bumped into their table, upsetting their noodles. They joined the chase, along with a couple of katoeys who fancied Foster’s behind. But they were content to hang back and enjoy the view.

Foster and Bluey split up, an old trick they had learned in Wooloomooloo after a good punch up in a pub. A bloke had ter have a bit of fun, but not everyone took it that way, did they?

Foster screamed down a dark alleyway between two buildings and through a bamboo gate. His sudden move fooled the chasers and they continued after Bluey. Suddenly, Foster was surrounded by screaming gibbons. He’d wandered into the local gibbon rehabilitation center. Undeterred, Foster headed for a big hut and hunkered down in the darkest corner. A group of gibbons swung from pole to pole like demented go-go dancers, screaming their whoop-whoop yells. Foster clung to the gold medallion, a smile on his face, until one of the apes peed on him. Foster sprang up cursing and ran back out the way he had come. The street was quiet…at least, as quiet as any street gets in Thailand.

“Hey, handsome man! Where you go?”

“You come inside sir. I make nice suit for you. Only one hundred dollah!”

Foster ignored them, found a beer bar, flopped down on a bar stool and ordered a cold Fosters. One of the bar girls came up to him and opened her mouth to talk, then snapped shut it again in disgust.

“Oyeeeee! Farung smell like monkey piss!”

The other girls in the bar erupted in laughter until they caught a whiff of the gibbon piss too. They all dragged out their menthol sniffers and stuck them up their noses, giving them the bizarre look of a long white nose cult.

Ten minutes later Foster looked up and saw Bluey limping up the road towards him.

“Hey mate! Howzit goin’?”

“Jeez, it’s good ta see youse, ya bastard! I give ‘em the slip in the Bananarama Disco. Got lost in the crowd and then slipped out the back. Have yer got it?”

Foster nodded happily and ordered another beer for them both.

“Yeah, I got it.”

The two mates raised their bottles in a toast and sucked mightily.

There was a rush of wind as a katoey dressed in skintight jeans and a spandex top bursting with a huge pair of plastic breasts grabbed the medallion. The shim tore off down the road like a roo before a bush fire.

Foster and Bluey looked at each other stunned. Then they leaped off their bar stools and chased the apparition, careering madly down the road. A bunch of soi dogs chased them. Bar girls all cheered wildly. Ten Middle Eastern men in white robes joined in thinking it was a local marathon and they might actually win a Thai virgin. A German tourist getting fitted by an Indian tailor for a hundred dollar suit gargled to his friend as the cavalcade passed, “Yoost another night in paradise, ya?”

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This was my entry in this year's Mom Tri writing contest. It didn't get a look in but I thought you might enjoy reading it anyway. Better luck next year I guess. I'm starting my entry now so that I have plenty of time to get it right....