Wait, sorry. The quaaludes haven’t kicked in yet. Let me start over…
This story is one of personal triumph. Before there was any thoughts or knowledge of my future with my writing and violence connoisseur, The Lizard, before I knew how to throw a proper right hand (thanks for fixing my gimpy boxing, TC), there was a reckoning.
In July of 2012 I was just about to have wrapped up my first trip to Thailand. Specifically in the beautiful Rawai neighborhood of Phuket-- a portion of the island that has gone untouched by the seedy shitstorm that compiles Patong and other various pockets of the red-light district. One evening after wrapping up yet another night of fights at Bangla Stadium I ran into two of my friends from Sinbi-- a neighboring gym that many of us had developed a great relationship with. My two friends-- we’ll just call them Rhino and JuiceBoy, were from the UK and Australia respectfully. Now, this isn’t always common knowledge to the general populous, but the British and the Australians are some of the craziest, most psychotic, reckless individuals I have ever met in my entire life. There is no fear in their hearts.
After the fights, Rhino walked up to me and decided the best way to say hello was to sweep me onto the concrete floor of the stadium.
“Stevie! Cunt fuck. Get your shoes. We’re going out tonight.”
It may seem like I had a choice in the matter at this point but in reality, I really didn’t. Just as I’m picking my ass off the floor after Rhino had rag-dolled me, I see JuiceBoy meandering over to us.
“Stevie. Sick fucking cunts everywhere tonight, man. Just too easy to go out eh? Fucking everywhere. All these rubes fucking lacquered off the same swill we drinking every night. Fucking training fucking cats think they’re hard as nails but really they’re all just soft as baby shit. That lady boy would eat you alive. Twenty fights and you’re still talking shit? Fuck off mate.”
Yeah I’m not exactly sure what he was getting at either. Aussie transcriptions are often times incomprehensible.
To make light of the situation, I half-heartedly told JuiceBoy and Rhino that I was going to try and get to bed right away because I didn’t want to miss training in the morning. This registered with them about as well as if I had been speaking mandarin.
“Mate don’t be disgusting. You’re coming out with us.”
Thus begins my transition from a quiet night in to being forced into full blown survival mode.
I remember walking into nine separate bars. To this day Rhino and Juiceboy maintain that we stayed at the same pub for the entire night. I can say with confidence that this was not the case. It’s difficult to adequately comprehend all of the things I witnessed that night, but for the sake of readership, I have compiled a list of things that occurred from the time we left the stadium until about midnight:
· 4 ping pong shows, one of which included a Capuchin monkey (if you need to ask what a ping pong show is, don’t).
· Juiceboy kissing Rhino on the mouth and promising him complete legal custody of his firstborn (Juiceboy had four kids at this point in time)
· A pick up truck driving down the main road with the bed completely engulfed in flames.
· Rhino downing a fifth of Thai whiskey faster than it took me to finish half a can of Singha
· A cab driver take a full rules fight against a female soccer player from San Francisco in the middle of the dance floor at a disco bar. The soccer player won.
· A bartender from New Zealand tattooing ‘Cunt 4 Life’ on Rhino’s shoulder. Pretty sure it’s still there too.
· Juiceboy talking me into him and I driving to Bangkok on his scooter. If you’re not familiar with the geography of Thailand, Bangkok is roughly a nine hour bus ride from Phuket. We made it about six kilometers before Juiceboy wanted to stop for some pad thai.
I like to use a very specific rating system when talking about intoxication levels. It is as follows:
-Hammered: An overly talkative, happy Steve. One that dabbles in the finer things in life like skinny dipping and fireworks.
-Gorked: This is Steve with an unprecedented level of ambition. The Steve that thinks cliff diving and parkour are one in the same. The Steve that can eat 37 dollars worth of Taco Bell and still rally like a boss.
-Fucked-in-half: At this point, jail is inevitable. This is Steve completely uninhibited. Fucked-in-half Steve has been known to headbutt windows, rollerblade off the roof of two-story houses and order industrial-sized bags of Cinnamon Toast Crunch off of Ebay and choose expedited shipping.
Guess which level I was at.
At this point Rhino and Juiceboy are passed out spooning one another in the side carriage of my scooter. Without even a semblance of a second thought, I put the key in the ignition and start bombing down the red-light district with a complete disregard for our well being. As I approach the main intersection I notice a slight dip in the road and a long string of cars. Traffic at this hour? Cars are stupid. I’m cruising past all of these plebeians!
I hit 40 mph. Then 55. Then 70. The bike is topped out and we are literally lifting the rear wheel off the ground as we bomb past everyone, It wasn’t until I saw the man open the door of his car roughly 15 feet in front of me that I realized I was about to die.
We collide with the door at full speed. Rather than the scooter bursting into a million pieces the door flies off the hinges of this poor guy’s car as if it had just been hit by a battering ram. I barely have a chance to bat my eyes when the front tire of my scooter cracks into a massive pothole which launches me over the handlebars of the scooter and flattens me onto the rear window of the car in front of us. Keep in mind Rhino and Juiceboy have been in the side carriage this entire time.
I peel myself off the rear end of the car I had collided with. I gave myself a quick pat down to check for any compound fractures. I was alive. And virtually unscathed.
“Mate, you okay cunt? That spill was wicked!”
Rhino and Juiceboy are standing on the side of the road in damn near perfect condition. The scooter has a flat tire but aside from that it doesn’t have a mark on it. As Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction would say, “This was a divine intervention”.
Unfortunately, the driver of the now doorless car was not too happy with us. And had called over not one, but four Thai police officers.
Rhino, Juiceboy and I were all sitting in separate jail cells less than forty minutes later.
Juiceboy made fast friends with his cell mate and decided to play dice with him for the remainder of the night. Rhino threw a tantrum for over an hour and after the officers began ignoring him decided to turn his bed into a fort, wrapping the bed sheets around his head and screaming “I am Blanket Lord from the kingdom of Sydney! Fear my wrath, cunts!”
As for me, I was violently sober at this point and in full blown panic mode. Fortunately for us, encounters with tourists of this nature aren’t uncommon for Thai policemen in the red-light district. Because of this, after slipping the cell guard 3,000 baht (roughly 90 bucks) I was acknowledged with a big smile and the cell doors opening immediately.
Guard: “yin dee tee dai roo jak" (Translation: “Please to meet you.”)
I stare at him with a blank look on my face.
Guard: “Okay you go. But no more drink. No more scooter. Ok?”
Me: “I’m literally not leaving my bed for the rest of the trip. hong naam yoo tee nai? (translation: Where is the bathroom?)
This was literally the only phrase I had learned in nearly three weeks.
Just so we’re clear, I know how lucky I am to be alive/not spending the next ten years in a labor camp on the outskirts of Chiang Mai. If you’re looking for a moral to this story, you’re probably not going to find one. 21 year old Steve is now a distant memory. But the adventures and mishaps that were birthed from that dumpster fire of a year will not soon be forgotten.
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