The Drop Zone

The Drop Zone

 

1.

 

Patrick Black was drinking potent local whiskey celebrating a decade as a free man roaming Asia drunk. At his own whim he’d entered Laos courtesy of a local back-breaker bus, symbolizing a budget schism where cash flowed freely for beer but all else was done cheap.

 

‘I’ll take a beer chaser love!’ said Patrick, more unable than unwilling to speak in the Asian tongue.

 

‘Up to you.’ said the petite Thai barmaid, more unwilling than unable to speak English to the forty-plus porky falang.

 

Patrick smiled then grimaced as he dropped his fake Prada wallet on to a floor so germ riddled and neglected a rat would baulk when in transit to his hole. The wallet landed in a sticky pool of stale beer and, as Patrick lowered his bulky frame to retrieve it, he spotted either a decayed piece of sausage or someone had lost a their toe in a bar fight.

 

‘Here beer, two dollar,’ said the Thai barmaid, handing over a warm glass of cloudy liquid.

 

The beer tasted worse than the whisky, which Patrick would tell anyone who asked that it smells like dank, festering urine in a broken toilet. Still, he sunk it down with the vigor of man who’d passed the point of no return with his liver and wanted to go out in a haze of drunken pleasure regardless of how it smelt.

 

Unable to power-drink since hitting forty, Patrick had eased off by learning to play pool and rapidly became a player of average standard, often working through three (or sometimes four) opponents playing for the prize of winner stays on. He believed himself something of a pool prodigy.

‘Where do I put my name down for pool?’ asked Patrick, whilst shooting laser beam ‘I want to boom boom you’ eyes to the thimble-sized teenager serving his poison.

 

‘Have competition!’

 

‘When?’ asked Patrick, distracted by the unspoken knowledge he could swop cash for sex with the barmaid tonight.

 

‘Two-nighh!’

 

‘When?’

 

‘Two-nighh!’

 

‘Tonight mate, at six o’clock.’ said a stocky American brute with a jarhead haircut and wearing a Harley Davison T-shirt and classic blue Levi jeans.

 

‘Nice one, cheers. I’m Patrick.’

 

‘Good for you buddy! I’m Tom Mason,’ said jarhead haircut before crushing Patrick with a fierce handshake.

 

Patrick winced in pain when he became the last person in the dimly lit bar to know that Tom Mason would crush him if it turned violent. Violence tended to ensue when he was upset with a much smaller chap.

 

‘Bloody hell, you trying to knock me out the competition?’

 

‘Sorry Buddy, let me buy you a Bud.’

 

‘I’m pretty sure they don’t sell Bud. Anyway drinking Bud is like making love in a canoe; it’s too close to water!’ Patrick’s bladder borderline collapsed as his body jerked and twisted in laughter at the genius level of comedy he was able to produce on demand.

 

‘Viva Bill Hicks!’ shouted a portly Englishman sat in the corner with two ‘bar girls’. His name was Josh and his appearance suggested he’d readily accept wearing the same checked shirt consecutively for five days before he would consider it needed a wash.

 

‘Who?’ grunted Tom Mason.

 

‘Comedian, did smoking jokes, died of cancer!’ replied Josh, fumbling to get up from a cheap and weak plastic chair.

 

‘I bet he regrets those smoking jokes!’ said Patrick, before the induced jerking and twisted started.

‘He’s dead,’ said Tom Mason and Josh, in a chorus of disapproval.

 

‘Oh yeah, fuck. So where do I sign up for the pool competition?’

 

 

2.

 

The pool competition organized by the bar had attracted a total of eleven players. The odd number of entrants caused unadulterated mayhem for the Asian staff, who, after a series of phone calls that Patrick considered to be inaudible exchanges of grunting, it was decided that a young Lao woman called Nee would take the twelfth spot in the first round draw. Patrick mulled over what he would have to pay Nee to sleep with him tonight.

 

 

‘Imagine getting beating by a chick!’ said Josh, before pausing to blast out a shameless fart.

 

‘Still, you can God Dam bang her later!’ snarled Tom Mason.

 

‘I’ve already banged her,’ said Patrick.

 

‘When?’ said Tom Mason, moving in closer to Patrick who was immediately regretting the fabrication.

 

‘Oh no not her, sorry, they all look alike don’t they?’ Patrick squirmed like an eel caught on a fishing line.

 

‘As long as you can spot the ladyboys mate, you’re okay!’ Josh’s tone was as if he had learnt this the hard way and covered the scar with humor. Tom Mason shuffled around like a man who had been caught in the ladyboy trap recently. The announcement of the first round draw saved them all from giving off any more clues about sexual mishaps.

 

Tom Mason was drawn against a teenage Australian boy who insisted on asking how long people had been travelling and that he himself was on the road for a month; this impressed only those who where on the road for three weeks.

 

Josh farted his way to the handshake with a Swiss man dressed in tattered robes and sporting long greasy white hair.

 

‘A garrulous Frenchman with a girl’s name, that’s who I’ve drawn.’

 

Patrick predicted his opponent in earshot of the double act he’d bonded with.

 

‘Aid-dan an Alf play firs’

 

‘Who the fuck is Alf?’ asked Josh, addressing the room.

 

‘Who the fuck is Aid-dan?’ asked Tom Mason, whilst inspecting the remnants of cue chalk.

 

‘Do you mean Adrian and Ralph?’

 

‘Yeah. Aid-dan an Alf.’ repeated the barmaid, to the brutish motely crew waiting to break off.

 

After a further linguistic charade ‘pat-ick’ was drawn against Nee, and the pressure showed when he ordered up a double shot of dank, stale urine.

 

Josh, who was smelling worse than the whisky, reminded Patrick what was at stake if he lost to the young lady.

 

‘This is the cue I need.’ said Patrick, to Nee as he reached out and selected the best dogleg available.

 

‘You good player?’ asked Nee.

 

‘I am, yes,’ said Patrick, puffing his chest out.

 

‘Why we no play for twenty dollar?’

 

‘Take the bet man! Take it!’ shouted josh.

 

Patrick knew he was screwed either way and twenty dollars was a pinch if he was going to pay the barmaid and Nee to sleep with him. Maybe he could ask them both and then start to drive the price down on the prize of sleeping with him.

 

Startled by Nee’s high-pitched voice repeating the question, he did what he had to and took the bet.

 

3.

 

Patrick has lost the toss to break and been suckered in to fifty dollars of side bets which cleaned him out when he handed over the money to a neutral party in the guise of a gruff-looking Dutchman who appeared to be more a part of the furniture than the cracked plastic chairs and wobbly tables themselves.

 

Nee broke off and everyone except the barmaid tilted their head at ninety degrees to get a good view of her bum as she bent over the table. Patrick admired her rear as she potted off the break. He managed to find it more attractive still as she dropped another two stripes into the pockets, but he was less impressed with her rump when the fourth ball went down. Nee’s curves and bumps where found wanting by Patrick when she potted the fifth ball before he’d even taken a shot!

 

‘On the ropes mate?’ asked Josh, who appeared to be mentally counting the cash his side bet was worth.

 

Before Tom Mason could join in, the room was startled by a loud thudding noise from outside, which almost instantly became a sickening cracking sound. Ensuring to grab their pints, the patrons shuffled and staggered outside into the crowded street, where a young woman and baby had been knocked off a motor scooter and were lying in the road.

 

Tom Mason transformed into a duty hero sprinting across to the scene of the accident and began barking orders in the way only Americans can. Josh stayed put next to Patrick though his smell was now so rich Patrick actually considered helping another human being just to get away from Josh’s odor! His pool opponent, Nee, had also rushed off to help along with the Australian kid; the kid was just as likely to ask the injured Lao woman how long she had being travelling. The bar was empty so Patrick took his chance and went back inside did what he needed then went to the toilet to avoid suspicion.

 

 

4.

 

The pool match was delayed for nearly an hour. The accident was cleared inside ten minutes but the congratulatory drinks and embellished rehashing by Tom Mason on his role in saving the victims (both were completely unhurt in the crash) dragged out for the hour.

 

‘What happen here?’ asked Nee pointing to the table.

 

‘What do you mean young lady?’ an above-suspicion Patrick responded.

 

‘Ball gone.’

 

‘Gone where?’ said Patrick.

 

‘You have seven ball!’

 

‘No I definitely had five balls!’ said an aggrieved Patrick.

 

‘You cheat!’

 

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ demanded Tom Mason who had beaten his first round opponent more through fear than skill.

 

‘He cheat!’

 

‘Shit man, I’m sure he had seven balls before I saved that woman and baby?’

 

‘He did!’ exclaimed Josh, looking at Tom Mason and moving towards the Dutchman holding the purse.

 

‘I did not cheat, I was outside with everyone else!’

 

‘You did cheat!’ said the gruff Dutchman whose chameleon-like powers meant Patrick had not seen him when he put two balls in the pockets before going to the toilet.

 

‘I seen you!’ continued the Dutchman.

 

‘Well, you’re Dutch - you are probably stoned.’ Patrick was on thin ground and backed away the moment the Dutchman stood up and asked if he was calling him a liar.

 

‘Bets off, all bets are off.’ shouted Patrick, moving round the side of the table away from the Flying Dutchman but towards Tom Mason who grabbed him and applied a gooseneck restraining hold on his wrist that was excruciatingly painful for Patrick.

 

‘Did you cheat?’ roared Tom Mason, who seemed just as likely to put Patrick in repeated stress positions and play white noise at a horrific volume until the animal coughed up the truth or passed out.

 

‘Yes, yes, yes…I cheated I’m sorry!’ Patrick crumbled more easily than a block of Lebanese hash because he thought his wrist was going to break.

 

 

There followed twenty minutes of drinking, plenty of mumbling, and an obscene amount of finger pointing by Tom Mason.

 

Patrick sat considering his options: if he made a run for it he might get in a tuk-tuk before they caught him, but then he remembered tuk-tuks move like snails during the phase of establishing destination. The rocket on the road phase he needed immediately would not be understood by him screaming at the driver ‘Hit it!’

 

The longer he chewed over his options, the more apparent the tightness became of the $1 pants he’d bought a size too small with the belief he would shed some pounds at the gym. Now he wished he’d gone to that gym not only so he could intimidate his way out but also so the cutting cheese wire effect on his midriff bulk would not be happening. He came close to evacuation when his mind went down darker paths.

 

‘We’re gonna put your God Damn money behind the bar and drink it.’ There was no quibble that Tom Mason was telling Patrick not seeking approval at the compromise meaning that Patrick left the bar without a black eye.

 

Patrick, being the center of the universe, quickly finished as the dregs that didn’t fit in anywhere else other than together with other functioning but dysfunctional people carried on playing pool without him. To fill the void of instant loneliness Patrick smoked a cigarette from the packet he had intended to throw away as he was quitting smoking today.

 

A healthy jolt of nicotine propelled him to move to the bar and attempt to strike up conversation with those that he’d tried to cheat. Nee was indifferent to him saying that he was a bad man. Tom Mason reached the drunken point of his night where any subject is related to the battlefield and his duty now was to interpret the cheating to facing down a machine gun with your buddies dropping dead beside you. Josh continued to reek inside a cloud of farts, but he was the first to talk to Patrick in a civilized manner.

 

Twenty minutes later and several groveling apologies and each of the angriest was relenting and connecting with him.

 

‘You’ve done your time man,’ said Tom Mason, who’d decided the battle was over.

 

‘You’ve done your time man,’ repeated Mason. ‘Now we all need a drink and you are paying buddy so let’s order your drink first, get some value man, order a cocktail!’

 

‘I’ll take a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.’

 

Patrick said things that implied he truly did not give a flying fuck even though he’d been exposed as a liar and cheat already. His addiction to bullshit and trouble was as complex as a vast series of catacombs of which he did not have a road map, now, or possibly ever.

 

The barmaid said up to you and Tom Mason said fuck you. Josh paired up with the Dutchman and Patrick realized he was out of cash and quite possibly this time luck.