The Hopeless Dream Part 4

Excuse me my sweet, you say, in your best condescending voice as you journey to the toilet, shouldering past the young lady who has been forced to rise for the umpteenth time. Sleep is out of the question when you’re sitting beside the offal filled hog known as Wolfgang Willard Richtenstein.

One of the two young guys who were in the queue at the check-in desk is waiting to use the toilet as you wheeze into position and wait alongside him. As soon as he saw you in the queue he took an instant dislike towards you, as most decent people tend to do. He looks at you now and dislike quickly turns to hatred. This guy wants to smash your skull in and cause you as much pain as possible. How he would love to hear you scream and beg. It’s then he notices you’re not wearing any shoes. When it’s his turn to use the toilet he goes in and urinates, but not into the toilet bowl. He does an excellent job of soaking the floor in sharp smelling piss. Much previous beer swilling results in total coverage. He carefully exits the toilet and charges past you, giving you a look that would turn Mike Tyson to jelly. You of course, as always, fail to notice.

As you reverse into the impossibly small space masquerading as a toilet you flash the usual sweaty rubbery smile at the stewardesses who are busying themselves through the back with the drinks cabinet and other mundane tasks. You have become the topic of conversation since you boarded the flight. They rarely come across people as ugly and disgusting as you and they pity all the victims who will have to really earn their money if they spend the night (an hour, 5 minutes) with you. They don’t realize it is just the one little girl who you have targeted for permanent life destruction.

In the toilet you carefully drop your soiled chinos and underpants and collapse onto the small stainless steel toilet and let rip with a series of explosions, clearly heard by the Stewardesses outside. One of the first things you notice is the floor, which is soaking wet. Someone must have left a tap running or something. Your thick padded socks and chinos do a good job of soaking up the ‘water’. The mess you fired into your chinos when you first came onboard was worse than you feared. Instead of a small blip it was actually more of a splurge, about half a cup full to be exact. The hull was breached instantly, leaving quite a large coffee stain on the back of your trousers and on the seat. To begin with, people thought that was what had happened. Somebody had spilled a cup of black coffee and you accidentally sat down in it. This all changed during your various treks to the toilet. As you heaved past people, knocking shoulders and elbows as usual, the smell in your slip stream left people in no doubt as to what had actually happened. The now traumatized young woman next to you realized almost immediately as you sat there blissfully unaware while she gagged on your strong moist stench. As soon as the seatbelt signs went off she sprang up and forward to the nearest stewardess to ask for another seat. Unfortunately for her, the plane is fully booked.

Full blown diarohea. What a time to have an upset stomach, on an eleven hour non stop flight. Never mind, you cheerfully think. Could’ve happened to anyone. You struggle and heave yourself off the toilet and complete the mammoth task of mostly cleaning yourself. The rash and the gash have been singing “Hail Mary” for the last hour or so and your hot anus feels as if it’s covered in ants. Your feet now begin to sting as the water irritates the fungal infection. Who would’ve thought water would cause so much irritation? You flush the vacuum toilet and head on out the tiny door back to your seat, much to the amusement and disgust of all you pass, including the stewardesses. As you reach your seat the young woman has just dropped off to sleep. You stand there in your soaked sock feet (which have swollen, cannot get shoes back on) and stare at her for a moment, thinking how lovely she looks. She would make a good little wife for someone.

As you stand and leer at the woman, something troubles her in her light sleep. She feels as if she’s being watched, stalked even. Some terrible unknown fiend akin to Jack The Ripper is stalking her and she is powerless to escape. She tries to run but the ever reliable slow motion dream run is all she can manage. There is no escape. In a panic, she jerks awake. Her eyes fly open and the first thing she sees is a huge slack moon face with a sneering dribbling mouth staring at her. She barely suppresses a scream as she realizes it’s only that disgusting old man who shat himself, probably wanting his seat back…again. The woman quickly gets up and out into the passageway. As the fat old man goes past her and into his rancid seat he does something, which, to start with, she thought, was an accident, but now is blatantly deliberate, and becoming more and more frequent. She gives him plenty of room yet as he lumbers past her his podgy arm reaches out and his hand lightly brushes and, ever so gently, squeezes her tight buttocks. Done like the professional pervert he obviously is. The distraught woman is one again shocked and once again decides to let it go. There’s only seven more hours of flight time left…surely she can make it?

“Excuse me sir, excuse me, hello, hello sir, would you like some breakfast?” The stewardess leans in and shakes you. You jerk awake and mumble something, which sounds like yes please my sweet. Always the smoothie. Unbelievably, you fell asleep some hours ago. The young woman next to you stares ahead, shell shocked. She has put up with eleven hours of stench, mindless gibbering, sexual assault and never ending trips to the toilet. Worst of all however, was when the old man showed her a picture of a girl whom he declared he was going to marry. Apparently, if the ramblings of a lonely old pervert can be believed, this is a common occurrence in Thailand. Old broken down wasters like this bag of shit can come to Thailand on a pittance and marry women who look like young girls. It’s like some sort of natural legal loophole that these monsters can legally exploit. The woman has decided she will spend as little time in Thailand as possible before moving on. No way will she spend time in a country full of people like the thing next to her. She will tell as many people as she can about her experience and her changed views on Thailand. However, this has left her with a dilemma. Where should she go next? She did quite a bit of research on Thailand and it has all turned out to be wrong. The glossy guidebooks did a good job of papering over the cracks but that’s all they’ve done. Now the truth has been exposed first hand and all her research has proved worthless. Perhaps she should choose a country which she has not researched, where there would be no monsters lurking in dark places, airplanes for instance. Now, where should she go? How about Cambodia? That’s it, Cambodia. Done deal. Can’t wait. Let’s go. Surely there will be no nasty surprises in Cambodia?

Out of the plane now and finally you reach customs. You can’t go much further. The woman behind the desk is in two minds as to whether or not she should let you into her beloved country. Then she remembers her past, and stamps your passport. For your part, you stare straight ahead and, amazingly, no wise cracks. It’s as if something inside you knows the importance of clearing this final hurdle and totally overrides all the bullshit constantly flowing through your veins. If only this had happened thirty years ago!

Through customs and down the escalator towards the baggage carousels. You stand there waiting with baited breath. Your entire massive body is shaking and you cannot for the life of you wipe the smile off of your face. This is happiness in its purest form. You have never felt like this before. The little brown imp you are about to meet can and frequently does make it all better. This is the reason breath still flows into your body. Please God, no more dramas. Just let me get my luggage and I’ll be out of here. For a moment a terrible horrific thought forms. What if she’s not there? No!!!! you mentally scream. If she’s not there, you will collapse in an anguished sobbing heap. This is something that cannot happen, pure and simple. If it happens, then you will be totally broken, once and for all. Then you will die (we can’t have that…yet. So much more happy times to write about – Calibra)

Finally your baggage arrives and, predictably, one of the cases has burst open. As far as you can tell nothing has been lost of any value, only a couple of pairs of marquee tent sized underwear and a string vest. You catch a glimpse of your old purple sweat stained lycra head band. Thank god that has not been lost. You would look stupid without that particular fashion statement.

Onwards now towards customs and the exit (gateway) to paradise. Customs is not a problem as you heave and wheeze past them and into the arrivals hall. You turn left and head towards a throng of people, all shouting and competing for your attention. It is mayhem and you love it. These people all seem so nice and trusting. It is then that you see her…..”NOY NOY”!!!…. you scream and cry like the greasy pig on a stick you are. You make a blundering dash towards her only a 12 gauge shotgun would stop (I wish) and scoop the skinny brown peasant into your huge pasty arms and press her to your slack chest. You are crying uncontrollably now and, through the excitement, you have soiled yourself again. This hardly matters. You have the woman you love in the country you love. You also realize that you forgot all about your luggage as you made your adrenalin rush and again, this does not matter. You look around and, amazingly, the bags are still there. You put the urchin back onto the ground and she goes and carries your bags for you. This is as it should be. Why aren’t Western women as compliant as this, you think.

As you wait for a taxi you bend down towards her and give her a huge kiss, covering her mouth, most of her chin and nose. As you withdraw her face is shiny and greasy with spit. She looks at you with knowing eyes…yet something is dancing behind those eyes, something not altogether nice, something your belligerence will never let you see, something with hyena street cunning which totally belies the skinny brown body and rat pug face. She looks away. She knows the score alright……and just before the end from hell, you will too.

People like you, old pig, always end up fxxxxd. But nobody will end up as fxxxxd as you. It will take me a few installments, but rest assured I will deliver you to hell, sliced diced and penniless.

… We can’t wait.

Stickman's thoughts:

Are you writing about yourself?