Gina was in a life rut, dead-end relationship, meaningless job, and virtually nothing to look forward to in life. Her one beacon of hope was that she aspired to be a writer. Her main areas of literary interest were mostly genre-orientated. Thrillers, ghost tales, horror stories, the more grisly and macabre the better, but every time she sat in front of a computer to get the word down nothing happened, zero, nish, de nada. Writers block.
Gina couldn’t understand why she was unable to write and pretty soon the issue began to dominate her every waking thought. For as long as she could remember she had wanted to be a writer and considered it to be her destiny and fate, even her god-given right. However, despite feelings of pre-ordained destiny, the words refused to come.
Then, one day as she surfed the web she hit upon the answer. An article by the famous underground writer Joseph Ridgwell caught her eye, and whilst reading it Gina experienced an almost Joycean like epiphany. The article was, entitled, Live First, Write Later, and espoused the strongly held view that writers need life experience before they can write. In fact Ridgwell’s exact words were, ‘In my opinion to produce anything of literary worth aspiring writers need to have lived a little, taken jobs, travelled, had a series of love affairs, shot a man in Reno. How can you write about life if you haven’t even lived it?’
To Gina the powerful words were like a revelation. The one thing missing in her life was real life experiences. After a somewhat dull, but comfortable upbringing in the leafy suburbs, her life had followed a clearly defined route; public school, university, and cushy public sector job. In fact when she thought about it, her whole life had panned out without her having any real say in the matter, and now it was time to spread her wings and fly.
Once the main thrust of Ridgwell’s article had been digested Gina knew what needed to be done. Despite a long-term relationship with a boy she’d met at Uni, she was yet to conduct a mad passionate affair, and hadn’t even had a one-night stand.
She picked up the phone and called Richard and gave him the bad news. It was over between them, the relationship was going nowhere and it was time to make a clean break. Richard was devastated, heartbroken, but strangely the more he whinged, the less Gina cared, and when he started crying all she felt was contempt.
With Richard out of the picture Gina embarked on her new life with gusto. She brought a smart set of trendy clothes and frequented some well-known pick-up joints. She flirted outrageously, drank heavily, took whatever drugs she could get her hands on, and went home with a different man each night.
The sex was wild and dangerous. She refused point-blank to take precautions and fucked the men in as many different ways and places as possible. One night she took two young guys home and experienced the particular delights of double entry, and on another she had an intense lesbian foursome.
At work people were able to spot the difference. She looked healthier, more vivacious, and her eyes sparkled with a reckless abandon. She fucked work colleagues, managers, even a cleaner from El Salvador who didn’t speak a word of English, but had an incredibly long cock.
This reckless period lasted for nearly a month and afterwards Gina felt like a new woman, reenergized, and revitalised. And when she settled down to write about her experiences of life on the edge, like a miracle the words flowed. But there was still a problem.
After each frenzied session of writing Gina poured over what she had wrote, and each time something seemed to be missing. It was mere biography, confessional, narcissistic, self-obsessed tedium, and ultimately it wasn’t enough.
After that Gina returned to her passion for genre writing, thrillers, ghost stories, crime and horror, but once again something wasn’t quite right. The words just didn’t ring true. Gradually Gina began to have dark thoughts. To write convincingly about murder she had to experience murder firsthand, she reasoned. And the same went for horror. How could she write about gruesome deaths, torture, and dismemberment, if she had never experienced any of those things in real life?
In the weeks that followed Gina spent most of her waking hours fantasising about murdering someone in cold blood. She imagined all sorts of scenarios. Pushing someone in a canal, killing them while making love, taking someone hostage and torturing them for several weeks, hot wax in the mouth, electrocution, cutting off ears and noses, gouging out eyes, and various other grisly mutilations. And she quickly discovered murderous thoughts were an extreme turn on, and could easily reach orgasm just by running the gruesome images through her brain.
Shortly afterwards Gina called in sick at work and stayed home, drinking heavily and obsessing on increasingly dark and insane thoughts. It was during this mad period that her ex paid a visit. At the time she’d been masturbating with a huge crucifix, whilst imagining decapitating an innocent man as he performed cunnilingus on her.
She flung open the door in a highly aroused state, her mascara smudged, and her eyes wild with wanton abandon. Richard stood there with a bunch of flowers, a box of Belgium chocolate, a tiny jewellery box, and an easily subjugated countenance.
‘Get the fuck in here you cunt,’ ordered Gina.
Richard was somewhat taken aback by his former lover’s demented demeanour, but being no mug he stepped inside, ‘I’ve brought you some…’ Gina grabbed the presents and then slapped Richard hard across the face with the back of her hand, ‘Shut the fuck up and get into the bedroom and strip, you embarrassment to all men.’
Once again Richard was taken aback, but since splitting up with Gina he hadn’t had the slightest hint of snatch so did exactly as he was told. As he undressed Gina stomped on his flowers, stuffed twelve chocolates into her mouth, and tossed the Tiffany key ring out of a window.
Gina marched into the bedroom, leering, and with melted chocolate dribbling down her chin. Then she tore off her clothes and positioned herself in the doggy position,
‘Fuck me up the arse, queer boy!’ She demanded. The bewildered Richard took one look at the brown eye, winking back at him, and within seconds was in it up to the hilt.
Minutes later Gina was salivating, groaning, and screaming until Richard hardly knew where he was,‘Oh shit, oh mother, I’m going to come, I’m going to offload,’ he grunted.
Gina looked over shoulder and licked her lips, ‘Not inside, but over my face you spineless fuck,’ she hissed.
Richard didn’t need a second invitation and yanked his pulsating cock out of the surprisingly loose hole, and stuck it into Gina’s sweaty face, ‘Pour it all over me, dick fuck freak, are you going to?’ Richard was ready to burst, the veins bulging on his forehead, his eyes closed. ‘Yeah baby, yeah,’ he gasped, but just as he was about to ejaculate, he felt a searing pain in his rectum,
‘Think I’d let you spurt your filthy peasant juice over me?’ screamed Gina, as she stabbed the kitchen knife three or more times right up Richard’s arse. Richard collapsed onto the bed in agony and emitted a long rasping death rattle, ‘Oh fuck, oh my god……..’
*
Gina awoke with a terrible hang over, but also with a certain sense of serenity, like all her ambitions in life had been fulfilled in one fell swoop. She grabbed a cask of wine left over from the night before and took a long, slow hit. Then she gazed at the body of her dead ex, the limbs stiff with rigour mortis. ‘Prick,’ she spat out languidly.
She grabbed the kitchen knife and began hacking off body parts. With nothing left of Richard aside from the torso she began cooking. Boiled ears and curried nose for lunch, a bit chewy, but not bad. For dinner she had rump steak with pepper sauce, fucking delicious, she reflected afterwards, whilst drinking a huge brandy and smoking a Cuban cigar.
After dinner Gina went straight to the computer and began writing, the words rushing from her mind like a mountain river after heavy rains. By late evening she had amassed eighteen thousand words, almost a novella, and she kept going. Her fingers were nothing but a blur, the sweat poured off her in torrents, and she stripped naked. Towards the end of her marathon session, she found the crucifix and shoved it up her pussy, whilst taking huge swigs of claret from the cask.
When the police broke down the door Gina was fast asleep on the settee with Richard’s head stuck between her thighs. There were five police officers, two of whom were instantly sick and two more who fainted. The one remaining officer, the old pro, rudely awakened her, ‘What the hell happened here?’
Gina opened one sleep-encrusted eye and looked all around the room, before hitting on the last officer standing, ‘What the fuck does it look like shit for brains, I just wrote my mother-fucking masterpiece’ she croaked.
The veteran officer radioed for assistance and calmly pulled out his gun, ‘Don’t move a fucking muscle!’ He yelled.
Gina eyeballed the officer with a look of sheer contempt. Then she rose from the settee with the bloodied kitchen knife, ‘Shut the fuck up, you…..’ But before she could finish the sentence, six bullets at point blank range killed her instantly.
It was back in the early days. I was sitting outside the bar with my noon beer, a couple of lumps of ice floating in the tall glass. The ice diluted the strength somewhat, but in the tropics it was either that or warm beer. The girls were sat at a table opposite. Nut, Min, and Poo, busy making small talk. Poo was wearing a short, short skirt. I eyed up her smooth thighs on the sly, as I perused a week old copy of the Bangkok Post.
As this uneventful scene was played out a group of glamorous Swedes walked past. They looked like some living poster of the Nazi’s Aryan ideal. They didn’t even look at our bar, but headed straight to the Scandinavian meatball restaurant next door. That’s where all the Scandinavian travellers went. I think it was the huge Norwegian, Danish, and Swedish flags flying from the rooftop that enticed them in.
I stopped eyeballing Poo’s silky thighs and turned my visual attention to the Swedish girls. Shit, they were all lookers, and an old samba standard popped into my head. I re-arranged the words a little,‘Tall and tan and blonde and lovely, the girls from the frozen fjords pass by. And when they pass, Ridgwell takes a sip of his cold beer and goes – ah!’
On hearing this the Thai girls stopped aimlessly gossiping and gave me their usual line, ‘Eeh, Joe bah ting tong!’ They chorused.
I sat their poker-faced. Was I crazy? It was possible. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, a sort of demented reflection leered back at me.
With the glamorous Swedes out of the picture and my beer all but drunk, I decided it was time for another of my famous ice cream runs, ‘Ice cream?’ I offered into the stultifying and somewhat fetid air.
The Thai girls looked up in keen expectation.‘Yah!’ they cooed expectantly.
With that I became overly serious. I jumped onto the Bar’s one and only moped and gazed into the distance like some intrepid explorer or long forgotten frontiersman. Then I kicked started the engine and turned to the girls,‘What’s my fastest time again?’
Nut held up the stopwatch and pointed her feet in the air. To this day I’m not sure why she pointed her feet in the air, but she always did point her feet in the air,‘12 min, 7 sex,’ she replied.
‘And what condition was the ice cream in?’
‘Good, but jus start melt.’
I eyeballed the road once again and furrowed my brow, ‘This time I do it under ten minutes!’ I stated dramatically. The girls cheered and clapped and then I was gone, revving up the track, clouds of dust trailing in my wake.
I suppose at this point I should inform the reader that there wasn’t any actual need for me to do this so-called ice-cream run. Although the bar was located in a small Thai village, there were plenty of nearby establishments where a body could get hold of ice cream without any trouble. But where’s the fun in that?
As the bar did little or no custom until late evening I often got bored. So on sweltering customer less afternoons I’d go for long rides into the surrounding countryside. It was a jungle out there, but with the wind in your hair it seemed like a little bit of freedom. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
On one such ride I’d just picked up some fresh mangosteen for the girls. The jungle lanes were dotted with unmanned fruit stalls, the fruit often picked that very morning by the farmer’s children. Throw some change into an old tin can and the transaction was complete.
So there I was cruising along, basket full of mangosteen, when a tiny farm shop caught my eye. The shop sold everything and anything, and amazingly even handmade ice cream. The old guy running the shop offered me a free sample. It was delectable, a gift for the taste buds, a little kiss from heaven. The girls would love some of that, I thought as I lapped it up. And it was then and there that I did my first ever ice-cream run.
So, anyway, back to the story. There I was on another of my kamikaze ice-cream runs, trying to break the ten minute barrier so the pretty bar girls could eat ice-cream in the shade. I had just reached the outskirts of the village and was making good time. How good I wasn’t sure, but I reckoned the record was on. I was winding my way slalom style through the mad Thai traffic, no traffic lights or road safety, just a free for all, wild style. Then, as I pulled in front of a truck and swerved past an entire family riding a motorbike, I saw him, my next door neighbour from the Scandinavian meatball restaurant.
I slowed down and pulled up alongside, the record forgotten. On the back of his moped, her long black hair flying in the wind, was a heavily made up Thai girl, obviously a prostie. She was wearing a pair of white thigh length leather boots. I gave them a friendly wave and the girl smiled and returned my wave like she was still touting for business. Funnily enough my neighbour ignored me and looked straight ahead with a determined face. Well, shit, he was married!
The following morning I was plotted up in my usual position, beer in hand, and perusing an old copy of the Bangkok Post. As I studied the English football results the Thai wife of my neighbour suddenly drew up in a taxi. She’d been away for a few days.
Moments later I heard lots of shouting and angry words from within the restaurant. Then an object sailed through the air, landing a few feet in front of me with a thud. It was a white leather boot. The boot was followed by the appearance of a girl, hopping on one leg. It was the prostie. As she struggled to put on her boot I raised my beer and smiled. Despite everything the girl managed a half-smile, before running off down the road.
There was a lot more shouting from within the Danish meatball restaurant after that. I heard things being broken, shrieks, screams etc, until suddenly the wife marched out with her nose in the air. She was holding one of the Scandinavian flags, the Danish one. She screamed something and jumped up and down on the flag. Then she hailed a taxi and disappeared.
When the old man finally showed it was early evening and I was busy spraying myself all over with mosquito repellent. The old Dane began sweeping the front of his premises with a face like thunder. Actually it wasn’t a face like thunder; it was a face with two hideous black eyes.
I studied the old man while he swept and suddenly realised I’d never seen him smile, not once in all those months,‘Hey, do you ever think about going home?’ I called out.
The old man stopped sweeping. Then he looked at me with a broken-hearted face and said simply, ‘It’s much too late for that now.’
Beach Party
Karl told me about the beach party by leaving a note in the hut. He planned to wait for me on the other side of the island, in a bar we had been frequenting for the past couple of days. After reading the letter I got dressed, sprayed myself all over with industrial strength mosquito repellent, and crept along a jungle path in pitch-black darkness.
Our rented hut was on a secluded part of the island and aside from a few other huts and the sea, there was nothing else there. I felt a bit edgy walking along in the dark and begun imagining things and stuff, but I knew where the path was headed and you couldn’t get lost unless you were falling over drunk, and even then you would probably make it.
I found Karl in the bar, constructing a one-dimensional pyramid with some playing cards. He was the only customer. ‘Look,’ he said showing me the pack of cards, ‘If you buy four Tiger beers, you get a free pack of cards.’ One thing about travelling is you always have an excess of time on your hands, time is your enemy and it pays to be prepared. Good reads are essential, the ability to sleep a great deal helps, and board games like chess and backgammon are invaluable.
We had a few hours to kill before the party so we sat chatting about this and that, building card pyramids, and boozing. Then, just as Karl was in the middle of constructing a recording breaking twelve level pyramid, the sudden sound of loud baseline heavy music distracted him at the vital moment and the pyramid collapsed. I drained my beer, ‘Must be the beach party.’ Karl looked at the scattered cards in disgust, ‘Bullshit, I would have made it.’ ‘Come on, let’s check out the party.’
We walked slowly along a sandy path. It was a hot humid night with the slightest of sea breezes, which every now then rustled the fronds of the palm trees high above. The smell of the tropics was all around, a heavy, luxuriant, sensual smell, and in the velvet sky a few silver stars twinkled here and there. By the time we got to the beach the party was already underway and groups of travellers were plotted in little camps on the sand.
The islanders had rigged up a sound system and in front of this twenty or thirty people were dancing awkwardly to muffled-sounding techno. In the middle of the beach a sand sculptor was surrounded by a circle of attentive travellers, all watching his progress by candlelight.We meandered along the beach observing the scene. Some enterprising locals, armed with buckets filled with ice and drink, were patrolling the shore. The most popular drink amongst travellers was a cheap local whiskey, known as monkey juice because of a picture of an orang-utan labelled on each bottle. We sat cross-legged on the beach, Buddha style, and waited for something to happen.
After a few minutes a couple of traveller birds, both of whom were holding a bottle of monkey juice, approached. We chatted for a while and then, probably out of boredom more than anything, Karl made a move. He had charm, along with the looks of a god, and when he started in on his Opatija line, much to the interest of the two girls, I decided to have a dance. I steamed straight into the crowd and began doing some karate moves, but I couldn’t get into it. Then I did the funky chicken, followed by the mash potato, but still couldn’t get into it, and stopped when other travellers began pointing and laughing at me.
The problem was I wasn’t drunk enough and the music was rubbish. I took a gamble and accosted the DJ. It was a long shot, but I did it anyway. Did he have any Elvis? The DJ laughed and shook his head. Any Phil Spector, the Ronettes? The DJ held his hands up. I shouted out again, ‘Got any Northern soul, what about Al Wilson’s The Snake?’ The DJ looked at me like I was mentally retarded, played some more monotonous techno, and shouted at the crowd to make some noise. As the crowd made some noise, I shrugged my shoulders and walked off into the shadows.
I brought six tiger beers from one of the bucket men and found a secluded section of beach, a section of beach far from the party. I sat down on a large rock and gazed at the sea for hours. At one point a pale blue moon appeared from behind a silver cloud and I wondered what to do with the rest of my life. I thought long and deep. I’d been away from home for three years and had travelled the world, but this trip was probably going to be my last for a long, long time. I didn’t have a clue what the future had in store because there was nothing to look forward to, apart from an old childhood bedroom, a mountain of debt, and a date with the job centre.
I stared at the blue moon and back to the sea. I did this several times for no particular reason. Almost twenty-eight and I hadn’t even managed to master a trade. I was up shit creek and I knew it. Back home people of my generation were getting their lives in order. They were building successful careers, buying automobiles, and climbing the first rungs of the property ladder. Some were even rearing the next generation, the next generation born to die. Maybe I was depressed or something. I’d fought all my life to be a non-conformist, but this is a difficult path to follow and without money almost impossible. Where are the rebels? I asked the moon, but the moon didn’t answer and just beamed an ethereal moon glade across the surface of the water.
Some enchanted evening for someone, somewhere, but not for me. At some point I entered a coconut grove, ‘Something has to turn up,’ I told myself encouragingly, as I weaved between the shadowy, swaying trunks. I leaned against a trunk and contemplated ways to postpone my return to the UK, trying to delay the inevitable, and sipped my beer. Suddenly, a loud swishing noise followed by two dull thuds, interrupted my ruminations. Shocked, I looked up. In the gloomy darkness I could make out large bunches of shadowy coconuts nestled at the top of each palm tree.
I came across a coconut and rolled it under my foot; it was massive, bigger than my head. If a coconut that size landed on my head it would have killed me outright. I decided to get out of the coconut grove and head back to the party. In my prolonged absence the beach had transformed into a battlefield, casualties everywhere, crashed out on the sand. The music had stopped and the sound system had been put away, but a few stragglers were still wandering about disjointedly, and a few hardcore groups remained huddled around glowing fires. The sand sculptor had disappeared and someone had walked all over his sculpture, so now it was just the ruin of a sculpture, and the whole scene reminded me of death.
I looked at the bodies asleep on the beach; some still clutching monkey juice bottles to their chests like prized possessions, or comfort blankets. That could’ve been me crashed out on the beach I reflected, or maybe swimming naked in the sea with a beautiful girl, but I was older now, even slightly jaded. I conducted a search for Karl amongst the wounded and dying, but was unable to find him anywhere. He was gone and the party was over.
Eventually I found the jungle path and walked back to my hut, but on opening the door came face to face with Karl having it off with one of the girls from the party. Karl’s white arse was going twelve to the dozen, and the girl’s legs were dangling in the air. For a few moments I was a voyeur, and then a sudden urge to tickle the soles of the girl’s feet overwhelmed me, but I successfully resisted the temptation. Then I closed the door as quietly as possible and sauntered towards the seashore.
At the shore was a small wooden jetty. I walked to the end of the jetty and sat down. In the morning it would be time to leave the country, and if Karl wanted to come all well and good, but if he didn’t I’d still leave. Sometimes that’s all travelling is, a succession of goodbyes, until once more alone again. I watched a rising pink creep across the horizon and waited for God to show his face.
