I took the back stairs.
Thinking the spiral stairs would be better than the normal ones at the front, I hobbled down them.
I gently suggested to Emmy to clean my room. It's been three days now.
'Besok,' she says. That's what she said yesterday.
Man, those smells are building up.
At this rate, if Emmy doesn't put some chemicals in my room, the health department is sure to close down the joint.
'It stinks of piss.'
All the more reason for you to get your sweet Indonesian ass in my room and start cleaning like you really mean it, I said with a smile. She didn't understand a word I said, though.
I was aiming for the 24-hour Indian joint.
They serve great Tee Tarek, or pulled milky tea and I needed a break from the breakneck speed of 'making money' of the Chinese tea houses.
I might even write up a piece, I thought, over a rotti, a milk tea, and some curry to mop up the Indian style pancake that is fluffy in a pastry way.
I'll leave the food reviewing to the wankers, I'm here for season not reason.
I swing this way and that. I'm not admitting to manic depresson, but any reflections of it in my writing, then all the better.
That's writing folks. The things I do to keep you guys entertained so stop bitching and follow me.
I think of that threat to leave Perth. It was on Facebook. Caught me by surprise, over a year later I'm brewing on it.
I suspect who it was, not someone I respect.
'Let sleeping dogs lie,' advices Ace.
Cowards, lthe lot of them.
I'm the nicest kinda guy.
The poor remain poor because they keep on attacking their own kind.
They just don't get it.
That's why the middle class distance themselves from them.
They know the game and are too busy fending off the other middle-class assoles who want a bigger slice by taking someone else's.
Australians are asswipes. I ponder this before I fall asleep.
Maybe it's time to be an asswipe myself.
Man, if it wasn't for my size, I'd be receiving more punches to the gut.
I got king hit on the streets of Perth by a total stranger. He was drunk.
I kinda lunged into the punch and deflected it like I was catching a footy.
He hit me once and it was over.
The threat hits me every fucking day.
Who would in their right mind send such a threat?
Assholes usually. The ones never content with what they have and who want more.
He's that guy that gets death threats.
See, it's a stigma. There's something wrong with me and not the person making the threats. It works for them. It's another humiliation stacked on humiliation.
It's the poor victim who pays.
I took my leisurely time to leave Perth.
It comes down to drunks. They infiltrated the backpackers.
It's really run down since I was there over a year ago.
The Chinese owner let in one drunk and the others followed.
The Chinese owner let in one junkie and the other's followed.
The poor Indian was raced out too. He was too smart to let it worry him.
I let it worry me. I'm paying for it every day.
'He's a soft touch, just fire him a message, he's Frank Russel on Facebook, here, see, send it on your fake account, the police will never know, it's not traceable. It will teach the upstart a lesson.'
It usually goes like that.
'Sure,' says the guy with the wrinkles around his lips, the one who carries his duffel bags and comes up with outrageous lies of fighting cancer and funding his own treatment and one who calls me fat even after I've given him two jobs and bought two of his crappy phones because he can't pay the rent, 'I'll fire it off on my account.'
He was just as rude and nasty as the others.
My crime with Wrinkled Lips was being too nice. My crime with the Captain was being too nice.
Is being nice a crime?
And my crime against the cleaner and the soldier was not speaking my mind and telling them both to fuck off.
Wrinkled Lips set up things so nastiness could follow. And indeed it did, once he showed his true colors. There's something to be said about low achievers who take out their frustration on others who are trying to achieve.
It comes down to plain bitterness. I know, I've been there before.
He had a Facebook account that he used only for spying on people and using messenger, he was a prime candidate for firing off the message.
What message?
'You can run but you can't hide, leave Perth.'
Short and sweet but highly effective and charged with menace.
Or it could have been the Captain, he knew my account. He scoffed at it.
'Why don't you use your real name?'
And why don't you fuck off.
The hens pecked for morsels. That was the best they could do that day.
'It should fuck him up good,' says the ringleader, a man entering his twilight years jobless, on serious medication for mental issues and a drug and alcohol problem.
'Yeah, that will sort out the fucker,' chimes in the soldier. I slighted him too. I paid my way but wasn't committed to his delusion.
He met up with the drunk cleaner who said I just left. I knew the soldier was coming any day now. I got out just in the nick of time.
'I'll fuck him over,' says the soldier, ' that Chris Hill is a bad ass and affiliated, when he sees the photo of him on Facebook, he'll shit his pants.'
Wrinkled Lips smiles.
The photo was of a bikey. School of Hard knocks. Man, they love the cliches.
The soldier wasn't even a soldier. He was a guinea pig on a new drug trial and was paid off after he showed abnormal signs of paranoia.
He was using too much speed.
The hen peckers had no idea I was living out another drama with some more badasses and drunks.
This guy was also called Chris, and a 'real' bad ass bikey.
I think I saw him crying outside the house.
'Please don't leave me,' he pleaded.
She was a dog with a cunt the size of a Lunar Park entrance.
I've witnessed bad ass personally, it usually never comes with a warning. It could be a good beating in your sleep or a bomb going off at your favorite convenience store.
The rain is falling and a cool breeze is licking my neck.
I might order another milky tea. It seems to be settling me.
I might write more about bass asses.
A cunt is a cunt, unless it's dripping wet, then that's a real cunt.
The cleaner got raced out of the backpackers by someone who was offended with his know-it-all and totally drunken enriched asswipery.
The other loser who turned on me after I extended a helping hand is probably on the streets telling anyone who cares that he's going to write the next great book. He's one paragraph into it.
The Captain, who was most confrontational -- he made out he couldn't remember what he said the day after his drunken rants, maybe he couldn't remember, he was that toasted - is most likely trying to become a pensioner, or has blown his savings on Thai whores and is living down at the park with his loser mate who lives out of a duffel bag.
Things are always looking up.
The knee is holding up. I'm not pushing it.
I might even return to a clean room.
Pain use to be a friend of mine. One evening with my pain in the ass friend was one night too long.
Let the Gods continue blessing me, you're good deeds have not gone unnoticed.
Danial, from West Malaysia, is just starting his shift and puts on the music channel.
I really do need to get it out of my head that the Indians are asswipes.
They do their best and are the butt of everyone's jokes.
That makes us kindred spirits right?
'It certainly does,' says Danial, 'but I'd appreciate five stars for our restaurant, not the two you gave us.'
That can be changed, I said.
I had no idea he was a big reader of reviews on Google Maps.
'Fix it or you are a dead man.'
What??
'I'm a big fan of your blog,' he says and slaps me hard on the back. He's dark as the ace of spade and a big fan of the former Brickfields in Kuala Lumpur when the whores and Indians roamed the late nights.
Alas, the place is cleaned up and all we can do is reminisce.
And he won't kill me.
'It just doesn't make financial sense.'
He's surprised that I was told to leave Perth.
'Once the coppers catch up on that guy, he's toast,' he says.
I suspect the guy who sent the threat is either in jail, dead from an O.D or locked up for life overseas.
Karma works in a mysterious way.
I told Danial that the hens were pushing me to act, they wanted me to make a wrong move. I'm always quiet and laugh off the insults. I value my passport and no court appearances.
I know I'll get back at them here and I'll have a larger audience.
"That's the path of self-righteousness,' says Danial, who brings me out another hot Tee Tarik.
'Facebook is a treacherous place,' he says, advising me to stay safe and 'keep out of that shit hole.'
It might just save my sanity, I replied, thinking, this man actually reads my shit.
And Chris Hill could have been that assswipe Brit I met in Medan (Sumatra).
He didn't like writers either.
The Captain said if I ever write anything untrue about him, he'd hunt me down and kill me.
The nice folks you meet at backpackers, I met my fair share.
I always say it's that swinging punch coming from behind you that you have to worry about the most.
Let the dogs bark, the real killers just pull the trigger.
My knee is holding up. It's my neck now, it's getting really stiff.
I don't feel good about writing this post.
Yes you do, said Danial, you were righting a few wrongs.
He said to attack bullying head-on is to write about it.
'Then others can study it and learn from it.'
The Indians were fantastic tonight and the owner even loaned me his power bank to charge my phone.
I'm so glad I've not given up on them.
They are surprising in the best possible way.
Humanity straight ahead.
Bullies, we are onto you. Don't project your fuck ups onto us.
Danial pats me on the back.
'I think it's done.' He nods his head.
I did my best. And this was my story.
'Just keep off fuckbook,' he says as I take cautious steps back to my hotel room.
The knee is really holding up and Emmy skipped on cleaning my room.
I'm not concerned.
I'm in Borneo and loving it. I'm still writing. I'm making friends along the way and me and the Indians are just getting on swell.
The reward of suffering is experience.
That had to be a Cartwright quote.
Thinking the spiral stairs would be better than the normal ones at the front, I hobbled down them.
I gently suggested to Emmy to clean my room. It's been three days now.
'Besok,' she says. That's what she said yesterday.
Man, those smells are building up.
At this rate, if Emmy doesn't put some chemicals in my room, the health department is sure to close down the joint.
'It stinks of piss.'
All the more reason for you to get your sweet Indonesian ass in my room and start cleaning like you really mean it, I said with a smile. She didn't understand a word I said, though.
I was aiming for the 24-hour Indian joint.
They serve great Tee Tarek, or pulled milky tea and I needed a break from the breakneck speed of 'making money' of the Chinese tea houses.
I might even write up a piece, I thought, over a rotti, a milk tea, and some curry to mop up the Indian style pancake that is fluffy in a pastry way.
I'll leave the food reviewing to the wankers, I'm here for season not reason.
I swing this way and that. I'm not admitting to manic depresson, but any reflections of it in my writing, then all the better.
That's writing folks. The things I do to keep you guys entertained so stop bitching and follow me.
I think of that threat to leave Perth. It was on Facebook. Caught me by surprise, over a year later I'm brewing on it.
I suspect who it was, not someone I respect.
'Let sleeping dogs lie,' advices Ace.
Cowards, lthe lot of them.
I'm the nicest kinda guy.
The poor remain poor because they keep on attacking their own kind.
They just don't get it.
That's why the middle class distance themselves from them.
They know the game and are too busy fending off the other middle-class assoles who want a bigger slice by taking someone else's.
Australians are asswipes. I ponder this before I fall asleep.
Maybe it's time to be an asswipe myself.
Man, if it wasn't for my size, I'd be receiving more punches to the gut.
I got king hit on the streets of Perth by a total stranger. He was drunk.
I kinda lunged into the punch and deflected it like I was catching a footy.
He hit me once and it was over.
The threat hits me every fucking day.
Who would in their right mind send such a threat?
Assholes usually. The ones never content with what they have and who want more.
He's that guy that gets death threats.
See, it's a stigma. There's something wrong with me and not the person making the threats. It works for them. It's another humiliation stacked on humiliation.
It's the poor victim who pays.
I took my leisurely time to leave Perth.
It comes down to drunks. They infiltrated the backpackers.
It's really run down since I was there over a year ago.
The Chinese owner let in one drunk and the others followed.
The Chinese owner let in one junkie and the other's followed.
The poor Indian was raced out too. He was too smart to let it worry him.
I let it worry me. I'm paying for it every day.
'He's a soft touch, just fire him a message, he's Frank Russel on Facebook, here, see, send it on your fake account, the police will never know, it's not traceable. It will teach the upstart a lesson.'
It usually goes like that.
'Sure,' says the guy with the wrinkles around his lips, the one who carries his duffel bags and comes up with outrageous lies of fighting cancer and funding his own treatment and one who calls me fat even after I've given him two jobs and bought two of his crappy phones because he can't pay the rent, 'I'll fire it off on my account.'
He was just as rude and nasty as the others.
My crime with Wrinkled Lips was being too nice. My crime with the Captain was being too nice.
Is being nice a crime?
And my crime against the cleaner and the soldier was not speaking my mind and telling them both to fuck off.
Wrinkled Lips set up things so nastiness could follow. And indeed it did, once he showed his true colors. There's something to be said about low achievers who take out their frustration on others who are trying to achieve.
It comes down to plain bitterness. I know, I've been there before.
He had a Facebook account that he used only for spying on people and using messenger, he was a prime candidate for firing off the message.
What message?
'You can run but you can't hide, leave Perth.'
Short and sweet but highly effective and charged with menace.
Or it could have been the Captain, he knew my account. He scoffed at it.
'Why don't you use your real name?'
And why don't you fuck off.
The hens pecked for morsels. That was the best they could do that day.
'It should fuck him up good,' says the ringleader, a man entering his twilight years jobless, on serious medication for mental issues and a drug and alcohol problem.
'Yeah, that will sort out the fucker,' chimes in the soldier. I slighted him too. I paid my way but wasn't committed to his delusion.
He met up with the drunk cleaner who said I just left. I knew the soldier was coming any day now. I got out just in the nick of time.
'I'll fuck him over,' says the soldier, ' that Chris Hill is a bad ass and affiliated, when he sees the photo of him on Facebook, he'll shit his pants.'
Wrinkled Lips smiles.
The photo was of a bikey. School of Hard knocks. Man, they love the cliches.
The soldier wasn't even a soldier. He was a guinea pig on a new drug trial and was paid off after he showed abnormal signs of paranoia.
He was using too much speed.
The hen peckers had no idea I was living out another drama with some more badasses and drunks.
This guy was also called Chris, and a 'real' bad ass bikey.
I think I saw him crying outside the house.
'Please don't leave me,' he pleaded.
She was a dog with a cunt the size of a Lunar Park entrance.
I've witnessed bad ass personally, it usually never comes with a warning. It could be a good beating in your sleep or a bomb going off at your favorite convenience store.
The rain is falling and a cool breeze is licking my neck.
I might order another milky tea. It seems to be settling me.
I might write more about bass asses.
A cunt is a cunt, unless it's dripping wet, then that's a real cunt.
The cleaner got raced out of the backpackers by someone who was offended with his know-it-all and totally drunken enriched asswipery.
The other loser who turned on me after I extended a helping hand is probably on the streets telling anyone who cares that he's going to write the next great book. He's one paragraph into it.
The Captain, who was most confrontational -- he made out he couldn't remember what he said the day after his drunken rants, maybe he couldn't remember, he was that toasted - is most likely trying to become a pensioner, or has blown his savings on Thai whores and is living down at the park with his loser mate who lives out of a duffel bag.
Things are always looking up.
The knee is holding up. I'm not pushing it.
I might even return to a clean room.
Pain use to be a friend of mine. One evening with my pain in the ass friend was one night too long.
Let the Gods continue blessing me, you're good deeds have not gone unnoticed.
Danial, from West Malaysia, is just starting his shift and puts on the music channel.
I really do need to get it out of my head that the Indians are asswipes.
They do their best and are the butt of everyone's jokes.
That makes us kindred spirits right?
'It certainly does,' says Danial, 'but I'd appreciate five stars for our restaurant, not the two you gave us.'
That can be changed, I said.
I had no idea he was a big reader of reviews on Google Maps.
'Fix it or you are a dead man.'
What??
'I'm a big fan of your blog,' he says and slaps me hard on the back. He's dark as the ace of spade and a big fan of the former Brickfields in Kuala Lumpur when the whores and Indians roamed the late nights.
Alas, the place is cleaned up and all we can do is reminisce.
And he won't kill me.
'It just doesn't make financial sense.'
He's surprised that I was told to leave Perth.
'Once the coppers catch up on that guy, he's toast,' he says.
I suspect the guy who sent the threat is either in jail, dead from an O.D or locked up for life overseas.
Karma works in a mysterious way.
I told Danial that the hens were pushing me to act, they wanted me to make a wrong move. I'm always quiet and laugh off the insults. I value my passport and no court appearances.
I know I'll get back at them here and I'll have a larger audience.
"That's the path of self-righteousness,' says Danial, who brings me out another hot Tee Tarik.
'Facebook is a treacherous place,' he says, advising me to stay safe and 'keep out of that shit hole.'
It might just save my sanity, I replied, thinking, this man actually reads my shit.
And Chris Hill could have been that assswipe Brit I met in Medan (Sumatra).
He didn't like writers either.
The Captain said if I ever write anything untrue about him, he'd hunt me down and kill me.
The nice folks you meet at backpackers, I met my fair share.
I always say it's that swinging punch coming from behind you that you have to worry about the most.
Let the dogs bark, the real killers just pull the trigger.
My knee is holding up. It's my neck now, it's getting really stiff.
I don't feel good about writing this post.
Yes you do, said Danial, you were righting a few wrongs.
He said to attack bullying head-on is to write about it.
'Then others can study it and learn from it.'
The Indians were fantastic tonight and the owner even loaned me his power bank to charge my phone.
I'm so glad I've not given up on them.
They are surprising in the best possible way.
Humanity straight ahead.
Bullies, we are onto you. Don't project your fuck ups onto us.
Danial pats me on the back.
'I think it's done.' He nods his head.
I did my best. And this was my story.
'Just keep off fuckbook,' he says as I take cautious steps back to my hotel room.
The knee is really holding up and Emmy skipped on cleaning my room.
I'm not concerned.
I'm in Borneo and loving it. I'm still writing. I'm making friends along the way and me and the Indians are just getting on swell.
The reward of suffering is experience.
That had to be a Cartwright quote.
