I knew he was a loose cannon.
He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
I'd give him the time that it burnt down to the butt.
The fucking cigarette burned forever.
He proceeded to give me a discourse on cigarettes.
I learned that he has been smoking them since he was eighteen.
He's seventy-two now.
And that cigarette just moves in his mouth, it's not burning an inch.
I catch glimpses. I try and get the gist.
I'm finding it hard to follow him, he's speaking in Malay, with a sprinkle of English.
He likes Dunhill.
He sizes up my Park Way.
Dunhill and Parkway.
'They are better in Hong Kong,' he says and gives a run down the prices.
And in Ringgit?
Crazy people have a way of muddling your thought process. It's all about sabertouge for them.
He said one packet in Hong Kong was $49 dollars. And one carton was $490.
He could have been talking about Ringgit which was once called a dollar.
He's fucking with me. And this conversation has gone no where fast.
Trying to follow his train of thought, I think he's saying Dunhill is better tasting in Hong Kong than in Malaysia.
I moved the conversation to Malbora Reds.
He then gave me the Malbora discourse.
'Taste better in Hong Kong, taste crap here in Malaysia.'
I'm trying to simplify his responses here, otherwise, I'll get totally muddled. Whoever is his social worker, deserves a medal.
I said Dunhills were better in Indonesia than in Malaysia and Australia. Hay, I was being polite.
He's working up to something.
He shows me his arm in a manly way like like it's a giant hard-on. Then he starts thumping his fist on the table. In between thumps, he's flexing his index finger. I can't make head and tails of it. I'm stumped.
'I'm one tough mother fucker and if I detect you taking the piss out of me, you are going to get it in the head.'
That was my interpretation.
He's going to break someone's neck, and hopefully not mine.
He might be old but he's still got what it takes.
I thought he was talking about a strong cock.
How wrong was I. And that thought seems to have angered him.
We all know smoking hardens the arteries and blocks off a good supply of blood to the region needed for procreation.
And we all know Viagra opens those arteries back up.
Thump thump.
No one blinks an eye, seems normal behavior at the Long House.
At this rate, he's going to break the table.
It's my cue to move on.
He's virile, no doubting it.
I pegged him as a weirdo when he told me not to call the waitress crazy. I think I had been talking to her about Mr. Loon.
'Not polite,' he says.
Or something like that.
I think what he meant it was only polite to call someone crazy when they really were.
His cigarette eventually burns an inch and he throws it on the ground.
'I don't like these fake cigarettes,' he says, 'just don't taste the same as the original.'
He's one pissed off smoker. He can't afford the 17 Ringgit price tag for the brand cigarettes, and like me is smoking the cheap smuggled ones.
He's still thumping the table.
I managed to excuse myself.
This is hard work. I'll be avoiding him next time.
That half cigarette burning between his lips was like a lifetime, time just stood still while he told the story of his life.
I put my Park Way safely back into my bag. It was my cue to fuck off from the Long House.
End the end, I get it.
He must have learned karate on his visit to China while looking for cheap Dunhills.
There's no other explanation for his behavior, unless of course he really is crazy.
He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
I'd give him the time that it burnt down to the butt.
The fucking cigarette burned forever.
He proceeded to give me a discourse on cigarettes.
I learned that he has been smoking them since he was eighteen.
He's seventy-two now.
And that cigarette just moves in his mouth, it's not burning an inch.
I catch glimpses. I try and get the gist.
I'm finding it hard to follow him, he's speaking in Malay, with a sprinkle of English.
He sizes up my Park Way.
Dunhill and Parkway.
'They are better in Hong Kong,' he says and gives a run down the prices.
And in Ringgit?
Crazy people have a way of muddling your thought process. It's all about sabertouge for them.
He said one packet in Hong Kong was $49 dollars. And one carton was $490.
He could have been talking about Ringgit which was once called a dollar.
He's fucking with me. And this conversation has gone no where fast.
Trying to follow his train of thought, I think he's saying Dunhill is better tasting in Hong Kong than in Malaysia.
I moved the conversation to Malbora Reds.
He then gave me the Malbora discourse.
'Taste better in Hong Kong, taste crap here in Malaysia.'
I'm trying to simplify his responses here, otherwise, I'll get totally muddled. Whoever is his social worker, deserves a medal.
I said Dunhills were better in Indonesia than in Malaysia and Australia. Hay, I was being polite.
He's working up to something.
He shows me his arm in a manly way like like it's a giant hard-on. Then he starts thumping his fist on the table. In between thumps, he's flexing his index finger. I can't make head and tails of it. I'm stumped.
'I'm one tough mother fucker and if I detect you taking the piss out of me, you are going to get it in the head.'
That was my interpretation.
He's going to break someone's neck, and hopefully not mine.
He might be old but he's still got what it takes.
I thought he was talking about a strong cock.
How wrong was I. And that thought seems to have angered him.
We all know smoking hardens the arteries and blocks off a good supply of blood to the region needed for procreation.
And we all know Viagra opens those arteries back up.
Thump thump.
No one blinks an eye, seems normal behavior at the Long House.
At this rate, he's going to break the table.
It's my cue to move on.
He's virile, no doubting it.
I pegged him as a weirdo when he told me not to call the waitress crazy. I think I had been talking to her about Mr. Loon.
'Not polite,' he says.
Or something like that.
I think what he meant it was only polite to call someone crazy when they really were.
His cigarette eventually burns an inch and he throws it on the ground.
'I don't like these fake cigarettes,' he says, 'just don't taste the same as the original.'
He's one pissed off smoker. He can't afford the 17 Ringgit price tag for the brand cigarettes, and like me is smoking the cheap smuggled ones.
He's still thumping the table.
I managed to excuse myself.
This is hard work. I'll be avoiding him next time.
That half cigarette burning between his lips was like a lifetime, time just stood still while he told the story of his life.
I put my Park Way safely back into my bag. It was my cue to fuck off from the Long House.
End the end, I get it.
He must have learned karate on his visit to China while looking for cheap Dunhills.
There's no other explanation for his behavior, unless of course he really is crazy.
