He’s kneading the fuck out of that cancerous growth in my back.

‘Blood flowing.’

I’d fucking hope so.

Some people do Palates in the morning, I have a message.

Ariff is an imam, and when he’s not giving me Arabic lessons or blessing my Borneo Red ring, we are rating tits.

‘Want blue movie.’

Not yet Ariff, the last thing I want the hotel staff to know is that I’m doing morning screenings of Brazzers.

I keep on telling the hotel staff that I’m a fucking retard.

The only one who calls me a genius is Ariff, the massage man.

I think I might extend his hours from one to three, he always says the right thing.

Last night a guitar man came up to me.

He was carrying empty packets of cigarettes in his pouch.

I let him talk. He was fried. Not fried enough to deny me permission to take a photo.

I was talking to two law students.

‘Man,’ I said to them after the weirdo left – I did give him ten cents, my currency – ‘ it doesn’t get any better than this.’

I hunt the cafes looking for weirdos. They find me too.

It’s the cheapest entertainment around. It’s just watching for the signs that they are going to crack. That’s when you need a quick access to the front door.

When I left, I heard the law students talking.

‘Man, that guy from Australia is one fucked up guy.’

I smiled.

Hey, I’m not insensitive to compliments.


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