So I bored a wee Mechano bus to Panajim and had tae stand fir the whole fuckin’ journey. An hour and a half cramped up against the door in a bus with about forty-thousand people crammed in beside me. It was an arduous voyage brethren, let me tell you that. When I got to Panajim I planned to get the next sleeper bus going to Bombay. I didn’t really know what I would do when I got there but I figured I would read the Lonely Planet and work something out. That fuckin’ Lonely Planet man. As soon as my pasty, arctic white hands pull that book out of ma massive brand-new, shiny rucksack, I might as well have a sign above my head saving “Rape my bank account”.
As luck would have it I met a couple of wee Chilean lassies on the bus. They were looking pretty sure of what they were up to and I obviously didn’t really have a clue what I was up to. I saw them walk out of a travel agent’s so I crossed the road looking for a bus ticket somewhere. But I was promptly blind-sided by this shifty little Indian guy who looked like Mr. Bean. He starts tryin’ tae bring me to a ‘better’ travel agents and kicks off by trying to sell me some hash. I show a little bit of interest out of habit but I actually want him to just get to fuck so I can get a bus ticket a get out of Goa. No more salesmen please! But he’s goin’ on and on and I’m getting really pissed off because we’ve walked past about four travel agents in search of his travel agents. He moves on from hash and starts trying to punt Ketamine onto me. I say no thank you. He goes into his pants and pulls oot a wee baggy with two mental lookin’ pills that were as big as Alka-Seltzers.
“What the fuck are they?”
“These are the thing crazy mother-fucks take before they kill every mother-fuck in sight. Terrorists, Paki bastards, take this fuck pill before exploding. “
I just looked blankly at the guy, not really knowin’ how I should react.
“700 rupees” he said.
I just started laughin’ in the wee guy’s face.
“If you like this things, I can find weapons.”
I promptly stopped laughing.
“What weapons can you get?” I said, in a tone which expressed genuine curiosity but absolutely no desire to buy a rocket launcher.
I could see that the wee man had started thinkin’ that he was the big man. This sneaky wee smile spread across his stubbly wee face.
“Well,” he starts all nonchalantly, like an Italian looking at a menu, “machine gun, hand gun, grenade. As you like.”
“Aye, put me doon for one handgun.” I says, just playin’ around with him, thinkin’ he’s full of shite. But Mr. Bean the Drug Machine just lifts his shirt up and flashes this mad old rusty gun at me!
“You like?” he says, grinin’ at me with his big toenail teeth.
“Whit?! Fuckin’ put that away man, jesus!” I shouted and whispered at the same time. “No man, I was only jokin’! Do I look like the sort of guy who’s going to start a fuckin’ insurgency at the Pakistan border? No!? Look at me man?! Just take me to this travel agent’s!”
“Okay, some hash?”
“….Okay, but just the hash please” I answered.