Howie the Pox.
Posted: Mon Jul 22, 2019 11:47 am
Chapter 1.
Howie The Pox
We called Howie, Howie The Pox, because he spends more money on doctors and penicillin than he does on the whores and bars that infect him. If he’d stop describing the sexual sewer in his underwear every time he contaminated his cock, we would’ve been kinder and named him Mattress Back Howie, or Bareback Howie, or Howie The Little Fat Fucking Steam Engine. But he won’t keep his unhealthy discharges to himself,so, well,fuck him, he’s Howie The Pox.
Sunday. 11am. Jesters Cafe
My business partner's already sitting down at a table half way through his daily English breakfast when I get there, rivulets of sweat tracing the wheezing fat bastard’s jaw-line before falling off his pudgy chin onto the table. In Howie’s defense, Phnom Penh's summers have been fucking brutal lately.
“Saw your ex missus last night.” he says, eyes fixed on his food.
I drag out a chair and sit. “Which one?”
“One that bought The Juice Box.” Howie looks up searching for a waitress and waves one over.“She looks good.”
I’m not interested in talking about my fucking ex. I order two beers from the approaching pair of tits and avoid the topic.
“When we on for?”
“One o’clock. Gonna be alright, Tony. Got the bloke at the airport tucked away just nice. And our fella at the hospital says he can strip twenty grand worth of meds every few months, no problem. Just the two kids drivin’ the shit into Thailand to worry about really”
No, me and Howie The Pox won’t be invited to your kids school to give a fuckin’ careers talk.
Howie stands up and I’m not sure if the stain on the front of his pants is sweat and breakfast, or the blooming signs of another bout of the clap. If the latter, I’m sure I’ll fucking hear all about it.
Howie starts scratching his his dick. In public. While everyone is eating. Our Howie’s a dirty little fucker.
“Remember the acrobat?” Howie asks, grinning madly. “”she came back to the bar last night.”
“Ive no idea how any of them let a diseased fat fuck like you put his cock anywhere near them.” Howie wanders off toward the loo giggling to himself continuing to scratch the wet patch on the front of his pants.
See, here’s the thing. Howie The Pox might be a little fucking diseased deviant who will fuck anything and everything, blow big dough on nonsense and not shower enough, but he’s fucking solid. That little fat bastard of a business partner of mine is someone I can trust. And I challenge anyone playing the game in Phnom Penh to find anyone who is more stand up than Howie.
Sunday 5pm
It only took a couple of hours to split the load kindly donated by the world’s caring international community.. Most of our time is taken up with identifying everything that had been ordered, like morphine and oxycontin, you know, shit for junkies. Or ritalin and duromine for the speed freaks. Howie knows the proper names, like Methylphenidate for ritalin. Not only does he know the pharmaceutical names, the fat fucker knows the chemical names, as well. Clever little cunt.
Two lads are now on their way to the border with our buyer waiting for them. Fact is, half of everything we do like this gets busted or simply disappears into thin air. It’s part of “The Business” and we expect it to happen. Don’t like it when it does happen, but there it is.
Phnom Penh Nights
I’m on the balcony of a pub overlooking the river drinking whiskey, it’s my favorite thing to do at this time of the day and has been for twenty five years. Yeah, there’s now fuckin’ hipsters to join the hippies, backpackers, smack heads, meth heads, deathpats, sexpats and the world’s other pieces of shit and detritus strolling the city’s streets these days. But that same sun sinks over that same river as the fuckin’ mad house that’s Phnom Penh shimmers in the thick air of late afternoon, limbering up for the night ahead. A night I'm very much part of.
But you gotta be careful, mind because Phnom Penh can change a man. Can change the way he thinks, can change the way he acts. Can change the way he sees himself, and how the world sees him. And if blokes like me don’t stay on their game, we’re off down that fuckin’ slippery slope that ends in a whole lot of pain and puss in this town. I’ll take you with me for a night out one night.
Sunday 11pm The Juice Box
Chanthavy owns The Juice Box, but I fuckin’ paid for it. That’s just the way it is. You can’t run around fuckin’ whacking every ex Asian missus you ever had just coz she got a few dollars out of ya, now can ya? Howie was right, though, she still looks good. Real good. She doesn't have to dance any more, but she'd still know hoe to get a few wrinkles out of an old man, if you know what I mean.
Howie The Pox
We called Howie, Howie The Pox, because he spends more money on doctors and penicillin than he does on the whores and bars that infect him. If he’d stop describing the sexual sewer in his underwear every time he contaminated his cock, we would’ve been kinder and named him Mattress Back Howie, or Bareback Howie, or Howie The Little Fat Fucking Steam Engine. But he won’t keep his unhealthy discharges to himself,so, well,fuck him, he’s Howie The Pox.
Sunday. 11am. Jesters Cafe
My business partner's already sitting down at a table half way through his daily English breakfast when I get there, rivulets of sweat tracing the wheezing fat bastard’s jaw-line before falling off his pudgy chin onto the table. In Howie’s defense, Phnom Penh's summers have been fucking brutal lately.
“Saw your ex missus last night.” he says, eyes fixed on his food.
I drag out a chair and sit. “Which one?”
“One that bought The Juice Box.” Howie looks up searching for a waitress and waves one over.“She looks good.”
I’m not interested in talking about my fucking ex. I order two beers from the approaching pair of tits and avoid the topic.
“When we on for?”
“One o’clock. Gonna be alright, Tony. Got the bloke at the airport tucked away just nice. And our fella at the hospital says he can strip twenty grand worth of meds every few months, no problem. Just the two kids drivin’ the shit into Thailand to worry about really”
No, me and Howie The Pox won’t be invited to your kids school to give a fuckin’ careers talk.
Howie stands up and I’m not sure if the stain on the front of his pants is sweat and breakfast, or the blooming signs of another bout of the clap. If the latter, I’m sure I’ll fucking hear all about it.
Howie starts scratching his his dick. In public. While everyone is eating. Our Howie’s a dirty little fucker.
“Remember the acrobat?” Howie asks, grinning madly. “”she came back to the bar last night.”
“Ive no idea how any of them let a diseased fat fuck like you put his cock anywhere near them.” Howie wanders off toward the loo giggling to himself continuing to scratch the wet patch on the front of his pants.
See, here’s the thing. Howie The Pox might be a little fucking diseased deviant who will fuck anything and everything, blow big dough on nonsense and not shower enough, but he’s fucking solid. That little fat bastard of a business partner of mine is someone I can trust. And I challenge anyone playing the game in Phnom Penh to find anyone who is more stand up than Howie.
Sunday 5pm
It only took a couple of hours to split the load kindly donated by the world’s caring international community.. Most of our time is taken up with identifying everything that had been ordered, like morphine and oxycontin, you know, shit for junkies. Or ritalin and duromine for the speed freaks. Howie knows the proper names, like Methylphenidate for ritalin. Not only does he know the pharmaceutical names, the fat fucker knows the chemical names, as well. Clever little cunt.
Two lads are now on their way to the border with our buyer waiting for them. Fact is, half of everything we do like this gets busted or simply disappears into thin air. It’s part of “The Business” and we expect it to happen. Don’t like it when it does happen, but there it is.
Phnom Penh Nights
I’m on the balcony of a pub overlooking the river drinking whiskey, it’s my favorite thing to do at this time of the day and has been for twenty five years. Yeah, there’s now fuckin’ hipsters to join the hippies, backpackers, smack heads, meth heads, deathpats, sexpats and the world’s other pieces of shit and detritus strolling the city’s streets these days. But that same sun sinks over that same river as the fuckin’ mad house that’s Phnom Penh shimmers in the thick air of late afternoon, limbering up for the night ahead. A night I'm very much part of.
But you gotta be careful, mind because Phnom Penh can change a man. Can change the way he thinks, can change the way he acts. Can change the way he sees himself, and how the world sees him. And if blokes like me don’t stay on their game, we’re off down that fuckin’ slippery slope that ends in a whole lot of pain and puss in this town. I’ll take you with me for a night out one night.
Sunday 11pm The Juice Box
Chanthavy owns The Juice Box, but I fuckin’ paid for it. That’s just the way it is. You can’t run around fuckin’ whacking every ex Asian missus you ever had just coz she got a few dollars out of ya, now can ya? Howie was right, though, she still looks good. Real good. She doesn't have to dance any more, but she'd still know hoe to get a few wrinkles out of an old man, if you know what I mean.