There was something feral in the air of the beach town of Sihanoukville and it got under the skin, into the eyes and in between the teeth of the company of six dangerous idiots as soon as they rolled in.
Charlie's first impression of the place was more a building site than anything, but a building site that held some sort of potential.
"Did anyone book a hostel or anything?" French asked, lighting a smoke in the heat and the dust. He coughed and spat in a charming fashion.
Hugo, in the face of all expectations had actually managed to secure them some sweet little bungalows near Serendipity Beach, just a stones throw from where the ocean met the sand.
"Goddamn, Hugo, you done alright!" said Frenchy when they'd arrived and been shown to our rooms.
Golem and Charlie had been paired up, whilst the two Americans were roomies and Hugo and Dang shared a third bungalow.
Each of our three huts had a fenced in and decked balcony area with a couple of wicker chairs and a low coffee table. Inside was passably clean with powerful hot water shower, two double beds and––glory be!––a western toilet.
"Who would've thought that that Australian buffoon could've selected such agreeable lodgings," said Golem approvingly, when he and Charlie had dumped their bags down on the floor. The lanky man folded himself out onto his bed and sighed.
"Is there much to see here?" he asked.
"Nah, I don't think so."
"Good."
#
It should have been a carefree and innocent time. A time of cocktails, marijuana cigarettes and sunbathing. A time of merry games of beach football with hordes of local kids. A time of exhilarating scooter rides along the coast. Good, clean, wholesome holidaying of the variety that their parents would have approved of.
And it was.
Until the day when the six young men got flagged down by the highway police.
Like the six good, law-abiding Western kids that they were they pulled over just past where the cop stood with his grubby and bent orange baton.
They sat on their bikes, the engines off, as the traffic rushed past. The tarmac was hot and sticky. Hot enough that Charlie had to shift his feet every few seconds. He wondered if that made him appear anxious. He was anxious. All the boys were silent. Nervous. The large doobies that they'd smoked before leaving the beach seemed to be doing nothing for any of their nerves.
"Fuck man, what do we do?" asked Will.
"You hear about these bastards," said Golem. "He's going to take us to the bloody cleaners."
"Yep," agreed Frenchy, taking advantage of this impromptu halt in the proceedings to light up a smoke. "These cunts over here are so crooked they'd swallow a pin and shit out a paperclip." He took a deep drag and spat. "Just you wait, man."
"We were driving alright, weren't we, bro?" Dang asked.
"You reckon we looked off?" Charlie asked.
"I figure we looked like payday," said Golem quietly, taking off his helmet.
The cop was short and corpulent. He wore a green uniform, a pair of knock-off Ray-Ban aviator sunnies, and was also trying to propagate what looked like some sort of moustache-like growth on his upper lip. He looked like a caricature of a henchman from one of Arnold Schwarzenegger's earlier action movies crossed with Pablo Escobar.
He approached them slowly and deliberately, stepping carefully around the piles of refuse that seemed to be ubiquitous in this part of the country. He stopped in front of the riders and, even though his eyes were concealed behind the mirrored lenses of his fake designer sunglasses, Charlie could tell he was appraising them.
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Sex, Drugs & No Idea
ChickLitUnexpected threesomes. Fighting midgets. Wrecking bathrooms. It isn't our grief that sets us apart, it is the manner in which we deal with it. Charlie Green is a mess. After surviving an accident that claimed the life of his partner and being sacked...
