Sex, Drugs & No Idea

13: The Lightning Bolt - Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Charlie awoke the next morning, dreams dissolving like so much rose-tinted gossamer. He opened his eyes. He sighed, licked his lips.

And winced.

He walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror and sighed again. His bottom lip was split. Quite well split it looked to him. There was a handsome crust of dried blood, dust and some sort of clear oozing liquid, which he assumed had something to do with his body having to deal with an open wound in Cambodia's humid, germ-cultivating environment.

He washed it off, grumbling as he divested himself of a few more layers of lip skin. Once it was clean it didn't look so bad. He dabbed on some antiseptic cream, noting the untouched malaria pills in the bottom of his washbag, brushed his teeth and went in search of breakfast.

As he left the room, however, he took a good long look at Golem for the first time that morning. The poor boy seemed to be dying. He was groaning, tossing and turning; showing all the tell-tale signs of one who is suffering from one of God's great hangovers. As Charlie watched, he rolled over with a mewl of discontent, like a constipated cat, and opened his eyes.

"Good morning, Golem," Charlie said.

Golem opened his mouth as if to speak, and burped. It was a horrible-sounding belch; one that reminded Charlie of what a bug-eyed cesspool of subhuman filth Golem was capable of being in his finer moments.

"I'm going to get some breakfast, mate. Do you want anything?" Charlie said.

"Coke," the reprobate croaked and closed his eyes wearily, giving himself up to whatever gruesome fate the Universe had in store for him.

The rest of the lads made it into the restaurant in dribs and drabs. Charlie couldn't help feeling they all looked a little the worse for wear. Dang limped in, whipped out his injured hoof and plonked it on the table. They could see a couple of black dots embedded deep in his heel, which he told them proudly were sea urchin spines, and were very painful.

"Why don't you just squeeze 'em out, you donut?" Hugo asked, and prodded the dots with a forefinger.

Dang yelped and almost fell out of his chair. "Don't fucking go prodding at them, you goddamn feeble-minded idiot! I've tried that. Shit, bro!"

"Since we're comparing foot injuries," said Hugo, whacking his large slab-like foot onto the poor table, "have any of you cunts seen these three toenails at all?"

There was a communal averting of eyes at the grizzly sight of Hugo's right foot––never an object that could be said to elicit smiles and soft words of praise and wonder at the very best of times––and the three slimy, red-orange vacant lots that used to hold the last three toenails on it.

"Yeah, not bad," he said with stereotypical Australian insouciance. He looked across at Charlie and gestured at his own mug. "Speaking of not bad. You're looking particularly savaged this morning, mate. You know that no means no."

"Very good," Charlie said.

"What happened?"

Charlie shrugged. "Tuck jump half turn to back handspring."

"Looks like you nailed the landing."

"Yeah, it was a ten."

"Where the fuck's Golem?" Frenchy asked.

"He's going to need a minute," Charlie said.

"That bad, huh?"

"Oh, yeah."

"He's hungover?"

"Hanging like a witch in sixteen-sixty-six," Charlie affirmed.

It was at that moment that Will walked in. He wore a pained expression, as if he was as far from content in his current situation as it was possible to be.