People try to put us down...
People try to put us d-down | Just because we get around | Things they do look awful c-c-cold | I hope I die before I get old | This is my generation | This is my generation, baby.
Notorious anti-American and drunken pyro-prose master stavrosthewonderchicken is back in town. Not content blasting the status quo to hell and gone with Improvised Eclectic Dissections (IEDs), the Man with Seoul now slags fellow blogging entrepreneurs and rips a new one for his Korean hosts.
Stavros, who gleefully predicted the Great Slaughter of the Yanqui Invaders back in 2002, is a former Greek cruiseship waiter and rentboy of mixed parentage, expensive habits and dubious taste. He attributes his successful reading of the markets to his partner, She Who Must Be Obeyed.
Waeguk, the knife-wielding proprietor of an infamous downtown Seoul backstreet bar, strip joint and drug den, disagrees. "Fuck him," he giggled, smacking a drunken yellow man off his barstool with a baseball bat. "He lies through his wooden teeth. His insight derives mainly from decades mastering the Asian drug-smuggling, piracy, gun-running and sex-slave syndicates." The baseball bat made a flat, cracking sound as it crashed into the yellow man's head. He screamed and dropped to the floor. "He sails the length and breadth of the continent," continued Waeguk, following through on his swing. "Stavros, that is. Everybody knows and fears him. He is not to be messed with. Unless you're a good-looking woman, that is. The girls can't get enough of him."
"He's back in town," I told him, matter of factly.
Waeguk's face turned the colour of Babylonian parchment—post-invasion. The bat, now still, hung at his side. He started to say something but, after babbling incoherently a couple of seconds, fell silent. He looked sick. The yellow man at his feet stirred and Waeguk, as if in a panic, began beating him mercilessly.
"Don't you ever, ever comment on my tongue stud again, you demented fucking yellow bastard," he roared at his now blood-drenched, comatose patron. "It has absolutely fucking nothing to do with you."
more...
Just because we get around...
Why don't you all f-fade away | And don't try to dig what we all s-s-say | I'm not trying to cause a big s-s-sensation | I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation | This is my generation | This is my generation, baby.
And if you think that's sick, try this guy. I mean, really. Y'know? As if we don't have enough violence already. On TV, that is. Especially on TV. Everybody's upset about the violence on TV. Who gives a shit about people like Waeguk?
Breathing heavily, Waeguk paused. "Christ, I owe the fucker millions. He put everything he had on those neocon fuckheads getting screwed in Iraq. Naturally, we all laughed at him and I was happy to take his money." He once again turned his attention to his former patron. I stepped back to protect my suit. The baseball bat no longer rang against the yellow man's head, which had cracked like an egg.
"Now I owe him millions," wailed a plaintive Waeguk. "Those dumb bastards have been chased out like dogs, with their tails between their legs and explosives up their backsides. Oh, shit, what am I to do?"
Tossing the blood-soaked bat back across he bar, he looked at me and shrugged his shoulders in despair. "What am I to do?" he implored.
I threw my drink in his face. "Pay up or die, asshole. I'm just the messenger. Pay up or I'll set the hogs on you."
Waeguk wiped his blood-smeared face and sneered. "You'll feed me to the hogs, eh? You double-dealing, two-faced shithead."
He was holding a large, wicked-looking blade. From where I sat, it looked like an up-market machete. "You ungrateful Sudanese sap," I snarled. "Is this how you repay my friend's generosity and kindness? Do you know how his family have suffered while you have profited from his goodwill?"
I snapped my fingers. Brian, backed by an evil-looking bunch of thugs, filled the doorway. I could sense he was in a foul mood. "Ey Brian," I called. "How's the craic then, you gobshite? Not too good on the work front, eh. Fuck 'em, boyo. You need some space, a bottle of John Jameson's best and a... yeah, well, I'll leave the rest to you."
"Fuck off," he muttered, kicking the yellow man aside while pouring himself a long whiskey. "I've been speaking to Doc. It's depressing. He's a fucking Californian."
"Never mind that. We have business to attend to. Waeguk owes us some money."
Moffatt's eye's lit up like freshly minted dollars. He reached for the baseball bat behind the counter and advanced slowly towards Waeguk. "Money?" he asked.
more....
Why don't you all f-fade away | And don't try to dig what we all s-s-say | I'm not trying to cause a big s-s-sensation | I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation | This is my generation | This is my generation, baby.
The Who | My Generation
Indeed. It makes you want to puke, doesn't it? But remember this. We live in dark and dangerous times and these are ugly people. Small talk, passable manners and a good tailor will no longer buy you a seat at the Fat Man's table. So who can blame them for behaving as they do? They are animals and know nothing else.
More, there is no telling what they will do next. Feeding people to the hogs is the least of their bad habits. Should you see these thieves and whores approaching you, cross swiftly to the other side of the street and avert your eyes, or you will wind up swimming with them in the shark tank.
Trust me on this. It's my job to know these things.
