Saved By Worn Bullets
[Vung Tau, 5/31/25]
Of course, everyone is a degenerate. The two dogs at this new café aren’t just brother and sister, but husband and wife, with one love child. Enjoying this sick fact, a security guard revealed this within seconds of our meeting. What a litany of pathologies does his blue uniform, with its pretentious lapels, hide? Cloaking himself in gooey sentimentality, he’s listening to songs with the tritest lyrics hysterically sung by some deranged cypher. They aren’t just a fuck you to language, but human and dog emotions. Hearing those enough, you’ll screw your sister too.
Seeing me typing, he compliments my eyesight, not bad for a 70-year-old.
“But I’m only 61, brother! Everyone thinks I’m over 70. Some think I’m 80. How old are you?”
“Sixty.”
“Wow, and your hair is all black. Did you dye it?”
“No.”
“Amazing, and you’re trim too. Do you drink alcohol?”
“Sure, but only a can or two every now and then.”
“No rice wine?”
“Just beer. I drank more when I was in the army.”
“In Cam?” Only nerds say Kampuchea or Cambodia.
“Yes, in Cam.”
“How many years?
“Four, nearly five.”
“That’s a long time. Can you speak Khmer?”
“Some. I learnt some from friendly ones.”
“Deep down, they hate us. Those who were friendly were scared.”
“That’s right. Some spoke bits of Vietnamese. They learnt it from Vietnamese over there.”
“Were you in combat?”
“A year. I got injured from a mine.”