Seasoned old rogue with the green flourishing ganja covering his tee, handsome devil of the classic form unconcerned about the danger of such advertisement in Singapore. A Fine City, as the other mocking tees with their listing of prohibitions proclaimed.
Thin, tall, sharp-featured dangerman red-hot bait for any public order official
on the prowl. Canna see bag
please sir?...
First intro-ed few days ago by the old Madurese flat-cap cowpoke with the belt-buckles, dyed mullet and big-stepping gunslinger stride. It fitted immediately: couple of rustlers blown into town stopping at the ol' saloon for a drink. Eye-full and a half, a pageant from fifty metres distance.
Madurese had been absent some months now, made himself scarce, keeping a clean nose. At the stop by the table hooked at finger at his off-sider without need say more—the picture told the story.
Brilliant hair-cut àla early seventies Keith Richard; not dissimilar otherwise too. Of course Doper could not have afforded the blood transfusion.
Madurese favoured the gals, lashing out for a table of the Batam lasses no matter how many. Critics said he had dough that was being blown all without regard for the kids and grand. Late, late seventies and ram-rod straightest back on the planet for that cohort. Prance down the street, forget it—beyond any compare.
Of course Dopers were cut from different cloth. Good English, when the chief had only lightest sprinkling.
Earlier in the morning with the crowd a chair had been taken beside the Deaf. Drinks. Chat. Abandoned later for some better elbow-room in the next row, which is where pretty boy grandpa found his man.
Howdeedo? Howdeedo? Ah-hum, yeah. This and that. Yeah, yeah. Hmmm.
Nice bangle slipping over a coloured cotton or hemp band as the man rocked. Always a feature of the pretties bones like that. This bloke didn’t seem vain. Easy cool floating smooth.
Chat with razz without any substance. Sweet but. Over his rims lazy-eye surveying the tables and falling on somebody back there was it?.. Who, what??... In fact none other than the gentle, quiet, mind-your-own-business Deaf shrunk in his chair.
That one?
Ohwee! Yes indeed, knew him inside-out. The same katal for the gals, you might not know.
Ah, what?... You mean? The D-D-Deaf?... (Man saw the arrows aimed in his direction.)
Katal big time. No sooner he sees a one, itching all over, shiverin’ an’ shakin’. Katal.
The fellow would have convinced you of a murder charge, cannibalism of new-borns, what have you. Easy, easy cool walking on water.
The Deaf. Quiet sheepish no-say-boo-to-a-mouse. (Not to be confused with the showman Deaf, the charmer and one half double plus. Slays them that one, three tables joined of a dozen all peeing their pants hanging on his next move. Mesmerizing. He certainly was never short of a companion of the semi-fair sex; not the other.) A surprise. One never knew. The quiet ones.
There had in fact been heard the English here before without giving it too much mind. Shame to tell and blushing all the while, one or two of the girls had been found in deepest toils itching, itching bad. Itching good and bad, and leaving lasting memories. City gals never quite pleaded for scratching in that same pussy cat curled way.
Katal. A new acquisition to the vocab, learnt in the preferred way in meaningful context where there was a chance of sticking.
Brought to mind Bloom's Irish Molly itching for it too—katal.
— Oh, give us a touch Poldy, the wandering Jew recalls as he waits out Blazes Boylan back at the ranch. God I'm dying for it, poor darling all aflame.
Katal. They felt it in these parts too by the volcanoes, under the branches in the jungle and plenty other places now.
The old Montenegrins would say, Zedan na nju, thirsting for her. (Horny was so-so OK possibly, when one considered early usage perhaps, for the male at least. Appropriate language and a certain kind of evocation raised.)
Noted appropriately and filed.
Incidentally, shortly after when the Deaf was challenged (Doper passed on), the man stoutly denied. Absolutely not. That fella…. Doing a circuit lands back here, blabber, blabber, running at the mouth—fingers making the universal duck-bill for chatter-box. Full of it that guy…. One hand half-clasping the other cross-wise was uncertain; the fore-finger cross low on the brow on the other hand well-known now.
….And hold your horses steady there partner too! Doper had never gone to school; lad preferred fishing by the river for shrimp instead, trapping birds in the thicket. No such thing as katal at all. Noooo. Delete. It was GATAL. GGGGGeee. Luckily Osman the ex-schoolteacher providentially happening along and file corrected.
First intro-ed few days ago by the old Madurese flat-cap cowpoke with the belt-buckles, dyed mullet and big-stepping gunslinger stride. It fitted immediately: couple of rustlers blown into town stopping at the ol' saloon for a drink. Eye-full and a half, a pageant from fifty metres distance.
Madurese had been absent some months now, made himself scarce, keeping a clean nose. At the stop by the table hooked at finger at his off-sider without need say more—the picture told the story.
Brilliant hair-cut àla early seventies Keith Richard; not dissimilar otherwise too. Of course Doper could not have afforded the blood transfusion.
Madurese favoured the gals, lashing out for a table of the Batam lasses no matter how many. Critics said he had dough that was being blown all without regard for the kids and grand. Late, late seventies and ram-rod straightest back on the planet for that cohort. Prance down the street, forget it—beyond any compare.
Of course Dopers were cut from different cloth. Good English, when the chief had only lightest sprinkling.
Earlier in the morning with the crowd a chair had been taken beside the Deaf. Drinks. Chat. Abandoned later for some better elbow-room in the next row, which is where pretty boy grandpa found his man.
Howdeedo? Howdeedo? Ah-hum, yeah. This and that. Yeah, yeah. Hmmm.
Nice bangle slipping over a coloured cotton or hemp band as the man rocked. Always a feature of the pretties bones like that. This bloke didn’t seem vain. Easy cool floating smooth.
Chat with razz without any substance. Sweet but. Over his rims lazy-eye surveying the tables and falling on somebody back there was it?.. Who, what??... In fact none other than the gentle, quiet, mind-your-own-business Deaf shrunk in his chair.
That one?
Ohwee! Yes indeed, knew him inside-out. The same katal for the gals, you might not know.
Ah, what?... You mean? The D-D-Deaf?... (Man saw the arrows aimed in his direction.)
Katal big time. No sooner he sees a one, itching all over, shiverin’ an’ shakin’. Katal.
The fellow would have convinced you of a murder charge, cannibalism of new-borns, what have you. Easy, easy cool walking on water.
The Deaf. Quiet sheepish no-say-boo-to-a-mouse. (Not to be confused with the showman Deaf, the charmer and one half double plus. Slays them that one, three tables joined of a dozen all peeing their pants hanging on his next move. Mesmerizing. He certainly was never short of a companion of the semi-fair sex; not the other.) A surprise. One never knew. The quiet ones.
There had in fact been heard the English here before without giving it too much mind. Shame to tell and blushing all the while, one or two of the girls had been found in deepest toils itching, itching bad. Itching good and bad, and leaving lasting memories. City gals never quite pleaded for scratching in that same pussy cat curled way.
Katal. A new acquisition to the vocab, learnt in the preferred way in meaningful context where there was a chance of sticking.
Brought to mind Bloom's Irish Molly itching for it too—katal.
— Oh, give us a touch Poldy, the wandering Jew recalls as he waits out Blazes Boylan back at the ranch. God I'm dying for it, poor darling all aflame.
Katal. They felt it in these parts too by the volcanoes, under the branches in the jungle and plenty other places now.
The old Montenegrins would say, Zedan na nju, thirsting for her. (Horny was so-so OK possibly, when one considered early usage perhaps, for the male at least. Appropriate language and a certain kind of evocation raised.)
Noted appropriately and filed.
Incidentally, shortly after when the Deaf was challenged (Doper passed on), the man stoutly denied. Absolutely not. That fella…. Doing a circuit lands back here, blabber, blabber, running at the mouth—fingers making the universal duck-bill for chatter-box. Full of it that guy…. One hand half-clasping the other cross-wise was uncertain; the fore-finger cross low on the brow on the other hand well-known now.
….And hold your horses steady there partner too! Doper had never gone to school; lad preferred fishing by the river for shrimp instead, trapping birds in the thicket. No such thing as katal at all. Noooo. Delete. It was GATAL. GGGGGeee. Luckily Osman the ex-schoolteacher providentially happening along and file corrected.
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