"GIVE ME SOMETHING'S FUCKING FLESH" I demanded.
With this request I was pointed in the direction of a white hot barbeque with a few rather unattractive pieces of comprehensively cremated meat in residence, ready for my perusual and eventual consumption.
Barking the orders for how my papaya salad should be prepared, over my shoulder (nothing rotten, no sugar - it's a FUCKING SALAD, 3/4 chilis and most importantly of all, Somjit, NO.HUMAN.FAECES - wash your hands and do it now!) my ravenous state of being perhaps rendered me blind as I fished any old bits of mystery meat from the spitefully hot griddle, put them on a plate and hurried to a vacant seat where a rampant five minutes of feeding would ensue.
I was mopping up the surplus residue of the salad with a ball of sticky rice when a sole piece of remaining meat began to pique my interest.
What the......FUCK?!
I'd just spent the last two minutes greedily devouring a dozen chicken's backsides.
I quickly surveyed the establishment, ready to quash any rumours that I had a poultry arse fetish, took a huge mouthful of water and ran into the nearest jungle to flagellate myself in a prickle bush.
Fucking place should come with a warning.
Source: http://teakdoor.com/food-and-drink/103743-the-perils-of-papaya-salad-shack.html
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