Stepping's Tones

Aun hands me a gun and tells me to hop on the back of his motorbike. I never expected this sort of behavior from the computer technician at my school whose 5’3” frame barely outmatches that of my 13-year-old students.
Three-foot, muzzle loading rifle in one hand, cooler in the other, we zoom off into the night along a bumpy dirt road, several barking dogs in tow. No one is there to see me in this moment, but if they were I’m sure they wouldn’t mess with me.
Before long we arrive at a bamboo hut in the middle of a field devoid of people and structures but full of life and opportunity. Aun teaches me how to load the rifle. It’s dark but it’s clear that things are about to get real.
By and large, travelers come to Thailand to lounge around as daytime beach bums, party hard as nighttime clubbers, or live it up as some combination of the two. Not me, though. Nope. I’m here for the rat hunting.
Rifle in hand, search light on head, I cautiously I step through knee high grass, hoping my gaze will meander upon refulgent red rat eyes. After 15 minutes and firing just one shot at what turns out to be a moderately large rock, I hand the rifle over to Aun’s friend Goy. Rats seem to have an easy time avoiding excitable foreigners. Good. I’m not a killer anyway.
Aun beckons me back to the hut to share a bottle of rice whiskey while Goy continues on. In classic fashion, I have as much fun interacting with Aun in my broken Thai and his broken English as I did in the field toting the weaponry.
Aun’s shy demeanor falls away as the bottom of the bottle nears. He starts mimicking my shot at the rock and laughing at me. The language barrier that separates us by day is long behind us now.
Slowly but adeptly choosing his words, he tells me about watching his daughter grow up. We even speak of pollution and why field rats are healthier than city rats, all while Goy sporadically interrupts us from somewhere in the giant field with a loud bang and a small shower of red sparks in an otherwise pitch-black night. I’m not sure which is more lethal, the gun or the rice whiskey.
Before we know it, Goy is approaching with 4 rats hanging by the tail and a proud smirk defeating his attempt at modesty.
We arrive back at Aun’s house. He says he will take me home, but first he builds a fire. No biggie. Then he puts a pot of water on to boil. My joints stiffen. Goy takes out the rats, some chilis and some basil and starts to chop. I wonder how that beach bum/clubbing thing is going…