Job in Nana Plaza

1

Watching a livestream of Sukhumvit Road, Na knew she’d feel like a fish out of water…

Bangkok… The lights, the traffic, the faces, streets brimming, floods of activity…

One single city block had more people in its radius than Na had ever seen in her entire life, coming from a small rice farming village in Nowhere, Nakhon Phanom…

Bangkok, Krung Thep, the metropolis, had so many foreigners, too, or, as the Thais called them: “farangs.”

Not that she’d never seen foreigners, in person; she’d seen a few farangs, sure, but only a handful, usually graying, overweight, with far younger Thai wives, often Thai wives who’d been single mothers.

Such as one of her neighbors, Bu…

Bu had found and hooked a German online, a man missing an arm, and eventually disappeared to Berlin to join him, with her child in tow.

Ecstatic, Bu had gushed and told anyone who’d listen that she’d finally see snow…

Another young single mother, Mod, in a nearby village, had met a vacationing Norwegian, and the 60ish, tall, leathery-skinned, lanky, mustached chap had married her, stayed in the village, and built Mod and her family a sizable 4-bedroom baby blue house; the house rising above all others; its portico, stucco roof and small swimming pool out back the aspiration and envy of the entire block…

To top it off, the Scandinavian had also bought a black Hilux pickup truck that Mod hosed down, meticulously, every day, in their Bougainvillea-lined asphalt driveway…

Na envied Bu and Mod’s good fortune, particularly since her luck had always been so horrible…

It was only last year that her deadbeat father, rarely seen, returned home one rainy night, crashing in, on an angry motorbike with the tail of a comet.

Her wild-eyed father, in a cataleptic fit of meth-induced rage, had robbed, beaten, chased and slashed her mother’s legs with a kitchen knife, and then disappeared, probably back to his hometown, on the jungle border with Laos…

Na’s elder brother, had bullied, molested, and raped her, pimped her out to his friends, and later, after drinking and smoking ganja and falling off a buffalo he and his friends were attempting to joyride, her brother, the bucktoothed sadist, declared he’d found redemption in a pile of buffalo dung and thus had had a religious awakening and left home, became a monk, hitchhiking to a monastery near Chiang Mai.

Worse yet, at 18, Na had fallen pregnant. With whom, she didn’t know. Possibly her brother, one of his friends, or the older boy in school who’d forced his way up her dress behind a storage shed.

Her baby was healthy, chubby, and beautiful, though; the only perfect thing in her life.

And her mother, aunts, and female cousins, neighbors took turns, breaks from rice farming, animal husbandry, and all chipped in to care for the infant, the round little giggle-machine, while Na returned to finish high school.

Na’s options after graduation were limited.

Her grades were satisfactory for university applications, but not for full scholarships, and she lacked the necessary funds for tuition.

(Perhaps if she’d studied more sedulously, spent less time on her phone, she lamented!)

She could take out student loans and be burdened with debt for years, but she didn’t want that, not for her, her mother, or her baby, and, really, she didn’t enjoy school that much anyway…

Her only other options were to work at 7-Eleven as a cashier, toil in the scalding tropical sun as a farmer, for even less money, or work at a bar, karaoke joint or massage parlor in Phuket, Pattaya, or Bangkok…

One of her former high school classmates, Pear, a light-skinned, doe-eyed lovely, a year older than Na, had been working in Bangkok and was making $2000 or more per month, sending most of it home to her family, who’d been able to buy a Hilux truck and whose father could be seen flashing a shiny new gold necklace with a glittery malachite Buddha pendant.

Pear and Na were friends on LINE and Pear inveigled Na to join her at Pear’s bar in Nana Plaza, promising that it was easy work, far more lucrative than rice farming or 7-Eleven…

Na, being an observant Buddhist, had her reservations, but decided the remuneration was too good to pass up, and, now being 19, her window of time was limited, so, she took the job offer…

Although upon arrival in Bangkok, she’d need to pass an interview first…

Officially no one under 20 is allowed in Thai bars, but fake IDs are easy to get, and Na purchased one online and it arrived the next day.

(Many of the bars in Bangkok, Pattaya, Phuket had 18, 19-year-olds in them, but not too many, as there’d been more and more crackdowns on underagers, anyone under 20 in recent times, often undertaken in cooperation with international NGOs…)

((Pear said that, like herself, Na would have an edge with her youth, because most of the girls at the bar were early to late 20s.))

(((About 28 or 29, ID age, was the general “retirement” age for bargirls. At that point most of the ladies who wished to remain in the skin trade, offering certain special services, would switch to massage parlors or freelance.)))

Na rode a red-eye, all-night bus to Bangkok, arriving at the Ekkamai bus terminal in the late morning, waking up to Bangkok’s smoggy downtown skyline, in awe of her surroundings.

She’d never seen such colossal buildings, so many cars on the streets, so many people, so many different types of people everywhere.

Sundries of Thais in business suits and surgical masks. Farangs in cargo shorts. Arab women in abayas, dark facial veils.

And oh, the traffic, never had she seen so many cars, motorbikes, buses, such big buses, windowless buses farting tornado clouds of black smoke, and there was every type of truck imaginable, all packed, bumper to bumper, flooding and jamming the narrow roads!

Stepping out of the bus, gazing upwards at the concrete jungle, the thicket of skyscrapers, she marveled at the ivory white, sleek skytrain as it snaked by, like something from a futuristic sci-fi film.

She’d wanted to spend the day seeing the sights of Bangkok, most of all to visit the Royal Palace and pray at the many sacred temples.

But there was to be none of that. Not on this day.

In the antechamber of the bus station waited her receiver, her recruiter/interviewer who Pear had only referred to as “H”. He held up a white A4 paper with Na’s full name scrawled on it in neat Thai handwriting.

Surprisingly, the man turned out to be a middle-aged Japanese (!), a rather odd looking fellow, a short (155 cm) man with a scorpion’s face and unsightly sloped head pleated with a shock of thinning coal black hair combed to the left, clumped in a heavily gelled, greasy quincuncial grid…

Despite his unpleasant physical appearance, the man wore expensive, designer clothes- a pink button-down shirt and perfectly creased, tailored black slacks, brown leather wingtips.

Na waied respectfully, and the man, in fluent but broken English, asked her for a quick self-introduction, in English, which Na rattled off with ease and alacrity…

(Na spoke quite fluent, albeit grammatically imprecise English, having taken a liking to American movies, TV shows, and it being her favorite subject in school, since they’d often been able to watch American TV, usually episodes of “Friends”, during lessons. She’d also played mobile phone games popular with foreigners and used her English online to chat with gamers from around the globe.)

((Her English proficiency a big reason why Pear recruited her. For Nana bargirls, English ability, at least an intermediate level is a must, a prerequisite for employment. Very few foreigners, especially tourists, speak Thai.))

The Japanese man listened attentively and provided no flummery, just nodded, grunted, and whisked her into his black Mercedes S-Class, onward into Khlong Toei…

Na figured she’d passed the first round of the interview…

2

They arrived at a tall, glitzy, cobalt-blue glass condo tower, and a pair of valets in brown liveries, golden epaulets, received them, opened the car doors, waied and ferried the car off to the building’s underground garage.

Na had never been in a building this luxurious; its massive lobby with a lotus pond, sky high ceilings, ornate crystal chandeliers, Carrara marble floors, and jade chimera sculpture near the elevators.

They ascended in the silver elevator up to his suite, and entered the 200 square meter condo, Na stunned by its panorama windows, 180-degree, vista views of the metropolis.

Na wasn’t quite sure what she was doing there. Her Japanese receiver, hadn’t spoken to her during the ride, instead listening to loud 80s hair metal throughout the journey.

Once the door closed behind them, he finally spoke.

“My name Haruki…”

“Ka…”

“You must provide demonstration.”

“Demonstration?”

“Erm…” Haruki grunted, and unhooked his Gucci black leather belt and dropped trou.

His naked lower body was covered in tattoos, and his smallish uncircumcised penis hung limp in the chilly air-conditioning…

Na understood what he meant, grinned and gamboled over, knelt in obeyance before him, and took his flaccid penis in her mouth. It grew, rapidly, becoming far larger than she anticipated.

Haruki held her by the temples as she suckled him, for a minute or two, and pushed her head away, sat down on the chamois U-shaped sectional sofa and pointed to his erect member.

Na slid down her white cotton panties, peeled off her tight gray Tiger beer t-shirt, and undid, flung off her red Lycra, padded bra, letting Haruki see her small, A-Cup tits, her quarter sized nipples stiff in the condo’s chilly air-conditioned breeze.

She twisted off her Thai college girl style, knee length, solid black skirt, and approached Haruki, who inspected her body, from chest to stomach, peering in between her satiny legs, at her shaven cunt, tracing his index finger along her soft, dark pink pussy slit, slipping his finger inside, in and out, two or three times, and turning her around, squeezing and patting her firm little ass.

Then he twisted her back around, facing him again, and with his right hand, motioned her to mount him.

Suddenly Na remembered something imperative that Pear had told her. Something she wished she’d understood better earlier in life.

“Condom?” Na asked, grabbing ahold of Haruki’s cock, stroking it gently…

Haruki smiled, pointed to a nearby coffee table with a drawer underneath it.

Na reached into the drawer and saw it filled to the brim with Japanese brand condoms.

Taking one out, she ripped open the wrapper, dropped to her knees, and, with her mouth, sucked it onto Haruki.

Na sprung up, took hold of his cock, straddled him, and pointed his phallus at her vaginal opening, slipped his dick inside her.

Her eyes shut, and she rode him, as she’d done with her brother, his friends, when ordered, and as she’d seen in the porn her brother had forced her to view…

She gyrated, moaned loudly, ground her bare muff into him, and bounced up and down on his cock, vigorously, for a good few minutes until he tapped her on the butt, indicating apotheosis; his toothy smile and enthusiastic nod a confirmation she passed the second stage of the interview.

She then passed the third stage, coming up clean for STDs at a nearby clinic Haruki brought her to afterwards…

3

Haruki booked Na a Grab taxi to the apartment where she’d live for the time being.

During the taxi ride over, in the plodding Bangkok traffic, the midday sky opened, and thunder roared; the busy city streets awash in a torrent of neon green rain…

Everything she saw was glowing uranium-like, bright green, terrifying Na, and she asked the surgical mask wearing, shiny bald-headed driver if this was normal, to which he ignored her by turning up his radio, blasting and humming along to the thumping Thai pop…

Arriving at the apartment, the neon rain slowly shifted to seafoam and suddenly ceased, all color vanishing, and the midday sun returned to its corona…

Na got out of the car, gathered her belongings, and made her way towards the screenshot address copied in her phone.

The apartment was in a run-down, brutalist style, pastel pink building, with an A-shaped corrugated brown roof, on the far end of a soi not too far from Nana Plaza.

A homeless man, with a scabrous face and no legs, slept rough in the adjacent alley…

In the building’s vestibule was a corpulent old man, his aura phosphorous. The old man was watching a soccer match on his phone, and he sneered at Na, with bloodshot, concave eyes, and she hurriedly climbed the stairs, to the apartment, a 4th floor walk-up in a 6 storey building…

The place was to be shared with two other bargirls, who Pear said were nice, one named Karen from Chiang Mai, and the other Jem, a Khmer from Loei…

The girls, both dark-skinned, slightly older, shorter than Na, and heavily tattooed, were asleep, on bamboo mats on the floor, and a vacant mat, with a fluffy heart-shaped pillow and folded white sheets, waited for Na; the vacant mat nearest to the apartment’s tiny bathroom, which consisted of a squat toilet, toilet hose, small washbasin and showerhead…

(The floor drain in the bathroom with a most malodorous, fecal, sewer stench that even potpourri couldn’t mask, so the door was kept closed at all times, a handwritten sign on the door commanding it so…)

The apartment was a most humble, cold-water, studio flat with no window, no fridge or TV or stove, and no furnishings aside from 3 plastic stools, and a faux wood folding table.

While neither girl appeared happy to be awoken by Na knocking on the door, they treated her kindly, but shrugged off her questions, panic about the neon green rain, man in the vestibule, and, to Na’s shock, both girls said they didn’t know Pear or that any girl called “Pear” (or her Thai name) worked at the bar.

The girls yawned, stretched, washed up, dressed and welcomed Na to join them for an afternoon breakfast of shrimp noodles at a roadside restaurant occupying a stretch of sidewalk nearby…

As the girls slid on their clothes, both in matching, mint green t-shirts, Na texted Pear and scoured through her LINE timeline.

Pear’s last two posts were from yesterday, one a selfie from Terminal 21 in Bangkok, with a live parakeet on her finger, and another a link to an article by a famous (but controversial) monk, warning of the doomsday asteroid “Apophis.”

Together the girls descended the stairwell, and, exiting the building, the phosphorous man was nowhere to be seen in the vestibule, and Na calmed down a bit…

Sitting on pink plastic stools, twirling the piping hot noodles with wooden chopsticks, sipping silver metal mugs of ice water, the girls gave Na the lowdown, a catechism, really, on the job, the essentials, how they got paid, how to act with the customers, etcetera…

Always laugh at their jokes, they told her, and always smile… If he’s shy, take the lead. If he’s talkative, let him blabber on, nod and pretend to care…

Nice about the job, they said, was that they didn’t have to be with, even talk to, any man they didn’t like.

Karen said she preferred older guys because they paid better and didn’t last as long in bed. The shorter they lasted in the sack, the quicker she could be back in the bar to find her next customer…

Jem was the same but would go with younger guys if they looked rich.

Neither generally, ultimately cared much about the customers’ appearances. Karen said they “all look handsome with your eyes closed…”

Jem said she’d pretend they were K-Pop boyband stars or famous actors…

Karen said she’d think of the money and that often made her cum, and all three had a hearty chuckle.

They advised Na to trust her instinct and not go with anyone she got the creeps from.

And always have your phone nearby, text the mamasan the address if you go outside or which room you’re in if you use one of the hourly “short time” hotels upstairs, near the bar.

The girls told Na there were a few bargirls who didn’t even sleep with customers, at least not often, just danced, made money off the inflated price “lady” drinks the customers could buy the girls…

A bargirl got a commission from each lady drink the customer bought her…

Always make the customer buy you one or two drinks. You’ll make friends with the other girls quicker if you invite the customer to also buy them drinks, too, but careful the customer doesn’t pay for that girl, pay that girl’s “bar fine” (the fee to take her out) and not yours…

Most girls were respectful of each other’s customers, though, and rarely, at their bar, would a girl try to steal your customer. First come, first serve, territory marked.

Some girls had regulars. Guys sending them money from abroad. Some girls had local foreigners who’d traipse in once or twice a month, for drinks and/or fun.

Then there were regulars, bargirl addicts, who’d bar fine every single bargirl who’d let him, and then move on to the next bar.

Often those were local expats, semi-fluent, fully fluent in Thai, English teachers, retirees, or those flush with cash, possibly ill-gotten gains like the Israeli gunrunner, a burly fellow with a mohawk, a frequenter of Karen’s, who’d been arrested and jailed recently.

Karen, tittering and blushing, passed her phone to Na. On it was a screenshot of the gunrunner, from a news article, the gunrunner seated, handcuffed, his head bowed, face redacted, and a cache of guns, ammunition stacked on the table in front of him; cops in bulletproof vests, holding shotguns, pointing, posing, preening for the cameras…

The girls told Na to avoid drugs, drinking too much. Your lady drinks can be soda or even water, seltzer, just tell the mamasan.

Bangkok is expensive, so eat at the bar when possible; they’d get free food there, and they told Na the best local food vendors, restaurants, cheap local markets.

Neither girl did much shopping, saved most everything, sent the funds home, invested, and lived a most abstemious lifestyle, were monomaniacal about putting away cash…

Both had plans to open small businesses. Both were already married. One had a 2-year-old son.

Karen had plans to retire in the next year, and guffawing, with her big crescent-shaped gummy smile, she told how she’d gotten this divorced, hugely fat Swiss guy to propose to her, send her money to buy a house in Chiang Mai.

After the transfer went through, and he was unable to send any more money, she’d ghosted him, and figured she’d have enough money soon to quit this line of work…

Jem had 3 former customers sending her bits of money, but no proposals or houses. Yet.

Make sure to get their Facebook, keep in touch with the customers, the best you can, they told her. Tell them things like “I love you. I miss you.” Farangs like hearing that, they said…

It was inevitable there’d be lonely farangs falling in love with her, they told Na, and the girls gave her suggestions, sample pleas for succor, such as moving to a new apartment that’s unfurnished and needing to buy furniture, a broken motorbike, a sudden illness or a sick relative…

Those were their personal favorites, and they forwarded her a website for more ideas…

Na wondered about some of the farangs she’d seen in her village, those with Thai wives. Did they meet in bars? She’d recalled the couples never looking happy, sitting wordlessly quiet at restaurants, the women only happy or smiling while staring at their phones, or when the farang pulled out his wallet to pay for things.

Jem said she pitied the farangs. She’d always see them alone. In the bars, drinking alone. At restaurants, eating alone. Even at movies, sitting alone.

And she’d always see in the news how they wind up dead in Thailand, all the time.

Every day, another dead farang, usually found dead in a hotel room or dead by committing suicide, jumping off buildings, balconies of tall buildings, sometimes farangs doing swan dives in shopping malls, one Finnish farang the other day jumping from the sixth floor in Suvarnabhumi Airport…

“The ones who come here to visit, I can understand; maybe they have an unhappy marriage, can’t find a girlfriend, just want the excitement. Men are men. Men everywhere are pretty much the same.”

“But the farangs who live here, die here, I don’t understand… Why leave a rich country? In movies, TV I see them in big beautiful farang houses, big fancy cars… Why leave that? Why live here? Bangkok is so hot, polluted, dirty, traffic so terrible. The farangs living here must be criminals, or running from something, or crazy…”

“They must have demons… Ghosts…”

“I think most of the farangs are just buffalos…” Karen said. (“Buffalo” being a derogatory Thai slang word for stupid person.)

“They’re big, with big buffalo penises, and usually fat and stupid like a buffalo.”

“They’re walking ATM machines…”

“They’re butterflies, flying from girl to girl, bar to bar, massage parlor to massage parlor…”

“Flying buffalos…”

“The good farangs, mostly, like from movies, TV, they don’t come here… The farangs here are so old and fat, missing teeth…”

“And now the heaps of Chinese coming. They’re always spitting and chain-smoking. Can’t speak English or Thai, never tipping…”

“The Arabs and Indians can be trouble too. They grab your pussy. That’s why I wear two pairs of panties…”

“Only go with the rich Arabs and Indians. And rich Chinese. The Chinese from Shanghai are the best…”

“I had a customer from Shanghai. He was young, tall, handsome and nice.”

“Japanese are my favorite customers… So polite and well-mannered. And they tip if you ask them…”

“Koreans, too, I like; dicks not too big, sometimes give generous tips…”

“Koreans? They’re doing the plastic surgery, penis extensions, silicone dicks, one last month, as big as a buffalo! I had to leave work early that night. My pussy was sore for days!”

“The Africans usually have the biggest dicks, and they fuck you sadistically. I charge them 10,000 baht for the ‘boom boom’…” Jem winced, as if having PTSD. “But I like the black Americans. The rapper guys, with the jewels, diamonds. They’re sexy and rich…”

“I like the handsome young Korean boys who come to the bar… They’re so pretty!”

“Occasionally a young, handsome farang, too, comes, but not many.”

“And the handsome farangs these days are coming with their farang girlfriends…”

“Farang girlfriends?” Na asked, perplexed there’d be farang females anywhere near Nana Plaza.

“Many young couples, coming to the bars as tourists, just to watch us, drink. Post about it online. One took a girl for a 3-some, but that’s not too common.”

“Most are backpackers, young, not much money. They have a drink or two and leave. Every now and then the girls will stuff good tips down our bras, though. One pretty blond girl, hammered, French-kissed me and gave me 6000 baht.”

The girls told Na that the bar would pay them extra to do dance performances, often involving kissing or simulated lesbian sex.

Most bars aren’t allowed to have actual live, full nude, girl on girl, oral sex shows anymore. Most don’t have the infamous “ping pong” ball shows, either, anymore, where they’d have girls shoot ping pong balls out of their snatches (and sometimes into another girl’s or customers’ mouths!).

Typically it’s pretty boring, they told her.

“Our bar doesn’t make us be nude, won’t let us, on stage, take off our panties… You can be topless, but it’s optional. So generally you’re just standing there, topless, or in your underwear, trying to make eye contact with a customer who looks to have cash and might like you.”

“It’s boring, mostly. Lots of nights, no customers buy you drinks or bar fine you. Sometimes you’ll have 3 or 4 customers a night bar fine you. It can be tedious or exhausting. It varies wildly… High tourist season is better, for sure, but even then, you never know…”

“But it sure beats the rice fields.”

“And 7-Eleven…”

“Ka…”

4

Na didn’t wish to waste time, especially after paying the majority of her life’s savings on her bus ticket and first month’s rent, so her very first night in Bangkok, she accompanied her roommates to work at the bar…

Entering Nana Plaza’s vicinity, Na was on tenterhooks, experiencing sensory overload…

Despite seeing pictures, video, actually being at Nana, in person, whiffing its miasma, she felt not only queasy but also had a presentiment of disaster…

Bangkok smelled different at night. Sour, acrid. And Bangkok looked different at night. The ribs, lights of the skyscrapers seemed malevolent, phallic. The skyscrapers evil, imposing penises sprouting, ripping from the city streets…

The whole place was ugly, like a festering ulcer; a prodrome; the pavement to Nana a promontory into an ocean of decadence, an abyss of the absurd…

The din of roaring engines, music and language beat at her eardrums, giving Na tinnitus; the streets a chaotic séance, an orgy of light and movements making her feel as if she were a ghost at a banquet…

In front of the plaza she saw scores of pretty young ladies, a platoon of them, in tight-fitting attire, lining the sidewalk outside…

“Who are they?” Na whispered to Karen, as they lifted up from the backseat of their motorcycle taxi, and Na gave a 10-baht coin to a humpback old lady beggar, who had the gait of a crab…

“Those,” Karen contorted her face and grimaced, “the streetwalkers?”

“Streetwalkers?”

Karen shook her head at Na’s echolalia and naivety…

“The streetwalkers there… See the ones nearest to the front? Those are mostly former bargirls; maybe they stole from the bar, a customer, or are too old to work; a lot of them have STDs.”

“The ones there,” she nodded towards the further end of the block, “are crooks, gangs, many ladyboys. They go after drunk farangs stumbling out of the bars. They’ll offer super-low prices, drug and rob the farangs, steal what they can from his hotel room… Some ladyboys gang up and beat the farangs, too, mug them… Phi Song Nang…”

Na’s expression was discomfited, and she looked at the streetwalkers with a mix of pity and shame. To Na they were a cortege, a lane of bones. Walking dead…

“Pay no mind to it, Na. It’s karma, both for them and the farang… Perhaps the next life will treat them better…”

Behind the streetwalkers, Na noticed a pale young farang in camouflage army fatigues.

The farang appeared to be crying tears of blood. Na gasped, spun away and grabbed Karen’s arm, followed her roommates into the complex…

The 3 went through the police-manned security checkpoint and weren’t searched, as the patrons were. To the bargirls the policemen were like scarecrows…

At the front of the “World’s Largest Adult Playground” were several open-air bars, filled with a rowdy mix of regulars and tourists, motley crews of Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, Malay, a few Arabs, upper-caste Indians, but mostly the clientele was white- Europeans, Brits, Americans, Australians… Farangs.

The first bar on the right had a Filipino band singing classic rock songs, currently a brutal rendition of “Hotel California”, and they were a couple pool tables in there, with a group of bald, overweight 50ish farangs in tank tops, rugby jerseys, camo shorts, and flip flops.

The farangs were guzzling beers, laughing, yelling and cursing at each other playfully as they bent and angled, caromed their pool cues…

Na felt dizzy, seeing the endless open bowl of bars on each level of the 3 storey plaza.

There were gaggles of scantily clad young Thai girls and gorgeous, leggy ladyboys everywhere, holding up signs for beer specials, cajoling, cooing, and caterwauling at the passing bar-goers roaming the quadrangle.

Every customer she saw was male. They ranged in age from 20ish to 60ish; most of the farangs in tank tops and cargo shorts, the Asians generally slightly better dressed, in slacks, golf shirts, dress shirts.

Every one of Nana Plaza’s visitors, the men, to Na were monolith, the same creatures, atavistic votaries of genitourinary vice, divided and united in their hunt for pleasure, tits, ass, and cunt…

But to Na none of the men seemed real, none seemed human, exactly. They were more akin to cartoons, effigies…

At the far end of the U-shaped plaza, when walking up the back stairs to the bar, Na noticed Nana Plaza followed traditional Thai customs and had its own Spirit House and a couple bargirls were praying, making offerings of fruits and juice to it. Buddha could only imagine the ghosts that dwelt in there…

It was still early, so the bar wasn’t very crowded, at all, as they entered… Only a few scattered spectators and three somnolent girls on the dais, standing around, bored, as the DJ blasted Van Halen’s “Jump”.

They went to the dressing room, in the back-left area of the bar, where Na met and received her locker key and timecard from the mamasan, and her roommates showed her how to punch in.

The mamasan was a whale of a woman (who the girls called “Seaweed”, behind her back) and wore a long loose hot pink frilly dress, snakeskin sandals and had possibly the most bleached white face Na had ever seen (the rest of her body being way browner).

The mamasan had a quick chat with Na, explaining the rules: NO drugs, NO stealing other girls’ customers, and NO phones, pictures outside of the dressing room…

Na gave the mamasan a respectful wai and thanked her. The mamasan, indifferent, went back to watching a Thai soap opera on her phone.

After snacking on mangoes and pickles, the girls changed into black thongs and demibras.

They assisted one another, spraying perfume, applying heavy loads of make-up, dotting on body glitter, and each stepped into, fastened the ankle straps of their bar-supplied silver, 10cm high heels that clacked noisily as they walked towards the exit.

Na, heart racing, followed her strutting, smiling roommates, and marched out of the dressing room, climbed up and hit the stage.

The night’s fangs were growing longer, and business, traffic in the bar was picking up…

5

The girls worked in shifts, one rotation, a phalanx of ladies stood atop the stage, some pole-dancing, twirling and twerking.

But most just stood and shifted halfheartedly, doing the so-called “Bangkok Shuffle”, the bored bargirl semi-dance; the girls more interested in scanning around the bar, flashing glassy smiles, batting eyelids, attempting to attract interest, affection…

Another phalanx worked the room, stalking the floor, hoping to strike up conversations, coax customers to buy them drinks.

There was also a crew of waitresses, plump and on the older side (former bargirls, Karen said) who served drinks.

A DJ in the lower right corner of the bar, a tall, skinny, ponytailed, energetic Thai in his 30s, occasionally yelled “come on” or Thai curse words into a handheld mic as he danced and played music from a laptop, mostly classic rock, generated by a YouTube playlist.

The lighting was dim, walls paneled in mirrors.

The room was filled with cigarette smoke, zephyrs of booze and a murmuring, collective hum of the patron satyrs, esthetes; the bar’s music so deafening that fluent conversation was rendered fatuous. Sign language and shouting matches prevailed…

Na wore a button with the number “44” on it, and, not long after she first took the stage, a waitress patted her on the butt and pointed over to a man in the far left corner, who was staring nervously at her, his convex cheeks red as a beet.

Na stepped down from the stage, sauntered over, smiling, waied to the man, scooted in and sat next to him, closely; their bodies pressed together, sutured at the sides…

The man smelled heavily of liquor and struggled to make eye contact…

A 40ish Brit, in Celtic football colors, he had a receding hairline, turnip face, and massive beer gut.

The red face spoke in sputters, with an accent Na had trouble understanding.

He had a terrible stutter.

“Tttttttt… Wwwww… wooould, you llllike tttttttto…”

Na couldn’t make out what he meant but got the point when the waitress brought her a lady drink, soda water on ice…

Surprising Na, the man clumsily pawed at her thigh and soon enough, was rubbing on her panty-clad pussy. Although awkward, he was gentle in the manner he caressed her cunt, unlike so many of the Thai boys who’d roughhouse her…

“Hhhheehhhh hhhhow mmmmm mmmmmmuch?”

Na told him the bar fine, and her pay for play price, which she, on advice from her roommates, inflated a bit, given the drunken state this punter was in.

The Brit agreed, his eyes swimming in sperm, and Na waved the mamasan over…

Na waied him, went back to the dressing room, changed into her street clothes, and afterwards rejoined him, and they left the bar, and she held his clammy, bear paw of a hand and led him upstairs, to a short-time hotel…

As soon as they entered the stuffy, windowless, parking space-sized room, the man instantly tore off all his clothes, and Na chortled at the faded shamrock crudely tattooed on his flabby left man boob…

It wasn’t until he was naked that she realized how much more massive, how much taller he was than her, particularly without her high heels…

Na had been instructed by her roommates to shower, and especially have the punter shower, but this man wasted no time with such formalities and peeled off Na’s short cut-off jeanskirt and halter top in mere seconds and nearly ripped her bra and panties as he yanked them down and off.

The punter was hard, rock hard, his cock larger than Na had seen in person. She’d only seen such big dicks in porn films. It was curved and thick as a banana and sprung out even beyond his distended gut.

Its heft and shape reminded Na of a snake, a white-lipped pit viper, she’d once seen slithering into a mangrove…

He tore open the condom he’d bought at the hourly hotel’s desk and rolled it on and, still standing, roughly turned Na and pressed her, face first to the wall, towered over her.

Then he spit in his hand, and Na screamed when she felt him insert his dick, quickly and violently, straight into her asshole.

The man clasped his hand over her mouth, muffling her cries, and Na shuddered in pain as he reamed her hard. Staring at the wall, it turned from puke pink to an effervescent neon green, the shade she’d seen before in the cab; the wall appearing like an infinite alien ocean…

Na had never been fucked in the ass before and didn’t care for it. The pain was unbearable, especially with his dick being so big.

Fortunately, he came after only a minute or two, pulled out, and let Na loose. The wall morphing back into its previous pink hue as he freed her…

Na spun around, with a venomous expression, and wanted to smack him.

The punter, trying to apologize, his stuttering now imputing guilt, reached into his shorts, which were lying on the floor, fished out his wallet, and paid her 2000 baht extra, on top of the 3000 baht she’d asked. Being handed the 5000 baht made Na feel slightly better.

The punter dressed as fast as he undressed, not even pausing to unsheathe the browned condom from his still hardened cock, and practically ran out the room without attempting another word.

Na limped to the shower for ablution, and washed out her asshole, which throbbed and stung with a burning pain and bled slightly.

Her anal ache increased, and she lumbered out of the shower, toweled off.

She reached over to her purse, where she kept a blister of pain pills, tramadol, which Karen had given her (warning her that some of the farangs had cocks bigger than she’d probably had before and that she might need time to adjust and should take a pill or two if she hurt).

She certainly hadn’t expected that, to be sodomized without warning, so viciously.

Her roommate had also told her to charge extra for… that service…

After popping the pill, she placed a cold can of soda to her ass, and the pain eased.

She played on her phone, texted Pear again, and watched a singing show, “The Masked Singer”, on the tiny TV in the hotel room, and left when the hour was up, returned to the bar, and chugged a Red Bull to offset the drowsiness, torpor she began to experience from the tramadol.

Altogether she’d already earned 5000 baht, plus 100 baht from the lady drink, plus the 500 baht she’d make tonight as her nightly salary. It was more money than she’d made in her entire life…

6

Na was turning out to be quite the attraction.

She was indeed drop dead gorgeous. A knockout, with her fair skin, shiny, flowing mane of blood red hair; her big round brown eyes, and her slim, geometrically perfect figure, especially her shapely ass and legs longer than the average Thai girl…

But it was likely her youthful, innocent schoolgirl appearance and manner which won over most of her admirers.

She had more customers buy her drinks, starting with a grizzled Aussie who kept winking at her, then a pair of boisterous, high-fiving Colombian identical twins, and later a 60ish Serbian who spoke like Dracula and tried to get Na to give him a blowjob in the bathroom but declined to pay her bar fine…

Dracula may not have bar fined her, but 3 other customers did…

The first bar fine (well, technically the second after the sodomizing Celtic supporter), was a 20ish Frenchman in a purple Adidas tracksuit who had the biggest hook nose ever, and she wondered if he could smell from a kilometer away with that thing!

The Frenchie was also well-endowed between his legs, and fucked her for a good, hard 20 minutes or so, changing positions frequently.

Na was quite grateful she’d taken the tramadol and couldn’t feel much of it.

As advised, she kept her eyes closed the entire time and thought about her favorite member of BTS, Jungkook.

Though he’d banged her aggressively, the Frenchie was polite, a gentleman. They kissed, with their tongues, and Na, for a split second had an amorous shiver, a spark she’d not felt before.

The Frenchie tipped afterward, generously, too. His expensive watch implied he had the means…

The second was a drunken, balding, 50ish Korean businessman, who spoke in mumbles, Google Translate; his face pockmarked, his limbs blotched with eczema…

He had trouble achieving an erection, so Na sucked him off, and the Korean moved her hand underneath him, had her slip a finger up his ass, which finally got him up.

The man’s cock was rather small, perhaps 3 inches, and it was a nice change from the last two.

The Korean snail-fucked her missionary style, for only about 30 seconds, and Na hoped she could find more customers like him, but the little limp dick didn’t tip her until prompted and was stingy when he did… Only giving her 20 baht! The parsimonious scum!

It didn’t bother her too much, though, because in all, she’d made around 15,000 baht that night.

Her last bar fine was… peculiar…

It was a diminutive but handsome, physically fit young farang, with a crew cut, sharp emerald eyes.

Although handsome, he wore a dirty pair of blue and white elephant pants and a hideous shirt, a dark green t-shirt that had a picture of the ugliest beast, a frightening, extraterrestrial monster, “Cult of Cthulhu” printed in bold black lettering above…

In a most sonorous voice, the handsome farang said he was from Toronto. Na had never heard of it, Toronto, and, when about to ask him to buy a lady drink, he offered to pay her bar fine immediately and did…

In the hotel room, Na began to undress, leaned in to peck him on the lips, but the farang pulled back, wagged a finger and shook his head.

He ordered her to only take off her shoes, and he took of his shoes.

He held her hand, led her to the bed, asked her how long they had.

She said, “one hour”.

“Okay,” he replied quietly, his voice quivering…

Toronto set the timer on his phone to one hour, lay at her side, and cuddled up next to her, hugged her, buried his face into her shoulder and began to cry, a slow, lugubrious whimper, soon turning into a bleating wail.

He sniffled and his tears ceased, but still he trembled, clutched onto her, and they lay like that, in repose, for the full hour. Na not knowing what to do, never having seen a man cry.

She simply held him, patted his head, and thought of her baby, saw him in a similar light, like a polar bear cub, an outré infant, and she comforted, hugged, stroked and petted him and said a silent Buddhist prayer, hoping to exorcize whatever demon haunted him.

When his phone’s timer rang, to the song from Green Day, “Wake Me Up When September Ends”, he arose, embarrassed and shy. He collected himself and paid her asking price, plus a small tip, hugged her again, put on his shoes, thanked her and left.

Na waied him, gathered her things and returned to the bar, baffled by the whole encounter, feeling bittersweet her first night was drawing to a close.

She’d accumulated 19,000 baht. In one night. It was more than many office workers in Bangkok were paid- in a month.

Returning to the bar, her roommates were happy for her and hoped her auspicious, lucky forces would rub off on them.

But they also warned her that not every night would be so lucrative and to be careful with the cash, to send it home or deposit it in an interest-bearing account immediately…

7

The bar closed around 2 am, and Na and her roommates clocked out, dressed and went for a late-night snack of papaya salad, “som tam”, at the street side restaurant near their apartment.

Her roomies told her other girls were envious of her looks and luck with customers.

Most of the girls were from Isan and liked each other, but there were a few cliques of local Bangkok area girls, Chiang Rai girls, and Southern girls, and they didn’t always get along, sometimes got catty.

Na told her roommates about the Brit who’d done surprise anal on her and said that the other girls shouldn’t be too jealous of that.

Both her roommates confided they’d had similar experiences. Jem almost choked to death by a Brazilian guy who was into erotic asphyxiation.

“These men, many are married, and want to do things with us that their wives won’t do,” said Jem, with a scowl, afterward pursing her lips.

“I charge 6000 baht for anal,” Karen blurted out, her mouth full of papaya salad, “but they better tell me ahead of time, and they better lube properly, or else they get a face, and crotch, full of THIS!”

Karen dug out a bottle of pepper spray from her handbag, and the girls shared a laugh.

Her roommates were impressed by Na for being so stoic.

They said a lot of girls quit, ran away after their first night or two, unable to handle the farangs, the farangs’ smells and voyeuristic stares, the farangs’ eyes like tigers; many girls couldn’t cope with being topless, semi-nude on the stage in front of so many people.

They said lots of the less money-driven girls who stayed became putrescent, zombies, heavily drinking, doing hard drugs to divagate…

Na, having never told anyone, blurted out something alluding to what her brother and his friends did to her. What the older boy at school, behind that accursed charnel shed, did…

Sex, Na professed, was salutary, and she’d never enjoyed it, but averred that hopefully, one day, maybe she would.

Her roommates nodded, in tacit agreement, it seemed, and they spent the remainder of their repast quietly staring at their phones.

8

The whir of the ceiling fan was the last thing Na heard as she drifted off to sleep, shortly after 4:30 am.

That night she had a vivid, prismatic dream. A terrifying nightmare…

She was dancing in the bar, holding her breasts in her hands when a cavalcade of Malaysian terrorists entered, shot up the place, wantonly, with automatic rifles, gunning down customers, bargirls, staff…

Na escaped, after hiding in a pile of dead bodies, and ran out the bar to see Nana Plaza in flames; bars, one after another, blowing up, balls of orange and red flames, showers of sparks lighting up the crepuscular sky…

Her head uplifted to the heavens, Na saw zigzagging, phantasmal green, flashing UFOs, firing blurs of laser beams, destroying, incinerating the malignant skyscrapers, those penis-shaped superstructures, all over Bangkok…

Gargantuan, gelatinous, slimy 50 feet high turquoise color cockroach-like alien creatures dropped from mushroom clouds, stomping on vehicles, shooting bolts of fire from their antennae, blasting and burning everyone, everything in the vicinity, and she felt like a prisoner of planet Earth…

Then she awoke in a silhouette of cold sweat. There’d been no attack. All was fine, quiet, save for the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine, barking soi dogs outside.

She figured her dream probably arose from the news she’d read online about the asteroid, and of the backpack nail bomb detonating near Siam Square BTS station, and the city being on edge for more attacks since a major ASEAN conference was being held next week…

Na lay awake for a half an hour, unable to sleep, and her genitals, especially her anus began to throb with pain.

The disgusting, buggering Brit, she thought, wanting to gas him down with Karen’s pepper spray.

Na ate another tramadol and slipped back to sleep, this time a deep, dreamless slumber…

9

Na woke up around 11 am, sluiced her face with lukewarm water in the tiny bathroom sink.

During her morning movements, her asshole still hurt a bit, so she swallowed another tramadol after brushing her teeth.

She and her roommates had a noodle breakfast at the same street restaurant as yesterday.

Sitting outside, Na, for a minute or so, shivered and saw everyone around as walking cellphones, squares with limbs, stomach screens displaying battery bars indicating how many years, months, weeks, days, minutes and seconds they had left to live…

Na rubbed her eyes and the phone people disappeared, and the midday heat became more palpable. The thick heat, coupled with the heavy volume of cars, motorbikes, tuk tuks and trucks, caused her to sweat profusely, and she dotted her forehead with a napkin.

“Wait until summer,” warned Karen, “I go home from March to April…”

The girls spent the afternoon and early evening in the apartment, playing on their phones, taking selfies, chatting with friends/family on social media, reading up on celebrity gossip, playing online games and watching Thai soap operas and YouTube music videos.

While Na was watching a clip of BLACKPINK performing their song “Forever Young”, an ad interrupted the video.

It was a grainy film of a young soldier, a farang, his face obfuscated neon green, walking in the jungle, and suddenly being impaled by a bamboo pike trap that sprang up from the ground underneath him, stabbing through his ass, and out of his stomach.

Then a group of camouflaged yellow-skinned soldiers, far shorter than the farang, encircled the farang, taking his gun, rummaging through his pockets and backpack, as his green face coughed up dark blood…

She’d not been able to skip over or even stop the video, her phone turning cold in her hands, but fortunately the video ended after 15 seconds, and the music resumed, her phone back to normal…

Jem went out, for a quick tryst with a local customer who lived nearby, and came back shortly, 3000 baht richer, wearing a new gold bracelet.

“I’ll sell it later… I’m pretty sure it’s real gold. It better be after what I let him do…”

Na didn’t need to know the details and hoped, too, for her roommate, that the bracelet was real…

That evening, before work, they again ate papaya salad at the same restaurant, and one of the two cooks, the owner of the restaurant, a 70ish lady, happened to be from a village near Na’s.

They chatted in their local dialect, and the owner gave Na a small green amulet etched with a laughing, golden Buddha figure and wished her luck in Bangkok…

10

The bar that night was far less packed.

Sundays aren’t as busy, Na’s roommate told her.

Around the start of her shift, Na had a near dwarf, a pudgy little Irish man, in a stylish 3-piece suit, buy her a lady drink and request a lap dance.

He must have been about 75 and had a toupee and the breath of a corpse…

The Leprechaun groped her tits and ass but didn’t want to bar fine her. She estimated that, at his age, he’d be quick work and was disappointed when he refused.

The penurious bastard left the bar quickly and barely gave her anything of a tip, actually tipping the chunky waitress more! The animal!

The rest of the night was pretty dreary, not much foot traffic at Nana, not many patrons in the bar, though Na noticed more Malays around and Arabs than she’d seen last night…

Na was bored and wishing she could at least play on her phone to pass the time. She’d probably only make 600 baht, a far drop from the 19000 she’d made the previous night.

What was a dud of an evening took an unexpected swing, however, when he appeared…

11

Na didn’t see him walk in. Her peripheral vision was good, and she’d been keeping an eye on the door, especially since so few people were there that night, and so she wasn’t sure how she’d missed that… Him!

He was a barrel-chested, bear of a young man, a farang, with a pale white, clean shaven face, boxy jaw, and cleft chin.

The farang, his head a mess of unruly ruby red hair, wore mirrored aviator shades and was shirtless, wearing just camo shorts and flip flops and covered in red body hair, practically an orangutan…

Normally one needed to be fully clothed to enter Nana Plaza, let alone a bar. She’d never seen any farang shirtless before in there.

What was weirder, though, was that wrapped around his neck and shoulders was a long snake, a king cobra.

The snake appeared happy, comfortable, slithering around in the farang’s copse of red body hair as the farang stroked it, and the snake wagged its forked tongue, stared directly at Na…

Na, on the dais, gasped, nudged Karen, nodded over in the bare-chested, bizarre farang’s direction, but when Karen craned her neck to see, the farang was gone.

Na scanned the bar. Didn’t see him anywhere.

Then she found him.

This time, though, he was without the snake, and was sipping on a glass of absinthe, had a “Jesus Saves” black t-shirt on, and sat on a barstool directly below the stage, a meter or so away from Na.

His Jesus shirt took Na aback. It featured an emaciated Jesus on the crucifix, dripping with blood from his nailed limbs, a crown of thorns on his head, expression of anguish on his face.

What a curious symbol for a religion, she cogitated. Buddhist imagery being so serene. The Christian imagery always so bloody, dire…

But, although a devout, practicing Theravada Buddhist, she greatly respected Jesus Himself, how He had given His life for others. She had a Christian classmate in high school and found the stories inspiring…

“Hey there, darling,” the Jesus shirt farang grinned and waved to Na.

“Sawadee Ka!” Na waied and ambled over, her 10cm heels clicking as she crept in his direction.

“Where you come from?” she asked, bending down to speak with the strange stranger.

“Buffalo.”

“Buffalo?”

Na couldn’t help but snicker.

“Buffalo is animal!”

“Sure is. A place too. On the East Coast, upstate New York…”

“USA?”

“United States, YOO ESS AY, babydoll.”

“You on holiday? How long you here?”

“I’m here until I’m not… Staying in …. ”

Na couldn’t hear his response and didn’t care too much, but the hotel a farang stayed, the better the hotel, was an effective barometer of how much cash he had. And how much to charge. So she asked again.

Once more, she couldn’t understand his garbled response. Perhaps the music, AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”, was too loud.

“Why you have snake? It real? Where it go?”

“All men have snakes, sweetie. Figured you’d know that by now. How far did you get in school?”

Na pursed her lips at his rejoinder, put her hands on her hips, tilted her head and grumbled “mansai!”

“Not you down there snake, sillyboy. Snake you have earlier.”

“Oh, that snake, my friend, Satan. He’s over there…”

Na looked over to where the farang gestured, the back row of seats in the bar, and saw the snake had grown, exponentially, and curled into a coil, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of its mouth.

Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” blasted out of the bar’s sound system, and Satan bobbed its head to the opening riff…

“Ah!” Na screamed and took a step back, seeing the snake.

She closed her eyes, rubbed them, drew a deep breath and opened her eyes again.

When her eyes opened, the snake was gone, but the farang remained. Na figured maybe the tramadol she’d been taking was messing with her head…

The farang now wore a snakeskin cowboy hat and a plain green shirt, and cut off camo shorts, combat boots.

“I’m looking for Bee. You seen her?”

“Bee? I no know her. I start here only yesterday. She work here? How you change clothes so fast? You play joke?”

“Oh, I am a joker, darling. My favorite playing card and Batman villain…”

“Ow, I see new Joker movie, have on my phone, so crazy!”

“On your phone? You must be playing jokes on ME, darling… So you don’t know Bee? You look kinda like her. Thought you might be her sister.”

“I no have sister. You want buy me drink?”

“That’d be groovy. Slide on down here, Bee.”

“My name no Bee! My name Na!”

“Bee. I’m going to call you Bee. Until I find Bee. You’re Bee.”

“Okay, mister. What you name?”

“They used to call me Joker, but then another guy had the same nickname, so they called me Joker of Buffalo, but that was shortened to Job, pronounced like Joeb…”

“Joker. Hahaha, you funny man. You handsome man too, ka. You pay my bar fine?”

“What do I get if I pay your bar fine?”

“Everything you want, I do.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Can you become Bee? I’m looking for Bee…”

“I you Bee. I anything. I everything. You pay bar fine, no need buy drink.”

Na didn’t want the weird farang to slip away or change his mind over drinks. That happened sometimes, her roommates said.

The farang had started to grow on her a bit. There was something gentle in his voice. Soothing. She felt safe with him, and figured the snake, his change of clothes was just her imagination coupled with the bar’s dim lighting, or perhaps side effects from the tramadol, or maybe a ridiculous gag… He was a joker, after all…

However, she worried she might be stealing another bargirl’s customer, a big no-no, but since she was new, and had met pretty much all the other girls, not one called Bee, she figured she was safe, and could plead ignorance.

The crazy buffalo probably had his bars confused, anyway, and Bee was somewhere in Patpong. She decided to silence her mental palaver, her chattering monkey mind, and get down to business. Maybe the joker buffalo, Job could salvage this rotten night…

“How much is your bar fine, babydoll?”

“Bar fine 700 baht. 2500 baht give me after…”

“3200 baht? Prices really shot up, eh?”

“You handsome. I make you happy. Make you never forget. You pay bar fine and we go upstair or to hotel you.”

“Hmmm, alright, you drive a hard bargain there, darling. Let’s go upstairs. To the sky…”

“Okay, you pay boss bar fine.” Na motioned to where the mamasan sat. “I go change.”

Na leaned in, to kiss Job on the cheek, but he ducked away coyly and playfully pointed upwards.

Na stood up, stomped her foot and scowled, sarcastically, and stormed off to the dressing room.

In her street clothes, she returned to the bar area and didn’t see the farang anywhere and approached the mamasan, who sat with her head glued to her phone.

Walking over, Na nearly stepped on a giant cockroach that was scurrying across the floor.

She purposely dodged it, wondered who it was in a past life and felt bad for it, knowing if a farang found it, or even a less pious Thai, the cockroach would be trampled to death or sprayed with a noxious chemical or fall into a painful trap.

The cockroach ran underneath the stage, safely, passing by an unwitting Korean contingent of middle age males who’d just entered the bar…

Na told the mamasan she’d go with the farang in the cowboy hat who’d just paid her bar fine.

The mamasan, the indolent bitch, looked up from her phone with a discomfited gaze.

“There was no farang here with a cowboy hat. I’d have remembered him. And no one paid your bar fine. You okay? You taking drugs? Smoking the ganja? Don’t do that here, on the clock, ka!”

Na’s heart palpitated, and she shot back: “No! He was here! He must have left. Maybe he didn’t understand. I’ll look for him outside and bring him back. Hold on…”

The mamasan growled, not appreciating any bit of their exchange, and went back to thumbing her phone, which morphed into a dead, mango-sized, hairy gray rat…

Na retched and hurried outside, exiting through the black curtain hanging in the doorway, and stepped from the cool air-conditioned bar into a face-slap of steamy night air.

Looking around, she didn’t see him anywhere in the plaza, but finally saw him.

He’d climbed up a utility pole on the block parallel to Nana Plaza, Sukhumvit Soi 4, and had lost his shades, his face now painted like a clown, and he pointed, waved, and hooted at her…

At this point, Na’s mood shifted gears. From confused to just plain pissed off. Then to enraged.

How dare the farang play his jokes, dirty tricks on her! How dare he mulct her time and make her lose face!!! She would catch up with him, make him pay, sick the bar’s security staff to rough him up.

The bar’s security didn’t take kindly to such shenanigans. The other night a farang trying to skip out on his bar tab got a hard punch in the jaw, his pockets emptied as he lay limp on the ground. Unable to pay his tab in full, security confiscated his watch and phone.

Na wished the same fate on Job, but she’d have to catch him first.

The crazy buffalo, still waving at her, jumped down from the pole, landing smoothly, on both feet, like a gymnast, surprisingly agile for his bulky size. Then he turned and pulled down his camo shorts, mooned Na…

Na seethed, trembled with rage, and ran down the stairs, pushing aside a ladyboy who cursed at her, and flung off her heels (they were cheap fake Chanel anyway) and ran barefoot after the buffalo joker, who’d commandeered a pogo stick- an EXTREME pogo stick…

The farang hopping at a torrid pace, in super-high frog leaps, ten feet in the air, down Soi 4, the kangaroo clown crisscrossing, jumping his way through the idle Bangkok traffic.

Nearly getting run over by a motorcycle taxi or two, Na flagged one down, mounted the back seat, and commanded the driver to follow the high-hopping farang.

The driver shrugged his shoulders, and Na simply pointed him in the bouncing pogo stick’s direction and they took off into the night, weaving through traffic, finally stopping only 10 mins or so down the road, in front of Na and her roommates’ favorite roadside restaurant, where the pogo stick lay, abandoned…

Na quickly paid the driver the 15 baht he requested, dismounted and chased towards the pogo stick, huffing and puffing, searching around, but the flying buffalo was nowhere in sight.