Money, coke, and bitches.

ingredients

* Just a can of Diet Coke.

It was a remarkably sunny day for the rainy season. I stood in the yard, squinting up at the white-hot sky of Ho Chi Minh. “Fucking hell, it’s so stuffy, so hot,” I thought, as I felt one of my testicles stick to my leg. I gave my limbs a quick shake, then climbed onto my scooter and set off to meet Brian.

Unhurriedly, I cruised through the hidden, shaded lanes of a noisy residential districts , and a cool, gentle breeze slipped into my sweaty crotch. The sharp smells of litter and seafood occasionally tickled my nostrils, while my ears flinched over and over at the chorus of blaring motorbike horns mixed with the cries of street vendors, and the high-pitched voices of Vietnamese women.

I had about three hours left before meeting up with Brian. We’d agreed to grab a few drinks and reminisce about the good old days at some of the countless bars around Bùi Viện. But since I’d already been unemployed for more than three days, I figured I could afford to start drinking at noon. My plan was simple: stuff myself with spicy Indian food to tolerate the heat better, then wait for Brian while sipping on low-alcohol Bia Hoi beer. There were four Indian restaurants in and around Bùi Viện, with my favorite being Namaste. And if that place hadn’t been there, I would’ve never agreed to meet Brian anywhere near that area.

Bùi Viện was a relatively small street in the heart of Ho Chi Minh. Drawing all kinds of scum and rabble to the place, dense crowds of foreigners and locals strolled through it every evening. The neighborhood was packed with souvenir shops, restaurants, bars, and nightclubs—some of which went bust overnight, only to be replaced just as quickly. It was a typical tourist walking street, and every nightfall it turned unbearably loud, crowded, and a little dangerous. One time, a local hooker snatched my wallet, and a friend of mine, after smoking a joint kindly offered by some local thugs, woke up in the nearby park wearing nothing but his underpants. Damn, they even took his shorts and flip-flops. Generally, I would avoid that street, and if it weren’t for my passion for Indian food, I would have insisted on meeting my old buddy somewhere else.

The last time I saw Brian was two weeks ago. He had just arrived in Vietnam and, to my surprise, was looking for a job. We mostly talked about his employment prospects, but he briefly mentioned that his successful business and marriage were now things of the past. His wife, Jessica, had cheated on him, and after the divorce, he went straight to Thailand to lick his wounds. For a long time, he had cut off all contact with everyone and only came to his senses after spending his last dollar on hookers and drinks. That night, completely plastered again, he opened his Facebook app to check out a photo of his ex-wife, but instead, he stumbled upon a post of mine. I’d written about teaching English in Vietnam for over a year, how I was in love with the country, and how much I enjoyed my lifestyle and all that other crap expats write to make others think that their lives don’t suck. During our brief exchange, I convinced Brian that he’d be able to find a teaching job in no time, and a few days later, we met in Ho Chi Minh City.

That day, we were sitting in a cafe in Phu Nhuan. In a nutshell, I was giving him the bare minimum he would need to teach English in Vietnam. I recommended some teaching materials and gave him a few contacts of recruiters who could help him find a job. A week later, even though he had no prior experience, Brian was already working as an English teacher. We agreed to meet up, celebrate his new job, and remember the days when we were gym bros and the crazy weekends we had in Vegas. I was excited to see him and have some fun, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a little sad. In a stroke of hopeless luck, now I was unemployed. “Fucking dipshit, little cocksucker… he cost me my job,” I hissed through clenched teeth, unable to keep it in. “Fucking Huy,” I hissed once more, remembering the kid who got me fired. It was ironic — just a week ago, I was telling Brian how to manage a class of 40 Vietnamese kids. Three days later, I lost my temper, gave a clip around the ear to a mischievous student who tried to prank me, and ended up losing my job.

When I got to Buivien, I found out that my favorite Indian restaurant was permanently closed, replaced by a new venue. “Tiki Bar Monsoon Season,” read the sign at the entrance. How quickly things change around here, I thought to myself. Just a month ago, I was ordering delivery from there, and now..

Nothing remained of Namaste’s exterior. Instead of the red tent, a canopy of dried palm tree branches hung over the terrace. The black iron poles at every corner were gone, replaced by two wooden totems resembling the statues of Easter Island. The black and gold tables had been swapped out for open-varnished wooden ones, and their number was halved. The remaining space was filled with hammocks hanging from the ceiling, each with a wooden stand for drinks beside it. The terrace was empty, with the exception of one strangely looking dude who was swinging in a hammock. There was a bottle of rosé and an ashtray full of half-smoked, still-smoldering cigarettes on the stand next to him. Nonetheless, when our eyes met, he lit up another one.

“Ha ha ha”,- He laughed when I passed by. For a second, I froze at the entrance, then reversed. Though I stood behind him and there was nobody else around, the dude kept talking. “Have you seen Ngo?” he asked the void, then laughed again. It became clear he wasn’t talking to me. He must be crazy, or high on something—maybe both, I thought, waving my hand to him as I walked inside.

It turned out it wasn’t a typical Buivien bar with semi-darkness, loud music, and hookers. The space was tastefully decorated in a certain style.Turquoise and bluish-white neon waves were splashing on the wall to my left. The floor was covered in wood, and the bar, styled as a bungalow, was decorated with all kinds of ferns, orchids, and other tropical plants.

“Welcome to the Monsoon Season. What can I get you?” asked a pale bartender in a red Hawaiian shirt. His accent seemed to be British. Wiping a glass with a waffled towel, he flashed a smile across his long face and stared right at me.

I wasn’t in a rush to order anything, so I sat on one of the stools and glanced around in amazement. The owner of this place had most certainly spared no expense on the interior. Angry faces of totem masks and posters of island girls in pin-up style stared at me from every side. On the shelves lined with bottles of every brand and color, fresh coconuts and pineapples rested among the liquors.The only thing that remained from Namaste was a bicycle rim on the wall behind the bartender. There used to be a huge Indian flag, and the rim symbolized the wheel of samsara depicted on it. For some reason, no one had removed it, and now, surrounded by bottles of rum and whiskey and decorated with LED lights, it still hung there.

“Beer. The best you have, ” I said.
“Although cocktails are our specialty, don’t worry, mate, I’ve got it covered,” replied the bartender.”Craft, Heart of Darkness,” he added, and placed his inked arms on the tap.
Watching my glass fill with the murky beer, for a moment, I truly felt like I was on a beach at some tiki bar on a remote island in the Pacific Ocean. The only thing that seemed off was the music. At a place like this, you’d expect to hear the strumming of a ukulele or the hooting of indigenous people, accompanied by the rhythm of tom-toms. Instead, the speakers blared Slayer:

“Blood turning black, the change has begun,
Filling the hatred of all doomed in hell.
Flames start to burn, twist and deform,
Eyes dripping blood, the realization of death.“

“One hundred thousand Vietnam dong,” said the bartender and when he put my glass in front of me, I noticed that on his forearm, between the black poodle and the half-naked beauty with horns, he had a tattoo of the name of his favorite band, Slayer. Apparently, while the bar was empty, the bartender had put on the music he was really into. He must’ve been a huge Slayer fan, I thought, and just as I came to this conclusion, I heard an old man behind me saying, “Jesus fucking Christ, I guess I’ve pissed my pants again,” he grunted before stumbling over and sitting at the bar.

“Goddammit, Sam, is that you?” I said, pulling my chair one stool closer to him.

The old man just smirked, looking at me, then at the bartender, then back at me.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” he told the bartender, lighting up a cigarette and staring at me again.

From the baffled look on his face, I could tell he didn’t remember our previous encounter and was surprised that I’d called him by his name. His thick-framed eyeglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, I couldn’t tell exactly how big the lenses were, but they magnified his eyes enough to give him a slightly comical look. Back when we met in Thailand, he hadn’t been wearing them, and to be honest, I didn’t recognize him right away either.

It was me and you, and those two Aussies — Pete and, if I’m not mistaken, Dave — at Pussy Magic in Pattaya, – I said.

Sam scrunched up his mug in confusion.

“Well, what about that green-haired girl? Do you remember her, at least?” I asked.

And at that moment, the look on his face said it all: Error 404. Memory not found.

First, our paths crossed when two Australian guys and I met Sam at one of the seafront bars in Pattaya. That evening didn’t promise to be anything out of the ordinary until Sam, accompanied by a young, green-haired Thai girl, showed up at the Pussy Magic. Miraculously, the old man had a bag of weed, and back then, weed in Thailand was anything but legal. Needless to say, we were pretty happy when he, already a bit drunk, decided to drop by our table. For the rest of the night, he was rolling joints while we bought him drinks. Pretty soon, we realized that Sam was one hell of a grandpa. He cracked jokes, shouted, and danced until the break of dawn. We had a great time, and I was glad to see him again.

“What’s up, old man,” I said, extending my arm. Sam looked into my eyes and shook my hand feebly. Only after I mentioned a few piquant details of our previous encounter did his face light up with a smile. He recognized me and even remembered my name.

He looked to be in his 50s or 60s, with a chunky build and absolutely grey hair. Just like that night in Pattaya, he was dressed in the same jeans shorts and green flowery Hawaiian shirt. The only things that had changed about his appearance were the glasses and his tan. After spending more than half a year in Southeast Asia, his skin was now covered in an even bronze hue. Though he looked better and healthier, he wasn’t very happy. Our conversation wasn’t flowing, and once I finished my beer, I left him sitting alone at the bar, Monsoon season. I decided to stick to the plan and get something Indian for lunch. To avoid running into that weird dude in the hammock, I took a detour around the terrace—and nearly got bitten by a dog. At the parking lot around the corner, two dogs that looked like Hachiko from the movie were tied to a motorcycle. One of them let out a lazy sigh, while the other snarled and clacked its teeth at me.”Oh, fuck you,” I said, moving on—and when I looked back, both of them were perfectly calm, languishing in the heat with their pink tongues hanging out like nothing had happened. I must’ve stepped on its tail or something, I thought, pushing through the doors of Baba’s Kitchen. The place was a bit pricier, but the food wasn’t any better. In fact, the prices had gone up since my last visit—a plate of butter chicken was now 200,000 dong, and a few pieces of my favorite flat chapati bread were going for 30,000 each. Refueled with a spicy-as-hell Vindaloo, I couldn’t come up with anything better than to return to Monsoon Season and wait for Brian there.

When I came in, Sam was still sitting at the bar. The heels of his shoulders were rising above his lowered head, his neck stretched forward, and his chin almost touching the surface of the bar. From the side, he looked like a vulture hanging over a glass of whiskey. Sam wasn’t in the best mood; he was chain-smoking and didn’t seem to be the lively old man I had once met in Pattaya.

“How are you?” I asked, taking a seat next to him.

“I’m all right,” replied Sam.

“Wouldn’t say so, looking at you. Come on, what happened? Spit it out,” I said, ordering a beer with a gesture.

“Okay, I’ll begin first,” I said, avoiding unnecessary small talk and trying to kickstart the conversation. “I don’t have a house. I don’t have a car. I don’t have anything. Before I moved to Vietnam, I lived with my parents, and all I had was a 60k college debt and a degree in sociology. The only way to use that degree was to stick it up my ass before heading to a job interview at McDonald’s. Here, I make slightly less than 2k a month and have a much better life, but a few days ago, I got fired. Though I’ve got some savings, by American standards, I’m broke. Still, I don’t fall into despair because, as it says in the Bible, doing that is a sin. And you? Why are you so sad?”

“You really want to know? You have time for this?” Sam asked.

“As I said, now I’m unemployed, so I have all the time in the world,” I replied. “Spit it all out, I’m all ears.” I said, taking a sip of my beer.

“I recently had a stroke,” Sam said, placing his hand on his neck. “I recovered, but the doctors told me that one of the main arteries leading to the brain is clogged and needs to be cleaned. To do that, they will have to cut it out first, clean it, and then put it back. In short, it’s an expensive and pretty complex surgery. Moreover, it is also a dangerous one. According to statistics, Sam continued, 12% of all surgeries like that end up with a fatal outcome, and at my age, considering my lifestyle and all of my habits, the chance is even bigger.”

“88%! Okay, let’s say even 80%. It’s not that bad. It’s not a death sentence. You can try it.” I interrupted the old man.

“Yeah, it’s not a death sentence until it is..Listen, even if I find the money for the surgery, which isn’t such a big problem, after all, I will have to forget about a lot of things that I love. No more booze, no more cigarettes, no more tasty food, no more fun.”

“What do you mean, no more fun? There’s bowling and golf.”

“Fuck bowling. Do I look like someone who likes bowling?” Now the old man interrupted me.

“All in all, it’s not even death that I’m afraid of. Well, maybe painful death. You know what? I’m ready to go,” he said, taking a bag of weed out of his chest pocket. With both of his hands, he crushed a butt into a folded-in-half 500k dong banknote. Suddenly, he raised one brow and looked at me.

“I’m absolutely down for it. ” I said, assuming he would share it with me.

Sam looked over at the bartender, who gave him a subtle nod. “But if any other customers show up, we’ll have to take it elsewhere,” the bartender added. We both watched in silence as Sam calmly rolled a joint, with Slayer screaming at the speakers in the background.

“Sacrifice the lives of all I know, they soon shall die.

Their souls are doomed to rot in hell,

and keep the fire growing deep inside—hell awaits.”

As the final note faded and the Slayer frontman finished singing, Sam finished rolling, lit up the joint, and took a long, heavy puff.

“It’s the afterlife I’m afraid of,” he said, grunting as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

“Do you know what happens after death?” I asked, as he took another puff.

“Nobody knows,” he replied, passing me the joint. Instinctively, I looked around, but there was nobody but us and the security cameras, so I hit it. The weed turned out to be strong, and it immediately grabbed me by the throat. Coughing, I passed the joint to the bartender, then, appreciating the quality, arched my lips into an upside-down smile.

“You’re a religious person I suppose ” Said the bartender passing the joint back to Sam.

“Yes, I was raised Catholic, and both of my parents were devoted Christians, but that’s not the point,” Sam said, pausing as he took another puff. “The thing is that I recently heard the voice again, and it said my time has come.”

“Did you hear it on the radio?” the bartender asked deviously.

“No, in my head,” replied Sam. The moment I heard him saying it, I instantly coughed. “Don’t think I’m crazy or something,” he continued. “I don’t think I’m somebody else. I’m not obsessed, I don’t have paranoia—well, sometimes I do, but my paranoia is reasoned. You know, in the modern world, even the most law-abiding, mediocre person, even the most average Joe, has a dozen reasons to be paranoid.”

“If you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean nobody’s watching you. Big Brother is watching everybody.. But not everyone hears voices in their head,” I said, passing the joint.

“Oh, this is deep,” said Sam, looking at me and breaking into a smile. Then, almost instantaneously, his expression shifted. He became serious, even a bit intimidating. He stared at me, lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose, and his eyes, no longer hidden behind the lenses, didn’t seem excessively large. He gave me a piercing, cold like an arctic night gaze, and there was nothing comical about it. On the contrary, he looked at me the way serial killers stare at you from a newspaper photo.

“Even if I hear voices in my head, it doesn’t mean I can’t stick a screwdriver into your neck,” Sam whispered into my ear. At that very moment, I felt the effects of the weed. My mouth quickly went dry, and my body temperature seemed to rise a bit. Frantically, I tried to make sense of what he had just said, but I couldn’t. The words stuck with me for a while, because they sounded like a threat. If I hadn’t coughed, I would’ve probably yelped. I was overwhelmed, and now my face was flashing an error message.

“Take it easy, buddy, I’m just messing with you,” Sam said, tapping me on the shoulder.

“So, you don’t hear any voices, right?”

“Well, I do, but it’s not voices—it’s the voice. And in my whole life, I’ve only heard it three times. Two of those times I was on drugs, and the third time was when I had a stroke and fell into a coma. But all of these… let’s call them auditory hallucinations… they were never nonsense. Everything the voice told me actually happened,” Sam added, stubbing out the joint.

“Listen, maybe it’s the weed?” I asked sheepishly. “I had a friend who also heard voices. He even went to rehab, and the doctor told him it was because of Mary Jane. It’s stronger these days than it used to be.”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t know,” Sam shrugged, then nodded. “If drugs are the reason, then it’s most likely mushrooms. I heard the voice for the first time in the late ’80s,” he said, lighting up a cigarette.”I was born into a family of a military pilot in Mansfield, Ohio,” Sam continued. The bartender and I exchanged a quick glance, both of us realizing that Grandpa was about to tell us his whole life story. But the weed was really strong, so we didn’t mind—or, better said, we were too stoned to object.

“Unlikely you know anything about Ohio,” he went on, “but it’s the birthplace of aviation. The very first plane was built there by the Wright brothers in 1903. One of the largest air forces bases is located near Montgomery County, and a record number of NASA astronauts, including John Glenn and the first man to walk on the moon, Neil Armstrong, are Ohio natives. A lot of families in Ohio, just like the state itself, have a long history of being involved with aviation, and mine just happened to be one of those. My granddad died in the sky above France when he was bombing the Nazis, and my father was also a military pilot. He flew a Sikorsky HH-3E helicopter while serving in Vietnam. Unlike his own old man, he returned home safe and sound, and for as long as I can remember, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps to continue the family legacy. Despite all the traditions, I didn’t want to be a pilot, and even less so, I didn’t want to serve in the military. Unfortunately, I couldn’t give a coherent answer to the question, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ So, me and my parents agreed that I’d study to be an airline pilot. After I finished school, they paid for my education at the Flying Academy of Ohio State University, and for a while, everything went well.”

Then, during the second year, I happened to go to a Grateful Dead concert and there I met a charming girl and a bunch of her hippie friends. Her name was Amy, and it was love at first sight. I understood that even before she gave me acid. I have never been a fan of the Grateful Dead to be honest. The mid-80s was the time of disco. Everyone was doing coke, thinking of how to get rich, and all of that hippie movement had completely soured, becoming what the older generations always thought of it — a clueless bunch of lazy long-haired bums.The 60s era was over, love was already free, rock and roll had become mainstream, and all that rebellion and desire to change the world had evaporated. But love is blind, and instead of going to college, I found myself chasing after Amy and her friends, who ,in their turn, were following the Grateful Dead on their tour.Though I never liked the music, once I realized that she was kinda into me as well, I stopped giving a fuck about anything else. I was her John Lennon, and she was my Yoko Ono. We even looked alike. Amy was half Japanese, her grandparents had immigrated to the USA from Japan in the 1930s, and me… well..” Sam touched his hooked nose.

“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny,” said the bartender scathingly.

“I even started growing long hair,” Sam continued not sensing the sarcasm, “In a hippie van, with Amy and her friends, I followed the Grateful Dead to every town they performed in. None of them—neither the guys nor the girls—had anything to do with the band. They weren’t groupies or anything like that. Most of the time, they didn’t even bother going to the concerts; they just sold LSD near the entrance. And soon, I realized that’s what it was all about. But like I said, I didn’t care. While Amy’s buddies were pushing acid, we were staying in cheap motels, high on everything, fucking all night long. Sometimes we did it in the van, sometimes out on the street, and sometimes we did not do it at all because we were too drunk or high or both. Coming after the Grateful Dead, we reached Portland, and honestly, by this point, I was starting to lose touch with reality. Thank God, though, Amy’s friends finally sold out all their supply. Jason, the leader of the gang and the owner of the van, needed to stock up, so he said he had to be alone. He left everyone behind in Portland and went to San Francisco to handle a drug deal by himself.

“Listen, Sam, the Grateful Dead, what kind of band is it?” I interrupted. “Is it a death metal band?”

“You’ve never listened to the Grateful Dead?” he asked in surprise.

“It’s psychedelic rock, blues, gospel, and God knows what else,” said the bartender and paused Slayer, he tapped a few times on his phone and played the most famous song by the Grateful Dead, “Casey Jones.”

“Oh, so that’s what you were tripping on acid to? Oh, God.

You see what I’m saying?” Sam said, smiling, before continuing. “For a while, we didn’t hear anything from Jason. Amy and I figured that if we were already on the West Coast, why not head to San Francisco or Los Angeles? It took us two days to hitchhike to San Francisco, and a week later, we were in LA. By then, I’d already been expelled from college for not showing up to the exams, and my parents had stopped sending me money. I was broke, and our love boat had run ashore. But just when I started contemplating some dubious ways to make a quick buck, Jason appeared on the horizon. For almost a month, there had been no word from him, and now, there he was, with a fucking sack full of hallucinogenic mushrooms. No acid, though.From what he told us, I figured that the deal hadn’t gone as planned, and it took him three weeks to find at least something.This is when I heard the voice for the first time.

That ill-fated evening, we were all sitting around a bonfire on the beach. Jason had deemed himself a sort of Charles Manson, and before handing out the mushrooms, he preached for what felt like hours about love, the emancipation of the spirit, and how we were all a family. He seemed to be conducting some kind of ritual, I suppose. First, he read aloud some of his lousy poetry, then burned incense, meditated for about an hour, and only after that did he finally start giving us the mushrooms. It seemed to me that he gave me twice, maybe even three times the dose he gave to the others, but I didn’t mind. I had a good handful of shrooms and was just waiting for the high. As the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, the shrooms began to kick in. And when the daylight faded, I completely lost my sense of reality. For a while, my vision blurred, and I could only make out the sources of light and the silhouettes moving among the shadows. Then, the darkness completely swallowed me. The guys told me later that I just collapsed, face down into the sand, and once they were sure I was still breathing, they left me alone. At that time, I completely dissolved. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. No matter what I was on, how strong the trip was, I always felt like myself. But at that moment…” For a few seconds, Sam became silent and lowered his eyes to the floor. ‘I was gone,’ he continued. ‘I was the universe, and the universe was me.’ I don’t know how much time I spent like that, with my face in the sand, but to me, it seemed like an eternity.

Little by little, I was coming back, regaining my consciousness. I dusted myself off, but the hallucinations didn’t stop. For a long time, I walked along the beach, touching the water. When I returned to the guys, they were playing the guitar and singing around the dead campfire, meanwhile Jason was fucking Amy in the van. Furious, I pounced on him, but the guys immediately broke us up. I thought I had every moral right to rip his throat out, but our friends were of a different opinion. They held my arms and legs like I was insane, while Amy, torn in tears kept on repeating, “I’m sorry, I was high, I wasn’t aware, I couldn’t understand what was going on.””Okay,” I yelled, “But now you realize what is going on, don’t you?” I stopped bucking, and the guys loosened their grip. “Choose, me or him!” I yelled once again. And in that moment, Jason took out a small bag of coke and sniffed a little bit off his nail. It was a tough choice. Me, high as a kite and penniless on the beach outside the city, or a new fucker with a van full of drugs and a bag of coke. The bitch didn’t hesitate for a second and drove off with her hippie friends in some unknown direction.

In tears and heartbroken, I walked along the beach toward the city lights. The sun was starting to rise, casting the first rays across the sky. One by one, the stars were fading, but when I looked up, there was still one left, shining above me, bright as ever. That’s when I heard the voice for the first time.

“What do you live for?” it asked me.

I looked around me, but there was nobody. Not a single soul. It must be hallucinations. I must still be high on mushrooms, I thought, and—feeling a bit afraid—I started walking faster. In a brief moment, out of the blue sky, I heard the voice again. This time, it told me that ignoring such important and existential questions wasn’t very polite of me. The voice came from everywhere—from above and below, left and right, from within me and all around. Once again, I looked to the sides, but there was nobody, not even on the horizon. Totally freaked out, I started walking even faster. I almost switched to running, but for a second, I had that intrusive thought: For fuck’s sake, what do I live for?

“To be loved and to be happy,” ran through my head, and the voice told me that the people who truly love me are waiting for me at home. Then it asked me what I needed to be happy. At this point, I stopped running away and found the courage to engage in conversation with the voice. But the craziest thing about it was that I didn’t say a word. I didn’t speak out loud. Nonetheless, the voice could hear my answers. It could hear my thoughts. It turned out, it was some sort of an…

“Inner dialogue,” I interrupted.

“Or the voice in the head,” said the bartender.

“Yep, something like that,” yelped Sam.

And then I realized that I couldn’t run away from it. It haunted me no matter where I went. So, I started thinking about what I actually needed to be happy. By that time, I had completely run out of money, and I was absolutely broke. I realized I no longer wanted to be a penniless rolling stone, moving from one place to another. I wanted a comfortable, beautiful life. I wanted a Ferrari. I wanted to marry Amy. Oh no, fuck that bitch. I changed my mind quickly. I wanted to marry a supermodel and live like a king, or at the very least, live like my middle-class parents.

And then I replied, “Money. A lot of money. I want millions. I want to be a millionaire. Yes, yes, I want fucking millions!” I yelled.

“Anything else?” asked the voice, reminding me that screaming wasn’t necessary.

Absolutely pissed by what Amy did, I wanted to drown my grief in lust and fornication. “Bitches, I want bitches and coke,” I added, once more not saying a word out loud.

And then the voice told me it wasn’t a problem, that it could provide me with everything I asked for.

I asked if it was the devil, and the voice replied that it wasn’t, but mentioned that if I agreed in the end of my journey through life, I might end up in a place full of suffering.

“In hell?” I interrupted Sam’s confession.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The voice wasn’t specific, but once I thought of the end, I immediately asked if it was possible to make me immortal.”

To which the voice replied that it wasn’t, that everyone and everything in this world dies at some point, even the stars, and that all kinds of matter in the universe either transform into something else or cease to exist.

Though it told me it was possible to make my life much longer. Maybe I should have asked for that as well, but instead, I asked it to make me invisible, or give me the ability to fly or shoot lasers from my eyes like Superman.

The voice answered this question with a question. “Sam, where’s your prudence? What kind of sick, twisted fantasies do you have? You’re not in the movies, not in a comic book. Once one of the intelligence agencies finds out about your extraordinary abilities, they will hunt you for the rest of your life. And if they catch you, they’ll be doing all kinds of experiments on you.”

It paused, then continued, “You know what? Once there was a guy with extraordinary abilities. He could walk on water and turn it into wine. He healed the sick and even brought the dead back to life. And guess what they did to him? They crucified him. Why would you need anything like that? Why would you want to become a superhero?”

“Well, then, coke and bitches, and yeah, a lot of money, fucking millions,” I said, thinking that at this point, whether it was a hallucination or whatever the hell it was, it stopped making any sense. It was completely absurd. Just think about it— the voice in my head, like a genie out of a bottle, was offering to make my wishes come true, but at the same time, it was telling me to calm down my sick imagination. Those mushrooms were driving me crazy.

“Are you sure?” it asked me again.

And oh boy, I was sure as fuck. Like I said, at that moment, it felt like the whole situation—real or not—was getting out of hand, and I just wanted to get it over with. “Yes, I’m sure. I want money, coke, and bitches,” I said, out loud again.

Absolutely not believing in what was going on, but, on the other hand, hoping to see a miracle, I agreed. I imagined, all of a sudden, a bunch of naked women falling from the sky, or banknotes raining down on me. But the miracle never came to pass. The voice fell silent, and the effects of the mushrooms slowly began to fade. The air was getting hotter, and I was walking along the beach in the daylight, screaming, “Where’s my coke? Where’s my bitches? Where’s my money? As I sobered up I realized how stupid all it was and kept on walking for about half a mile until I met a bum on the beach of one of the suburbs of Malibu. I asked him for a quarter and called my parents from the nearest payphone.

My folks were worried about me, and my mother was incredibly happy that I finally reached out to them. She immediately sent me some cash for the ticket. When I got back, my father told me he would never give me any more money—not even a cent. He was disappointed, but a few months later, my mom managed to persuade him to lend me a sum to take a pilot course and get my pilot’s license. He hesitated a bit at first, but eventually agreed. At the end of the day, he wanted me to fly, to become a pilot, and I finished that damn course and got that damn license. None of the airlines would hire me because they required a degree from one of the pilot colleges, but I managed to find a job as an aerial applicator.

“Aerial, what?” asked the bartender.

“It’s the person who sprays fertilizers or pesticides over the fields,” Sam continued.” The job was seasonal, but after a few years, I moved out of my parents’ house and paid off the debt to my pops. My life got steady, but kinda boring. In the winter, I’d head to Louisiana or Georgia for some odd jobs, and in the summer, I’d make my way back to Ohio. This went on for a few more years until I decided to pack up and move somewhere closer to the sea. It was New Year’s Eve, and usually, after spending Christmas with my parents, I’d head down to Louisiana for a bunch of side gigs. But when I got there, the farm owner I used to work with told me the previous pilot had crashed the plane and tragically died in a lettuce field. There was no job for me, and instead of looking for something nearby or reaching out to another employer in Georgia, I decided to head to Jacksonville, Florida. My initial plan was to give myself a little break, celebrate New Year’s, spend a few extra days on the coast, and then start looking for a job in Florida, after all, they farm there year-round, just like they do in Louisiana or Georgia.

When I got to Jacksonville, by pure accident, I ran into my old pal Peter . We had studied together at Ohio State’s Aviation. Unlike me, though, he had graduated and was already working for Pan Am. He was in Jacksonville with his wife and their two-year-old son, and he was genuinely happy to see me. When we met the next day, it turned out he had lied to his sweetheart, telling her that he and I were going on a fishing trip—just the guys, so to speak. And about an hour later, with all the fishing rods and gear he’d bought to keep up the act, we were cruising down to Miami in his Chevrolet. When we got to West Palm Beach, we changed clothes and headed straight to Club Nu, which, at the time, was the hottest disco spot in the city.

The second we walked in, Peter dove headfirst into the scene—flirting with every chick in sight and snorting lines like it was just another night out. I hadn’t even finished my first drink when Peter introduced me to Frank—the guy who helped him score the coke. After everything I’d been through, I wasn’t into drugs anymore, but Frank turned out to be a pilot too, and we hit it off right away. The conversation just flowed, and before long I realized he didn’t work for Pan Am like I’d assumed. Hell, he didn’t work for any airline. Frank was a smuggler, flying dope for the Colombian cartels. When I told him I could fly too, he offered me a job, but I turned him down, politely. Maybe it was because my past experiences with drugs and drug dealers didn’t exactly end in champagne and confetti. But if I’m being honest, I was just scared. Straight-up scared. However, after spraying pesticides over the cornfields of Florida for a few days, I returned to Miami. I found him at the same club, and his offer still stood. In just one flight, I made more money than I had in a whole year flying over crops. Then there was another flight, and another batch, and then one more, followed by another. Before long, I moved to Miami and started hanging out with Frank at Club Nu almost every night.

We delivered the cargo from a chain of small islands near Tahiti, where the cartel had built a runway and a transit base. Usually, after a few hours of flight, the cargo would be delivered to Miami. Sometimes, though, we’d drop it into the bay, where it would be picked up by boats, allowing us to land empty. We were making a ton of money, and everything in my life was just going great..Until one day, Frank decided to throw a party at his mansion. All the pilots who worked for him were there—me, Theodore, Esteban, and Eddie. There were people from the cartel, models, and even a few celebrities. But honestly, at that moment, it felt like half of the city was at Frank’s place. It was a wild party, and at the peak of all that mess, Frank brought out a damn brick of coke, cracked it open, and dumped it all on the coffee table. Of course, I’d tried cocaine before, but since I got back home and throughout all the time I was working for Frank, I stayed away from drugs. I didn’t touch them. But that night, everyone was having a blast. The air was electrified, pure madness, and I just couldn’t help myself—and I whipped out my nose again. One line after another, and there we were—me and two pretty girls, having fun in of the bedrooms. I was there, dick out, doing another line right over one of their asses, and the moment I snorted it, I heard the voice again. You were halfway through,” said the voice. Instantly, I remembered the incident on the beach. Just like before, the voice echoed from everywhere and I immediately recalled the place full of suffering it had promised me the first time.

“What does it mean?” I asked, but the voice didn’t respond. There was silence. The girls were kissing, their mouths were busy, and I could see their tongues intertwined. They didn’t say anything. I looked around, but of course, it was just the three of us. The girls stopped making out, their mouths pulling apart, and they both gave me a surprised look.

“Nothing,” said the blonde. “It means we’re waiting for you. Come on, join us,” said the other blonde, and they both giggled.

I don’t know if the combination of cocaine and alcohol can cause hallucinations, but the voice didn’t say anything else. And suddenly, I realized the full horror of what was happening. I had forgotten about it, but there it was. My wish had been granted. I was surrounded by seas of powder and pussy, and money was no longer a problem. Here they were, my bitches, my coke, and as for the money… Ha ha! I laughed quietly inside my head and beamed proudly like a child. Wait a second, I did ask for a lot of money. I asked for millions, and instantly, I started calculating how much cash I had. Excluding the house and two sports cars, I had about $200,000 in my bank account, and around $1,000,000 in cash buried in various spots around Miami. I was getting close to $2,000,000, but still, not quite the millions..

Phew! Maybe not everything is lost. Maybe there’s still a chance,” I thought as I got dressed. I felt uneasy and suddenly lost all desire for sex. 

“Come on, Sam, you had a raging hard-on a minute ago. It’s all coke, you should be doing less of this stuff,” said one of the girls.

Secretly hoping she was right, that what I had just heard was nothing but coke and booze, I told them to fuck off and kicked them out of the room, half-naked. My hands were shaking and I was scared to death. That night I couldn’t come up with anything better but to get blackout drunk.

Next day, I had to fly, and here’s what I’ll tell you: a flight like that wasn’t a walk in the park. You needed balls to pull it off. All the previous times, I managed to get my shit together, but that day, I just broke down. I was all sweaty and trembling, almost in the same state as the night before. I just couldn’t shake what the voice had said. For some reason, I didn’t want to become any richer. I was genuinely afraid of crossing that one-million-something mark. Locked in fear and panic, I tried to think rationally. “It was all coke, coke, and alcohol talking to you,” I thought, but I still couldn’t find the courage. I called Frank and lied, telling him I was sick, and he told me to relax. It’s okay, buddy. You must have caught the cocaine flu,” he said. “Probably did too much of it at the party. Stay home,” he told me. “I’ll fly for ya.”

On the way back, just a few minutes before the drop-off point, a fighter jet forced Frank to land his plane on the water. Three hundred seventy-five pounds of coke were found on board. Frank was arrested and delivered to Federal Detention Center, Miami.

He was facing life in prison, and a few weeks later, I visited him in jail. The moment Frank saw me, he erupted. “You’re a snitch, a fucking rat! You set me up! You knew it’d be like this, and that’s why you asked me to fly instead! We both knew I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even ask him for anything. I just told him I was sick, and it was his own decision to go through with it. Hell, it could’ve been any other guy from his team. Suspecting me of trying to take over his business, he kept yelling at me. In that moment, I realized just how stupid I’d been. The feds had already been looking into me, but after that visit, they had no doubts that I was directly involved in all of it. I had to get out of Miami fast. Wasting no time, I took one of my girls and headed to Dallas. Days later, the cartel’s people got to me and told me that Frank had struck a deal with the feds.

He told them everything, and now me, Theodore, and Eddie—all of us—were facing life in prison. Lucky for Esteban, though, he was in Colombia at the time and never returned to the States. I didn’t have much choice. The same day, I heard the news I told my girl I was going out to buy cigarettes and later that evening, I crossed the Mexican border. I lost everything—my house, my cars, my bank account was frozen, and my bags of cash stayed buried in the ground of Brickell and Doral areas.

For some time, I went from one girl to the next, hopping from bar to bar. Soon enough, the little money I had with me disappeared. A few of my friends helped me out, sending me a bit of cash, and then the people from Contel reached out again. They had a vested interest in keeping me in Mexico, so they provided more cash and even helped me secure a residence permit. A year later, things finally settled down. Frank got 12 years, Theodore fled to Panama, and Eddie was killed by the columbians. All the other unnecessary people were quietly removed from the equation. Somehow, the cartel managed to cover everything up and get the operation back on track. It was business as usual—only this time, at an even bigger scale. You see, Frank’s crew was just one of many working for them, and I quickly learned that he was replaced by three even bigger crews. Where they had once moved hundreds of tons, now they were pushing thousands.

As for me, eventually, everyone turned their backs on me. I had to start all over again. I pawned the gold jewelry I had left and bought diving equipment. I settled in Cancun and started a diving gear rental business. At that time diving was just beginning to catch on with tourists. At first, I didn’t make much, but it was enough to get by. A year later, I met a new girlfriend, and two years after that, Juanita and I opened a snack bar.

“Ooh, Mamacita, Juanita, I bet she was a hot thing,” I interrupted.

“Hmm, she was definitely something—an unusual and exotic beauty. Juanita Takeda. You wouldn’t believe it, but just like Amy, she was half-Japanese.”

“Juanita Takeda, half-Japanese?” I asked, in a voice a few octaves higher than usually. “How come? What would a Japanese woman be doing in Mexico?”

“You see, after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, the U.S. government viewed all Japanese immigrants in the country as potential threats—like a Trojan horse, a fifth column, if you will. All of them, including their children, were labeled as dangerous to society and forcibly thrown into special concentration camps. Not wanting to wake up one day behind bars, a lot of them moved to Mexico. Juanita’s dad was only nine when he and his parents made their way to Cancun,” Sam replied.

“So, you’re saying that during World War II, America had concentration camps?” I asked again, in a high pitched tone.

“Of course, if America wants to open a concentration camp, it builds a concentration camp. It’s a free country after all. Ask Google if you don’t believe me. It’s a well-known fact,” grouched the old man, continuing his story.

Business and pretty much everything else were going smoothly. Eight years of my life were relatively calm, and throughout all of it, the most challenging thing I had to deal with was explaining to Juanita why I still hadn’t married her.

But in the mid-90s, everything changed abruptly. In the late 70s and 80s, the main trafficking route was through the Caribbean. But after Reagan declared the war on drugs, law enforcement agencies did a pretty good job of blocking the so-called Caribbean corridor. Of course, it didn’t work out as intended. The traffic didn’t stop or even slow down; instead, even larger amounts of coke were smuggled into the U.S., now through Mexico. Soon, the once mighty and powerful Guadalajara Cartel splintered into a number of smaller factions. The cartel war had begun. They fought over territories, control of the trafficking routes. And despite all the pressure from both the U.S. and Mexican governments, despite constant clashes and violence between themselves, the cartels grew richer and richer. Before long, they began to control other types of businesses, including legitimate ones.

And by ‘controlling,’ I mean racketeering. And, oh boy, it was rampant. Juanita’s cousin was involved with one of the cartels, and for a while, nobody bothered us. But that all changed when his wife found his cut off head on the porch of their house. That’s when the people from the Los Zetas cartel came to talk to me and Juanita.Total knuckleheads. Some of them were ex-Mexican special forces turned trafficantes , using ruthless tactics and weapons in their rivalry with the other cartels. Known for their cruelty and cunning, they definitely weren’t the kind of guys you wanted to mess with. At first, we just paid them off. But then, they somehow found out what I’d done back in the ’80s and came to me with a proposal. They wanted me to transport their goods across the border. They needed a mule—a gringo, a white guy with an American passport—for their operation.

“I told them what awaited me in America. I said, ‘Guys, I’ll be arrested the moment I cross the border…’”I didn’t want to get back into the war on drugs on the side of drugs, but a few months later, they came to me again. This time, the people from Los Zetas brought some news. It turned out that Frank had died of tuberculosis in prison almost a year ago. Without his testimony, the case against me was falling apart, and the feds didn’t have any direct evidence. On top of that, I was charged with a first-degree felony, and according to Florida state law, after five years, the charges should have been dropped. The Feds didn’t have the right nor to arrest me nor to interrogate. I made a few calls to verify the information, and it was all true. Theodore had returned to Tampa six months ago. All that time, he wanted to get in touch with me, but didn’t know where to find me. I could go back to America, but honestly, I didn’t really want to. Even more so, I didn’t want to return to the old ways. But this time, the offer from Los Zetas didn’t sound like an offer anymore. They were going hard on me.I told them that I needed to think things through, but I crossed the border the same day.

My sports cars were stolen even before the government could confiscate them. Due to the failure to pay property taxes, my house was auctioned off. The bank where I had my money, Southeast Bank Corp, went bankrupt. In September 1991 it was taken over by Wells Fargo. Unfortunately for me, my account had been frozen during the investigation before the restructuring, so naturally I lost access to all of my funds. None of that surprised me; in fact, it was quite predictable. But can you imagine how shocked I was when I found out that the two places outside the city where I had buried almost a million in cash were no longer the swampy outskirts I remembered? One spot had been replaced by a huge villa, and the other by a flashy, street-side hotel. I couldn’t even imagine that in eight years, Miami would grow so much. What was once a swampy field by the shore was now a newly built… God damn it, I should have not buried it so close to the sea… neighborhood.

“Do you think the construction workers who built that villa dug up the money?” I asked Sam.

“I don’t know. Though that villa looks like it could’ve been built with that money. Honestly, I really don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I did dig up—the last 150k in cash I buried under a cypress tree in my garden. Now a family from Texas lives there. One night, when they were out, I sneaked into the yard and dug a few feet under the lawn. And yes, you guessed it right—the money was still there. About 10% of the banknotes had dampened, but in total, slightly over 100k were still in good condition.

Overwhelmed with joy, I called Juanita. ‘Pack your things, you’re flying to America,’ I told her, and then headed to Ohio to visit my parents. I hadn’t spoken to them in all these years. When I stepped onto the porch, I found out that my father had been dead for five months. He died of a stroke. He’d also had problems with his blood vessels. I don’t know, maybe it’s hereditary.. It was an even bigger loss for my mother. He was her partner, her husband, her friend. In her grief, she mourned the loss of her other half, and soon enough, I joined her. Juanita wasn’t answering my calls. I tried reaching out to her, but she didn’t pick up. The next day, when I called my friend in Mexico, he told me the cartel had shot her on her way to the airport. I still don’t understand what the point of killing her was. The only thing I did understand, though, was that I wasn’t going back to Mexico, and I sure as hell wasn’t staying in the USA either.

I packed my things and flew to Japan to visit my childhood friend, Tom. He was a pilot too, and at that time, he was serving at a US military base in Okinawa.

“I’m on the way to Buivien,” texted Brian.

“I am at the bar, Monsoon Season,” I replied.

“We’ll be there in 5 minutes.” I received another text from him a few minutes later.

“And after that,” continued Sam.

“I know what happened after that,” I interrupted him. “You’ve already told me—you stayed there and married that Japanese woman. What was her name?”

“Miko..You won’t believe it, but she’s also only half Japanese. Her father was an American sailor who served at the military base in Yokosuka in the early ’70s. He knocked her up and returned to the States. Miko had never seen him in real life, only in photos. Apparently, all this time, she’d been subconsciously looking for him in other men… and she found him in me. But wait a second, when did I tell you all of this?”

“Well, that night when we first met at Pussy Magic in Pattaya, you mentioned that she drank a lot, and that you had to divorce her. You almost chewed my ears off telling me how hard it was.”

“You know what? Fuck her and fuck her drunk meltdowns along with her daddy issues. It’s a shame I had to leave her the apartment, but at least I took the dogs with me. Basically, I kidnapped them,” Sam said, chin held high.These bitches turned out to be way more loyal than Miko, and they love me more.” He said with a smile. Apparently, the fact that the dog stayed with him was warming his heart.

“Wait, so those two dogs tied to the bike at the parking lot—are they yours? One of them almost bit me,” I complained.

“It must have been Yuki. She’s an aggressive bitch, but Suzu is much calmer. If they look like two Akita Inus, then yeah, those are my dogs,” said Sam. Just then, two blondes with botox lips walked into the bar. The bimbos sat at the bar a few chairs away from us and started a conversation in a language unknown to me. Immediately, the bartender turned off the Queens of the Stone Age that had been playing on the speakers and switched to some mainstream tropical house. I wanted to ask the old man something, but then Brian walked into the bar.

“Aha, buddy, how are you?” he exclaimed, walking toward me with his arms wide open. He was unrecognizable—tight trousers, an Oxford shirt with a tie, and a wild, feverish gleam in his eyes. It was evident he came straight from work. Back in the States, he was a gym owner, and I was used to seeing him in a completely different style of clothes—tiny shorts that showed off his enormous quads, and tank tops barely hanging over the mountain of muscle that was his upper body. That was his thing. He dressed like that even when we’d head to Vegas for the weekend.

“How do you like being a teacher?” I asked, giving him a hug.

“You know what? I need a drink,” he replied, laughing and giving me a light tap on the shoulder. It was obvious that the job was weighing on him, and he desperately needed to unwind.

“Beer?” I suggested.

“Come on it’s a tiki bar” said Brian glancing around, “Lets order a cocktail.”

“Absolutely the right choice,” quickly jabbered the bartender.

“I’ll have a Skull Crusher,” Brian said, pointing at one of the many items on the menu.

“Three types of rum and Angostura? Must’ve been a tough day at work, huh?” I asked, after skimming the cocktail’s description and ingredients. Brian took a deep breath but didn’t say anything.

“All right, all right. To keep up with you, let me see… Long Island? Nah, too early. Manhattan? It’s a whiskey cocktail, and I’m not in the mood for whiskey… I mumbled looking for something strong. Aha, Blackout—gin, blackberry, brandy, lime juice. That’s exactly what I need. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have a Blackout,” I told the bartender.

“Well, Blackout and Skullcrusher—excellent choices, gentlemen. A perfect way to start a party,” concluded the bartender. “That’ll be 400,000 Vietnam Dong. Oh, and we’ve got a party on tonight—music, DJs, and lots of girls.” He winked at us and started shaking the cocktails. Indeed, while we waited for our order, more customers streamed in, and a couple of Vietnamese guys carried inside two massive speakers and DJ equipment.

Bartender finished, and what can I say, our drinks were made to the highest standards. Brian’s Skull Crusher came served in a steaming ceramic skull, garnished with a slice of lemon, while my Blackout arrived in a wide glass, decorated with a toothpick spearing a mulberry and a slice of lime. As we savored our drinks, Sam wandered off, and his seat was taken by some guy from Ukraine. It turned out that the guy was Brian’s co-worker, working at the same school, whom he had invited for a drink after work. He barely spoke any English, but to our surprise, he’d somehow managed to land a job as an English teacher in Vietnam. As the sun was setting and darkness was falling, more and more people were flocking into the bar, mostly expats and tourists but a few locals as well. When we finished our cocktails, we were joined by Shane, another of Brian’s buddies—though, unlike the guy from Ukraine, he was Brian’s close friend. Shane was born in Ireland and looked like a typical Irish lad: tall, green-eyed, and sunburned. He was loaded with cash and immediately started buying round after round of whiskey for all of us, including the guy from Ukraine. I didn’t know Shane, but his face seemed familiar. As I found out later, I had seen him a couple of times at Brian’s gym back home. Like me, he was a regular there, but while I had known Brian since school, Shane and Brian only became friends after I left the States.

“Here’s to the teachers,” said Shane, raising a glass of Irish single malt as he ordered each of us a shot of relatively cheap blended Teacher’s.

“Okay, this is funny, but let’s drink to your victory at the poker tournament instead,” Brian told him.

It turned out Shane had come to Vietnam for a reason. In a week’s time, he was going to participate in a poker tournament in Danang with a prize pool of $100,000.

Shane tapped the guy from Ukraine on the shoulder. “Nazdorovye,” he said, turning his glass upside down.

“Zazdorovye,” the Ukrainian corrected him, then did the same.

I’m not a whiskey guy, but since Shane was buying, I ended up getting pretty drunk. I can’t say exactly how much we drank that night, but apparently, it was just enough for me to vaguely remember the events that followed. I remember there were a lot of people, and the music was loud. I remember Brian and Shane dancing with some Vietnamese girls, as I was hitting on my ex-colleague, who just so happened to be at the same bar with her friends. I remember a curly-haired guy from the States inviting us to his after-party, and then we drank again, and again, and then… I blacked out.
I woke up in a hammock on the terrace, and that strange guy I had met earlier was still lounging in the hammock in front of me. It seemed like he had been there the whole time. The only things that had changed were the empty bottle of rosé beside him—once full, now drained—and the ashtray, which was now packed with even more butts.

“It will never end, never,” he muttered aloud, giggling. Again, he looked right through me, and his laughter didn’t sound quite sane. Oblivious to his freak-outs, I dusted myself off and went back into the bar. The party was over, and only a few souls remained inside.The tired DJ was dismantling his rig, and the bartender was walking among the empty tables, collecting the glasses. The only table that wasn’t empty was occupied by a beautiful Indian girl, sipping on a greenish cocktail and chattering away on the phone in Hindi. As I walked toward the bar, my flip-flops stuck to the booze-soaked floor with every step. When I sat on the bar stool, I was surprised to see Sam, bored to death, sitting at his usual spot by the same rubber tree where I’d first met him. He had a sad look on his face, much drunker than earlier that afternoon, he was chain-smoking Vietnamese cigarettes. This time, however, instead of being tied to a bike at the parking lot, his two red dogs—one of which had nearly bitten me earlier—were tied to his chair. Unlike their gloomy owner, who was exhaling clouds of thick smoke in despair, the dogs were happily chasing each other’s tails.

“I didn’t know dogs were allowed here,” I told the bartender.

“Sam leaves tips so generous, he could have an orgy with pigs right here, and I wouldn’t mind.”

“What would you like to order?” he asked, stepping behind the bar.

I didn’t reply and walked over to the dogs. I meant no harm—and they sensed it. Both wagged their tails, giving me that slightly goofy dog smile. I petted them, and they squinted with pleasure.

“Okay, so one of you is Suzu and the other is Yuki,” I said, grabbing each of them gently by the ear. “And together, you’re Suzuki.” I giggled and gave their ears a playful wiggle, mimicking the sound of a revving engine.

“Vroom, vroom,” I continued, until one of them snarled and took another shot at biting me.

“I told you—Yuki’s an aggressive bitch. Leave my dogs alone,” Sam said.

“You ordering anything? We’re about to close,” once agin asked me the bartender as he dumped a stack of dirty glasses into the sink and put on his favorite Slayer track.

I was in a weird state—still a bit drunk, but already nursing a hangover. My head was pounding, like my skull was about to split open, even without Slayer blasting in the background. My mouth was dry, and I could barely speak. As if he read my mind, the bartender turned the volume down a notch.

“Cuba libre,” I said, tearing my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

God hates us all. God hates us all. He fucking hates me. Pessimist. Terrorist. Targeting. The next mark. Global chaos feeding on hysteria. Cut throats. Slit your wrists. Shoot you in the back. Fair game. Drug abuse. Self-abuse. Searching for the next high. Sounds like hell. Spreading all the time…

The frontman of Slayer was screaming and growling at the top of his lungs, and I was patting my pockets, searching for my wallet—but it wasn’t there.

“God damn it—I think I lost my wallet, or it was stolen,” I said.

The bartender had just placed a can of Coke next to a glass filled with ice cubes, but when he heard me, he froze with an open bottle of rum in his hands. After a few seconds, he closed it and placed it back on the shelf. I needed a drink—at this point, it was a necessity. In horror, I glanced at Sam. The old man read it on my face perfectly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a drink,” he said, putting out his cigarette.

I tried to remember how much money I had in the wallet, and when I finally recalled there was just a few banknotes, I let out a sigh of relief.

“Two Hibiki on the rocks,” Sam told the bartender, pointing to the dark brown bottle of whiskey on the top shelf.

“Then whisky it is. Thank you, old man,” I mumbled, pouring some Coke into my glass of whiskey. I took a few sips to wet my whistle and immediately felt better. Then, all of a sudden, the memory of what we had been talking about before Brian came flashed in my mind.

“So, do you hear any voices in your head?” I asked scathingly, not even trying to hide my intention to roast the old man.

“Yep, I’m hearing them right now,” Sam replied.

I was stunned. I didn’t expect that answer.

“And what are they saying?” I asked, still confused.

“Fuck you, kid. That’s what they’re saying,” he answered, wrinkling his face. It was the first time I heard him laugh that day.

“Come on, Sam, you said you’d heard the voices three times. You’ve already told me about two. What about the third one?”

Sam scowled immediately and lit another cigarette. An awkward silence settled between us for a moment. Maybe after the joke, he didn’t want to tell me anything, or maybe he just didn’t know where to start. Holding onto our drinks, we sat in silence, letting Slayer play in the background.

“For fuck’s sake, turn that shit off, my ears are gonna bleed!” Sam suddenly yelled and ordered more whiskey.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m just a big fan of this band. I apologize..Wait a moment, I’ll find something you like, old man.” Said the bartender and began pouring another glass.

In a moment, the sound of maracas rattled from the speakers. The timbre of the drums started to beat. “Yai!” screeched Mick Jagger as the piano entered. It was Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones.

“I’m not that old,” grumbled Sam, “but this is more like it. At least it sounds like music.”

Maybe it was the next round of alcohol that improved his mood and loosened his tongue, or maybe it was the music, but to my surprise, Sam lit up another cigarette and continued telling me the story.

“The third time I heard the voice… well, it was just a few weeks ago. I was getting drunk with a Vietnamese woman at a bar across from this one, when she decided to introduce me to her local friends, who were crushing a box of beer down a lane nearby. They were typical working-class men, and after I had a few cold ones with them, they offered me some Tuc Lao.”

“What is Tuc Lao?” I asked.

“It’s a wild Vietnamese tobacco, smoked with a bamboo bong,” Sam explained. “All those men inhaling it through that long bamboo tube—I thought they were smoking weed or maybe opium, but it turned out it was tobacco. I figured I was used to tobacco, you know, having smoked a few packs a day since school. So, I thought, why not? However, when I took a hit from that bong, I blacked out. This is when I heard the voice for the third time, though I am sure it was another hallucination. I woke up in a hospital.  The doctors told me that the enormous amounts of tobacco smoke I inhaled through the bong had caused a stroke and that I had been in a coma for almost a week. They informed me about my health conditions, that I had problems with my blood vessels, and recommended I undergo surgery.

“Are you sure it was tobacco?” I asked curiously.

“Yeah, 100% sure it was tobacco. You see Tuc Lao wasn’t the problem. The problem is in my blood vessels. I had been drunk and stoned and it was just a bad timing. Though taking into account my lifestyle sooner or later, it would’ve happened anyway. So now I need to quit drinking and smoking..and give up on other things that give me joy ..and as you can see I suck at it”

“Ok, Ok. But what did the voice tell you?”

“Well, it’s said that I’ve arrived—that my time has come—and that soon I’ll be departing to a place full of suffering,” Sam said. Then, after a short pause, he continued: “You know, that night at Frank’s party that I told you about, when I was scared to death… back then, I thought the place full of suffering would be a prison. I’d never heard of anyone having a great time in the penitentiary of Saint Rose or Martin. But now, having lived most of my life—with no trouble from the law, no issues with money, only with my health—and now, facing a serious operation with no guaranteed outcome… now I look back and think of a different place.”

“I bet, being raised Catholic, you think you would end up in hell,” said the bartender, then burst out with an evil laugh.“In a lake of fire you go, into a giant cauldron—ha-ha-ha—where your immortal soul will suffer for eternity!” he went on, trying to suppress fits of laughter that no longer sounded evil, but rather genuine. Sam stayed silent, and I just stared—wide-eyed—at the guy who’d been pouring our drinks all this time.

“Come on, Sam. Worst case, you’ll end up back here,” said the bartender, spinning the bicycle wheel decorated with LED lights that hung behind him. The randomly placed lights blurred into a glowing circle. He gave the wheel another spin, increasing its momentum, and a few of the LEDs flew off. Leaving streaks of light behind them, they scattered like comets in all directions, and flickered out as they hit the floor.

“Here in Ho Chi Minh?” asked Sam, puzzled.

“Well, maybe in Ho Chi Minh. Maybe in Pyongyang, or Bamako, or Kinshasa. I’ve heard those are excellent places to live,” grunted the bartender as he bent down to pick up the fallen LED lights. “I mean what if you get to be born into this world again? Have you ever thought about it? Come on, Sam, just take a look around you. This world is full of evil; hence, it is full of suffering and pain. It is an inseparable part of life. Such is the nature of things, and so is nature.”

“Evil is a part of nature? What a nonsense!” ranted the old man.

“Yeah, you see, fighting for their place in this world, all the species devour each other. Murder is a connecting link in any food chain. But if that’s not evil enough for you, let me provide you with more examples. Cuckoos lay their eggs in the nests of smaller birds. So, when their chicks hatch, they push the smaller eggs out of the nest. Male deer maim each other, fighting over a female. Polar bears, hyenas, and even chickens engage in cannibalism. Shark pups eat each other even in the womb of their mother. And our closest relatives in the animal kingdom, chimpanzees, sometimes kill the offspring of females sired by other males. And these are mostly mammals, but they’re also parasites. If God exists, it most certainly isn’t kind. Otherwise, how would you explain the existence of a roundworm? These parasites not only live at the expense of their host, but also cause excruciating pain. The larvae of a roundworm literally eat their host from within. When God created the horsefly, He wanted a horse to suffer, and it’s pretty much the same story with humans. This world is full of suffering, so I wouldn’t worry about hell all that much if I were you.”

“But we are not animals,” I said, adding my two cents.

“Really? Aren’t we?” asked the bartender ironically.

“No, no, no, this is where you’re wrong. All of us have that divine spark within us. We evolve faster than any other species. We can talk, we have science and technology. I mean, there is hope that the future will be bright and that all humans will one day live happily.” I replied.

“Hope is a powerful thing, but here’s what I’ll tell you about evolution and happiness. Have you ever noticed how everything good in your life stays covered in a haze, deep in your memory, while all of the shit, all of the tragedies, and all of the traumas you’ve been through haunt you for the rest of your life?” Asked me the bartender.

I swallowed a lump of air and felt uncomfortable as he continued. “This is nothing else but an evolutionary mechanism. A curious cat that burned its nose trying to smell a smoldering piece of wood will remember that incident much better than the taste of foie gras you treated it to during lunch. The pain will imprint on its memory much better than pleasure, and it happens for a reason. Next time, the cat will avoid this situation. Such is its design.”

“The design of humans isn’t very different. And do you know many people who have never experienced pain, whether physical or emotional?”

Obviously, it was a rhetorical question, so I remained silent and looked at the bartender. His pale face lit up with a smile, almost as if he enjoyed talking about pain.

“Happiness must be the next stage of evolution. I’m sure that the next link after Homo erectus and Homo sapiens will be Homo happiness,” said the bartender, giggling like a hyena. “And as for technological progress,” he continued with a serious look, “do you really think that satellite TV, a ballpoint pen, or a microwave oven can make people’s lives happier? More comfortable? Maybe. Happier? I don’t think so.”

Our conversation was taking a strange turn, and since all of us, including the bartender, were already a bit drunk, it seemed like nobody objected.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, refusing to accept such a dark and hopeless picture of the world. “Now we have the internet and video calls. We can call and hear and see anyone, anytime, anywhere. Distance is no longer an obstacle. In a matter of a day, you can travel to any point in the world. We no longer have to work in the fields to provide for ourselves. At the end of the day, our lives are getting longer..”

“Okay, let’s be honest,” interrupted the bartender. “In the States, you have nothing. No house, no car, no business. Only a $60,000 unpaid student loan and a degree in sociology that nobody needs, including you. On top of that, your wallet has once again been stolen. What if I teleport you to Detroit right now? Will it make you any happier?”

I felt very uneasy. How did he know about all of that? How did he know about the loan and that I was broke? I thought, but decided not to pay too much attention to it, because from a certain point, the memory of the recent events became blurred, like a landscape seen through the window of a super-fast train. He could have overheard me bitching about how poor I was to somebody at the bar, or I could have simply spilled the beans to him myself and then forgotten about it after another shot of whiskey.

“Why Detroit?” I asked.

“Okay, how about Seattle? Or New York? Or even the Seychelles Islands? What difference does it make if you can’t even pay for your drink? Or do you think that watching the sun set over the horizon somewhere in Ipanema would be much more enjoyable knowing that you can’t even afford a bed in a dorm?Though on Instagram you’re living the dream. But when was the last time you had a video call with the friends who give you likes? You were born in the late ’80s, so you should remember what life was like before the internet and social networks. Or do you want to say that these things made humans more united or happier?”

I remembered how my friends and I used to throw pieces of mud stuck to sticks at each other, and how it gave us no less joy than Nintendo. I remembered how the sneakers bought in a store made me just as happy as the sneakers bought online and delivered to my doorstep. I remembered how the same old dad’s VHS with porn on it made me even more excited than the tons of porn on the internet. I remembered the hours of mindless scrolling on Facebook, from which I didn’t learn anything new but just a bunch of useless life hacks like “how to wash of a marker stain” or “peel a prawn with a fork”. I remembered the hundreds of Instagram posts with tits and butts, Hollywood smiles, and beautiful food, and I realized that none of it brought me any bouts of happiness—it just made me horny, hungry, and envious. I recalled how the dopamine rush from getting likes on my posts could easily be wiped out by the anxiety that followed reading hostile comments. I remembered the hours I wasted arguing about politics with strangers on Twitter and realized that our society has never been more divided.

“Nah, quite the opposite” I replied.

“And as for working in the fields, don’t you worry—in the age of techno-feudalism, a modern office worker toils no more, no less, but just as much as a medieval peasant. And here’s what I’ll tell you about life expectancy. It’s statistics—it’s an average. Through Antiquity and the Middle Ages, infant mortality was high, but people didn’t just drop dead at 40. Those who made it past 12 had every chance of reaching 60, which isn’t much shorter than today’s global average. The Achi tribe people of South America, for instance, still live like they lived thousands years ago and they live up to 78. The Hadza, hunter-gatherers in Africa, reach around 76. When you think about it, that’s only five years short of the average lifespan in Austria or France—and just eight years less than your average American. But we’re talking about happiness, aren’t we?
A long life doesn’t mean a happy one.

What do the final years of Western men and women really look like? A peaceful house in the countryside? A nursing home? An afternoon nap and TV? Oatmeal in the morning cause their stomachs no longer can digest a tasty breakfast? Apathy? No desire to get up, let alone to get laid? Even the ones who hold on eventually stop walking. They get Alzheimer’s or dementia or something else, and in their last days, they shit and piss themselves. And their relatives, who pray to God, that he takes them sooner.”Kept on ranting the bartender.

In a strange way, what he had just said reminded me of my grandmother’s last years. She passed away at 84, and during the final four years of her life, she never left her bed and no longer recognized me, my father, or my mother.

“Bet your granny, rest her soul in peace, would trade her last twenty years for just two more years of youth,” said the bartender, as if he was reading my mind. I wanted to ask him how he knew about my Grandma Josephine’s last days, but he didn’t give me a chance to speak. Worked up, he continued relentlessly rambling while nervously wiping a clean glass with a waffle towel.

“And all those miserable, ugly, and sick children born without a thyroid gland, with congenital heart defects, or with Costello syndrome. They would have died in their early years due to natural selection in the past, but now things like hormone therapy, blood transfusion and schools for special kids will prolong their lives..and agony. In ancient Sparta, they would have been mercifully thrown into the sea, but modern medicine now gives them a ticket to a life full of suffering. They will be destined to envy normal people for as long as they live. But if that’s not enough, some of them will be forced to work. Have you ever seen blind people working on assembly lines, in call centers, or in message parlors? For Christ’s sake, leave them alone. One would think, but no.”

“You don’t believe in humanity,” I said, cutting him off. “One day, people will overcome everything you’re talking about.”

“Quite the opposite,” the bartender replied, exhaling slowly. “People don’t believe in me.” He paused, his voice softening. “No one ever has. Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten anywhere,” he said, finally setting the towel down and placing the glass in its rack. You know what? You’re right. One day, humans will learn to edit their genome, and they’ll even stop dying of old age,” he continued, his voice tinged. “But will they even want to carry on living at that point?” He leaned forward, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Just look at the birth rate. In places like Japan, South Korea, or even all of Britain—hell, the USA fits in there too. Paradoxically, the more technology advances, the less people seem inclined to have children. Oh the mighty and powerful technological progress,” the bartender said, his hands gesturing grandly as if performing on a stage. “A force to be reckoned with, a process that can’t be stopped.” He paused for a moment, then smirked. “Honestly, I can’t wait until humans mess this planet up so badly that living here becomes impossible,” he said, slipping back into his normal manner of speaking.

You see, technology won’t make men any happier,” he said, pulling a LED light out of his pocket. “Humans, just like monkeys, don’t need it to be happy.” He fiddled with the contact, and after a moment, the tiny bulb flickered to life again. The sun, sea, sex, and barbecue do a much better job at making people happy than optical fiber cables or internal combustion engines,” he mumbled, searching for a spot on the bicycle rim to attach the LED light. For a moment, he froze in front of the wheel, like an artist before an easel. Then, with a satisfied look, he slipped the light between the spokes and turned back to us.

“Just imagine what life was like at the dawn of time,” he said, gesturing with his hands to sketch the skyline in the air. “There he stands, the prehistoric man, wrapped in animal skins, scratching his protruding chin, trying to figure out what to do today. To provide enough food for himself and his family, he needs about three to four hours. How does he spend his time? Hunting? Fishing? To a modern man, that would be leisure. And then, once he’s done, he can do whatever his heart desires. He can paint on the walls of his cave, dance around the fire, or touch the hairy legs of his wife. His food contains no microplastics, no carcinogens, no sugar hence he doesn’t have diabetes, cancer, or heart disease. Of course, without antibiotics or X-rays, a rotting wound or a fractured limb could mean death. But on the other hand, there’s no syphilis, no tuberculosis, no AIDS, no plague, no smallpox. It’s no secret that all of these viruses and bacteria— that cause these diseases—spread with the rise of big cities. Two of his five children will die either at birth or from malnutrition but they won’t die in a pointless war that isn’t theirs. Their bodies won’t be wrapped in flags, and their parents won’t receive a zinc coffin. His loved ones might suffer from parasites, but none of them will kill themselves. None of them will die from an overdose because there are no drug cartels or pharmaceutical companies to poison them with synthetic opioids. He doesn’t need to worry about a career, he doesn’t need to pay taxes, and he doesn’t need antidepressants or therapy because he doesn’t have depression. The air he breathes is clean, the water he drinks is clean, but most importantly, his mind is at peace. His thoughts are full of the desire to live, fight, and reproduce. Wasn’t this the Garden of Eden?”

” Now, look at what’s going on these days,” the bartender continued his tirade. “Once a blue planet, Earth now resembles a hot mess. Today, there are 8 billion people—but tomorrow? It won’t be 16, it’ll be 50 billion. And those who are drowning in poverty keep making small copies of themselves, hoping they’ll bring meaning and happiness to their lives. But times have changed. Automation and AI are developing so fast that they’re already capable of replacing the very scientists who created them. So the only things these little human copies are likely to bring into their parents’ lives are more chores, more stress, and more expenses. And if you think about it—how useful is a copy of a moron, anyway? For a few seconds, the bartender was silent as he picked up another burned-out LED light from the floor and turned it over in his hands, trying to fix the contact. Finally, he gave it a snap with his index finger—and it lit up again. “The glaciers are melting, the ozone holes are getting wider and wider, the coral reefs and Bengal tigers are going extinct. But you know what? As Jared said, “Fuck tigers.” Just look at the kind of world people are bringing new lives into. Despite all the technological progress, hundreds of thousands still die of starvation every year, millions flee from war, and even more have no place to live. Human labor costs next to nothing, and billions work themselves to the bone in mines, on construction sites, in factories or on assembly lines—just to get some sleep in a concrete box. Some are a bit luckier: five days a week, they spend hours in traffic, driving to office jobs they despise, just to buy things they don’t really need, to impress people they don’t even care about. Congratulations—now you can afford a treadmill! And from every corner, every billboard, the ads scream: Want this! Desire that! Dream about it all! But none of it will make them any happier. And from the screens of their phones, their favorite influencers will be telling them how desperately they need all these goods to fulfill their lives. And from the screens of their TVs, politicians will tell them how to live, who they need to hate, and what they should fear. They’ll scare them with terrorists, viruses, and external enemies. And don’t you doubt it—there will be new viruses, new world wars and new terrorist organizations. Many will die of disease, many will be maimed by bombs, and many will croak from an overdose. Meanwhile, the elites—who control all of these processes—will keep robbing them blind, fucking their children, and openly worshipping Satan. Sam, look around. Doesn’t this look like the hell you’re so afraid of?”

Are you trying to say there aren’t any happy people around here?” the old man asked, raising a brow.

“Well, there are,” said the bartender, “but very few—and they’re here just to annoy the rest.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What about those elites, huh? The powerful ones of this world? ” Grunted, Sam.

“Ah, come on. Those bastards aren’t happy either. Don’t you know what it’s like to have everything—and still want more? Don’t you know how discontent and irritated one can be, because it’s never enough? Don’t you know what it’s like to be drowning in luxury and still fear the day to come? “I’m telling you—the happy ones aren’t who you think. Most of the elites live in constant fear and tension. When the stakes are that high, one small mistake and boom—everything’s gone. You’re left with nothing. And they know perfectly well that even their heads roll sometimes.

“How about the golden middle then? What about the middle class? What about the well-off Texas farmer or a German Bürger?” I asked.

Oh, these days the golden middle is anything but golden. The middle class is almost extinct—just like the Bengal tigers. And don’t you know what kind of wicked lives people might be living behind those freshly mown lawns? Don’t you know what might be hiding behind the white facades of suburban houses? Is it a lack of attention? Adultery? Domestic violence and abuse? Or maybe addictions?”

It felt as if he looked straight into my soul. The memories of my drunk, jealousy-crazed dad hitting my mom resurfaced before my eyes, and I couldn’t find any logical explanation for it. No matter how drunk I’d been a few hours ago, I was sure I hadn’t told a soul about it.

“Even the Buddhist monks,” he continued, “the closest they get to achieving happiness is by stopping suffering—by turning into vegetables. These guys know better than anyone else: life is pain.

No, no, no, no, everything isn’t like you say,” I protested, waving my hands as if trying to shoo away an annoying fly. “There is happiness. And if this planet is hell, then why are the sunsets so beautiful?”

“Well, of course there’s happiness—otherwise, how would you even know grief? In our lives, there is joy, and there is pleasure, and there is bliss. But it’s only after you get a taste of them that you truly understand pain, and sorrow, and anguish.”

He leaned in. “But tell me honestly—what’s more in your life?

Frantically, I began recalling every good thing that had ever happened to me. But the bartender was right. For every good memory, I had to dive deep into the very depths of my mind, while all the shit—like shit usually does—floated on the surface.

“There is happiness, but it usually doesn’t last long,” Sam spoke all of a sudden. “Everything that gives us joy will eventually kill us and happy days end quicker than a lunch break. Just when your soul snacks on something good, all hell breaks loose. I’ve lived long enough to notice that I become happy only when I can no longer suffer,” said the old man.

“This is exactly how it works. Last call, gentlemen,” said the barman, ringing the bell above the bar. My mouth went dry.

“Can I get some water?” I asked him.

“Mmm, only tap water. You won’t believe it, but the junkies drank all the bottled water during the party,” he replied.

“Coke? Here you go. It’s on the house,” the bartender told me, placing a can of diet Coke in front of me.

I poured a little into an empty glass with a half-melted ice cube, and after I took a sip I looked at Sam, who had been staring at me the whole time. With a gesture, I offered him some soda.

“Ah, no, thank you. I stopped drinking this fizzy crap when I left America,” Sam said, turning his face toward the barman, who immediately dived under the bar.

“I see you’re a connoisseur of Japanese single malts. I have something special for you. You won’t find anything like this on the shelves,” the bartender grunted, emerging from behind the bar, proudly rotating a black bottle in his hand. Sam nodded approvingly. While the barman poured our drinks, the charming Indian girl who had been talking on the phone all this time approached the bar. In a tight beige dress, with a lovely blush on her cheeks, she stood so close to me that I could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. She took out her credit card, and when our eyes met, she smiled at me.

“Just a moment,” said the barman, closing the bottle.

“So, one limelight cocktail. That’ll be 150,000 Vietnam Dong.”

The girl tapped the card on the terminal and, burying herself in her phone, sat to my left. At that moment, a wave of thirst hit me. My dehydrated body craved liquid, so instinctively, I reached for the can of Coke, intending to pour a bit into my glass of whiskey. Sam, seated on my right, rasped trying to get my attention. One brow raised, he stared at me with a look of disapproval.

“You mix this whiskey with cola, and I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for it yourself. And since you don’t have any money on you…”

“Ooh, this is 18-year-old Yamazaki,” interrupted the bartender. “I don’t think we have that many dirty dishes—but a blowjob will do.”

I laughed, then pushed the can of Coke away.

“Damn it, it’s good whiskey indeed—so why not,” mumbled the bartender and poured himself a glass too. Rotating the glass slowly, he appreciated the smell and the color of the drink, then raised it solemnly. “Gentlemen, I have a toast. To happiness!”

The bartender said it with such vigor, such passion and enthusiasm, that it made me want to drink it in one gulp. But the 18-year-old Yamazaki went down the wrong way. Choking, I grabbed the can of Coke to wash it down. Honestly, I’ve never been a fan of whiskey neat , cigars, or all that other stuff for ‘real men.’ And if free whiskey wasn’t flowing like a river that night, I wouldn’t have had it straight. I took a few swigs, but it didn’t really help. Trying not to puke, I cringed and turned to the old man.

“Uh, okay, lads—two Yamazakis, six Hibikis, one whisky cola and two packs of Leo… honestly Sam, I don’t know how you smoke them, these cigarettes are terrible. Anyway..that’ll be five million five hundred thousand,” said the bartender.

“Oh lord, how much is that in dollars? Almost two hundred, right?”

“Yeah, about that. But it’s mostly the Yamazaki,” the bartender replied.

“You know what I like about Vietnam?” said Sam, pulling out a bluish stack of 500k banknotes. “Every loser gets to be a millionaire down here.”

“Thanks for the drink, Sam. Thanks for everything. I’m heading home now. Here, take a few sips,” I said, pushing the can of Coke in his direction, while he was paying the bill. Not spilling a drop, the tin can slid across the bar counter, and to keep it from flying off the edge, Sam instinctively grabbed it with one hand. I stood up and started walking toward the exit.

“I told you I haven’t drunk this sugary shit in ten years,” he growled at my back.

“It’s a Diet Coke. There’s no sugar in it,” I replied without turning around.

“Take it back!” yelled the old man.

When I heard him shouting, I froze. After a brief pause, I dramatically spun around on my heels. He jumped up from his chair and, eyes bulging, and was holding out the can of Coke.

“Take it back,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

For whatever reason, the old man was furious. Suddenly, his palm tightened, and the can cracked under his thick fingers. His eyebrows drew together in an angry grimace, and the corner of his mouth twitched to the side, as if pulled by an invisible hook.

“Fuck,” rasped the old man and collapsed beneath the chair to which his dogs had been tied. The bluish half a million banknotes flew out of his pocket, while some soda spilled from a crumpled can that had been rolling at his feet onto the already sticky floor. His dogs, sensing something was wrong, whimpered pitifully and pulled on their leashes, nervously they were sniffing around their owner. The bartender, trying to see what was going on, jumped slightly and leaned half his body over the bar counter. An awkward pause hung in the air.

“Looks like the old man finally got his money, coke, and bitches.. His millions,” the barman muttered scathingly, wearing a slightly puzzled look.

“Well, what are you standing there for?” The girl from India suddenly shouted. She quickly put her phone into her purse and, clicking her heels, hurried towards me.

Absolutely stunned by such a turn of events, I stood frozen beside the old man, holding onto my head with both of my hands.

“It seems he’s having a stroke. Somebody call an ambulance!” she shouted.

“How do you know?” asked the bartender.

“You’ve got an unconscious man drooling on the floor. Are you going to leave him like that, or are you going to call the Ghostbusters instead?”

“I’m a doctor,” she said, “and I said it seems. I’m not sure,” she replied sharply.

Intending to administer first aid to the old man, she tried to get closer to his sprawled body, but at that moment, his dogs seemed to go wild. Their muzzles snarled, and the fur along their necks bristled. Clenching their teeth and flinging spit, they viciously snapped at the air. Suzu and Yuki no longer resembled the two cute dogs from a Hachiko movie. With their paws spread wide and emitting a terrifying growl, they were ready to pounce on anyone who dared approach their owner’s body.

“Try to distract the dogs!” the girl commanded. Pissing myself from fear, I was clapping right in front of their snouts, but they didn’t move an inch, only barking even more desperately. After noticing my pathetic attempts, the bartender tossed me a towel and dialed the ambulance.

“It’s a fucking Hachiko, not a pitbull! Come on, do something!” the Indian girl yelled.

“It’s an Akita Inu,” I replied, twisting the towel. “This breed is called Akita Inu,” I said, snapping the textured cotton cloth across the mouth of one of the dogs. That made her really angry. Pulling the chair to which it had been tied, it tried to attack me. I swung the towel across the second dog’s muzzle, and it growled louder than before. I was about to hit the first one again, but anticipating the move, it sank its teeth into the towel. I tugged the towel left and right, but the dog wouldn’t release its grip. So, gathering my strength, I sharply yanked the towel, twisting my body like an athlete before a hammer throw, and flung either Yuki or Suzu (I couldn’t tell which) along with the towel. Gaining a few precious seconds, I immediately ran to the chair from the other side and dragged it to the wall along with the dogs. But when the chair’s legs caught on a pipe running along the wall, one of the dogs clamped its teeth down on my Achilles. “You bitch!” I shouted, kicking the dog away with my foot. I jumped back, stumbling under the bar counter. Groaning in pain, I checked the bitten leg. In front of me lay Sam. The Indian girl had dropped to her knees beside him, while a few feet away, Suzu and Yuki were growling, their leashes taut and pulled.

She made sure the dogs couldn’t reach her, then placed her hand on the old man’s neck, starting to examine his body.

“It’s bad. He isn’t breathing, and the pulse is very weak,” she said. “What’s going on with the ambulance?” she asked the bartender.

“I’m waiting to be connected with someone who speaks English, because I don’t speak any Vietnamese.”

“Okay, I see,” she replied, then unbuttoned Sam’s shirt.

“1, 2, 3,” she said aloud, rhythmically pressing down on the old man’s chest before inhaling air into his smoke-damaged lungs.

Finally, I heard the bartender speaking. He was giving the dispatcher the address and briefly describing what had happened.

“1, 2, 3, come on, you old geezer, breathe!” the girl shouted, continuing her attempts to save the old man’s life.
It’s hard to say how long it lasted, because, at that moment, time seemed to stand still for me. After several more attempts, the girl gave up.

“Fuck!” she shouted, furiously punching the old man’s chest with both of her fists.

“You’re going to kill him like that,” the bartender remarked sarcastically.

“I’m afraid he’s already dead,” the girl replied, getting up from her knees.

The sounds of sirens echoed in the distance, and the dogs stopped barking. A few minutes later, a team of paramedics entered the building. But, as the girl had said, they came only to confirm the death and take away the body. Fifteen minutes later, two cops walked into the bar. Dressed in army-green uniforms, the booth looked sleepy and annoyed. One took a few photos while the other spoke with the doctor in charge. After a brief exchange, the paramedics placed Sam’s body on a stretcher and carried it to the ambulance. Meanwhile, the cops began questioning all of us. One of the cops spoke broken English, and it was clear he wanted to wrap things up as quickly as possible. Overhearing his conversation with the Indian girl, I learned her name was Priti and that she was from Pune, India. She was a trained surgeon, but in recent years, she had been working in aesthetic medicine, which was pretty evident, as she looked much younger than she said she was. I was the next one they questioned. I told them what happened, and when they finished, I headed towards the exit. One of the paramedics noticed I was limping and offered to examine my leg.

“You need to get a tetanus shot and a just-in-case rabies shot,” he said, looking at the wound. I silently nodded, and he began the treatment. The cops were questioning the bartender, and I pretended to listen carefully to what the doctor was saying, while all my attention was focused on Priti. She and that weirdo who had been lounging in the hammock outside were talking to each other right in front of me. Strangely, in his conversation with her, he behaved completely appropriately and didn’t seem like the town madman I had encountered earlier. He carried himself with confidence, and though it was hard to believe, it seemed that she was actually interested in his company.

“Priti, you’re so pretty ,” he joked, and she laughed flirtatiously. Seemingly amused by his pun, she casually closed the distance between them.

“Un-be-lievable,” I muttered to the bartender, who had just come up to me.”I bet she’s heard that pun a hundred times already, and 99 of those times, it was from guys trying to hit on her.”

“Nonetheless, she’s laughing like she’s hearing it for the first time,” the bartender remarked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, it looks like he caught her attention.”

“Attention? I think it’s a bit more than that. He’s definitely on her radar—more like in her crosshairs. But I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes right now.” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

The bartender didn’t answer. Instead, he just went behind the bar and started cleaning the tables. The doctor took another syringe and carefully filled it from the ampoule. Just then, the guy who had been talking to Preeti walked toward the parking lot, leaving her standing alone. This is my chance, I thought to myself. No matter what, I’ve got to talk to her and get her phone number. As soon as the doctor finished giving me the second shot, I jumped up from the chair, but he immediately sat me back down.

“Excuse me, sir, but you need to pay 500,000 Vietnamese Dong.”

“What? Half a million for a piece of bandage? What are you talking about?” I shouted.

“250,000 for a tetanus shot and 250,000 for a rabies shot,” said the doctor.

While I was trying to explain to the paramedics that my wallet had been stolen and that I had absolutely no money on me , the weirdo who had been hitting on Priti left the parking lot on a matte black Honda PCX scooter. He picked her up and they rolled off into the sunrise. Almost immediately after that, the cops drove off as well. The doctors, realizing they couldn’t extort any money from me, waved me off, throwing insults my way in Vietnamese. Then, they climbed into the ambulance and took Sam’s body to the morgue. The sun was beginning to rise, the street had quieted down, and a lone star shone in the sky between the rooftops. I started walking toward the parking lot to grab my motorcycle.

“Jesus fucking Christ! What am I supposed to do with these dogs?” I heard the bartender lament.

As I rolled my clunker onto the road, his pale face appeared from behind the bar doors. “Do you want to take them, by any chance?” he asked, nodding toward the dogs still tied to the chair inside.

“You know what? It seems I’m getting no bitches today,” I replied, firing up the bike. The city was just beginning to wake up, with hardly anyone around, much like the thoughts in my head. Tired, I rolled back home at a leisurely pace. “Yeah, it was one hell of a night.” I thought, twisting the throttle.