The Karen and Axl Rose

Lifting his groggy head up and looking out to the floor to ceiling windows, he saw the pink light of morning spreading in from underneath a cluster of dark black clouds. Sam then noticed his phone was silently flashing.

He clumsily fumbled at the nightstand next to the bed, scooped up the device, and saw that Nok had sent him a text saying she'd needed to go back to her home, up north, in Esan, to make arrangements for a formal wedding, a traditional Buddhist wedding, at the temple, and that a week or two later, she'd have him come up there to meet her parents and have the ceremony.

She also requested he pay her folks a "sinsot," a dowry, of $100,000, and provided him the bank account info for the transfer.

Sam wasted no time in transferring the funds to Bangkok Bank. It was the least he could do. He imagined her parents happy and wai-ing him in the threshold of their triangle roofed, nut-brown, traditional Thai house, the house probably on tall stilts, probably made of teak, with thickets of jungle, palm fronds and mangrove surrounding it.

He could see her parents in that doorway, her father in pantaloons, her mother in long golden robes, her parents bowing and welcoming him triumphantly, like a champion!

16

They talked online, video chatted the next couple days. In the background, it looked like she was in a small bedroom, not the big house that she said her family had up north.

He also remembered her originally saying she was from Koh Samui and asked her about that, and she said that she was from there before but that her family now lives in Esan.

It'd also occurred to him that, in his pilled-up, drunken stupor and haste to tie the knot, that he'd not signed a prenup. Whatever, he figured, he'd hire a lawyer, have that ironed out later.

17

Monsoon season had arrived, and it was raining just as heavily in Esan as it was in Bangkok. Holding his tablet like it was a talisman, he gazed longingly at his new wife as they spoke via video chat, but it was sort of hard to hear Nok talk over the rattle of the rain pattering at the roof of her house.

She told him that tomorrow her cousin would stop by to pick up the amulet she'd left over there in the hotel room.

Before he could ask where she'd left it, she hurried off the call, saying her mother needed help cooking, and she air-kissed him goodnight.

18

The following afternoon, the rain had stopped, and slivers of golden sunshine were slicing through the heavy gray and white blotches of clouds blanketing the sky.

Seeing the sunshine made Sam feel better and he started his daily diary entry by writing, "I love Bangkok!"

Nok's cousin showed up at around this time, knocking hard on the door, shaking it.

But it was not only him, he was flanked by 3 other guys. All muscly and dressed in black shirts and black jeans and all with tattoos covering the entirety of their bodies. 3 of the 4 had longish black hair shaved at the sides and ponytails in the back, except for one guy, a dude missing several teeth, whose smallish head was shaved bald.

The men pushed in roughly as he opened the door, one saying something in broken English about "she leave thing on balcony" and the men swarmed and huddled around Sam, forcing him forward to the balcony, his 17th floor balcony overlooking the Olympic-sized pool.

He screamed for help, but one of the men slapped a palm over Sam's lips, silencing his cries. Shivers raced down Sam's spine and his heart beat like a jackhammer.

As they shoved and surged forward, through his spacious suite, he knew. He knew the score. He knew from the warning blogs he'd read, and on the plane over he'd read Stephen Leather's novel "Private Dancer."

He'd taken precautions, but the "Land of Scams" had gotten him. He'd been scammed. The last few days were a sham. A farce. A fake. A performance. A simulation. An X-Rated Truman Show.

It had been a grand fake. The girl was a snake, an actress, a ghost and a vampire. Everything was a lie!

Everything was a simulacrum!

The palm trees out there were probably fake. The smiles, those thin smiles were fake too. Hell, the sun was even fake, he'd bet, some great big lamp installed by the TAT, the geezers and their cowering manservants in pantaloons.

Overpowered, the sweaty palm cupped and muzzled his mouth and Sam wriggled and whimpered and tasted its saltiness.

One of the men, who smelled strongly of cigarettes, was muttering what sounded like orders in Thai. One of them was giggling like a hyena.

Like a rugby scrum, the huddled mass burst out to the balcony. As he neared the balcony railing and saw down at the pool below, he was suddenly grateful for at least one thing...

He was grateful that- for at least a short time- he got to be a rock star. He got to feel like one. Live like one. Drink all day and fuck lots of women. Stay in a luxury hotel room in an exotic location. He got to live that life.

But it was now over. And that was okay. He could go in peace.

Then he released. Let his twisting, fighting limbs go limp.

He accepted the percentage. And he quit the dream.