Welcome to the land of consciousness. I hope you had a pleasant nap and an equally pleasant journey. Try to make yourself comfortable. Please do not try to escape. If by some miracle you were gone when I returned, I would hunt down your beautiful bride, fuck her, and then kill her.
Best wishes,
George
P.S. I have people downstairs, so don’t try shouting out the window.
I’m having a nightmare, Michael said to himself. That’s what it is. A nightmare. Either that or I am losing my mind.
He struggled and scraped his way toward the window. The chain just reached. He lifted his head, pushed his face under the shade with his nose and looked out. If he had been only confused before, he was completely lost now. There were tons of people on the streets. Neon lights splashed across the dark sky, “LIVE Sex Shows!” and “LIVE Nudes!” over and over again, as though some patrons would be confused and think that they performed sex shows with dead bodies. Dark, Asian men stood outside bars, opening the door every once in a while to reveal naked dancing girls on tables, hoping the view would entice customers into their establishment. A man stood in the middle of the street with three girls, each dressed in a red cape, blue boots, and yellow bodysuits with a giant S emblazoned upon the chest. The man kept yelling out, “Supergirl! Supergirl! Spend an evening with Supergirl! She fly you to the moon and back!”
Michael spotted a young Asian boy approaching an American couple in their sixties who looked liked they belonged on a farm in the Midwest. “You want go to sex show?” he asked in broken English, handing the couple a card. “Lookie at all these positions.” He began to point to different parts of the card. “Woman on top. Two women with one man. Doggie. You name it. Lookie, big breasts. Use banana too. You like. Anything you want. Come with me. Live show.”
Mr. and Mrs. Old MacDonald studied the card as if it were the fine print of a real estate contract, nodded eagerly, and then followed the Asian boy.
The street was packed, waves of people heading in both directions. There were other neon signs too. Some in English, some written in characters Michael did not understand. They were not, he knew, Chinese or Japanese. Not Hebrew or Arabic either. No cars were on the road, but he could hear them close by. On his right, he saw tables set up with watches, shirts, pants, sweaters, cassettes, everything. “Three dollars for LaCoste shirt,” one vendor cried. Another shouted, “One dollar for favorite cassette. Six for five dollars. All favorites of you. George Michael. U2. Barbra Streisand. You name, we have.”
What is this place?
The door behind him opened. “Well, well, we’re awake.”
Michael slid back to the floor. The man in the doorway was large and stocky. He appeared to be very muscular, though not as disproportionate as most weight lifters. His hair was slicked back like Pat Riley’s, the former Lakers coach, and his suit looked like something off the cover of GQ.
“Welcome, Michael,” the man began. “My name is George. Did you read my note?”
Michael nodded.
“It was for your own good,” George continued. “Escape would be very dangerous. You see, I have already killed a lot of people. Killing your wife would just be one more.”
Michael struggled, but the chains held him in place.
“Now, just relax a second, Michael.” George knew a lot about the art of intimidation. Threatening a man’s wife was one of his favorite tactics. It was connected to the whole possession thing, he guessed, and nothing demoralized a man more than the thought that his wife was balling another guy—by force or otherwise.
George grabbed the chair from the corner, sat down, and leaned toward his captive. “You look confused, Michael, so let me explain to you what’s going on.” His voice was relaxed, casual. A casual voice, George knew, was often more unnerving than the loudest of screams. “We are in Bangkok. That’s right, we are in the Far East, just you and me, pal. In fact, this building is on Patpong Street, the red-light district. Twelve-year-old whores suck off guys in this very room all the time, Michael, isn’t that sick? Twelve years old and already they’re hustling. A real shame.”
George shook his head solemnly. “I tell you, the world is falling apart before our very eyes and nobody cares. Fact is, we’re standing over a topless bar right now—bottomless too if you pay the right price.”
George laughed maniacally at his joke. Michael stared back in horror.
“Don’t get so upset, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Good. Maybe later we’ll have time to see the sights. The Reclining Buddha is a must-see in my opinion. Same with the Grand Palace. Maybe we’ll even take a little boat trip through the floating market. Would you like that?”
Michael just continued to stare.
“But first, let’s talk business. If you do what I say, no one will be hurt and you will be free very soon. We might even have some fun. If, however, you do not cooperate, my reaction will be swift and painful.” George smiled again. “Let me give you an example.”
Without warning, George’s hand shot out. It moved so fast it was barely a blur. His knuckles landed on Michael’s nose. Michael heard a crunching, squelching noise and he knew that his nose had been broken. Blood trickled out of his nostrils.
“You see what I’m saying?”
The pain engulfed Michael’s entire face. Since his mouth was still covered with the tape, he had no choice but to breathe through his broken nose. What do you want? Michael tried to scream, but the tape muffled his voice.
“Now let me tell you something else,” George continued. “I have things to do, so I can’t sit here and watch you all day. Besides, it’s too hot in here. Bangkok is always so humid, Michael, but you get used to it after a day or two. The thing is, my employer told me to make you as comfortable as possible. So I would like to loosen some of those chains and take the tape off your mouth. But I need your promise you won’t try anything. Do you promise, Mike?”
Michael nodded.
“Good. If you leave this room or do something cute, my men will spot you, and Sara will suffer. I am good at making people suffer. And Sara is such a delicate little flower, Michael. You wouldn’t want me to attach electric cables to her clit, would you? Juice her up good and then let my boys take turns with her?”
Michael quickly shook his head.
“I’m also pretty handy with explosives. If the police did by some miracle find you and decide to try a rescue”—he paused, smiled, and nodded toward the sticks of dynamite by the door—“ka-boom! Michael all gone. Blood, limbs, screams—very messy stuff. Follow me?”