|
Death in Bangkok
Night in the outskirts of Bangkok is a soup of noise and wet heat. The
ceiling fan does nothing but scatter the stench of blood and semen across the
hotel room. Rod stands with his arms folded, naked from the waist down, his
cock already half-hard and glistening at the tip, hair plastered to his body
by sweat and violence. The man on the bed is dying. Four shots, center mass,
the work of a professional; the Russian’s lips are the color of raw liver,
his breathing thin and shallow. Hermann sits on the battered Formica table, cigarette burning down to
the filter, right leg bouncing. His eyes are on Rod, and on the Russian, and
back to Rod. The Englishman is built like a rugby forward gone to fat: a
bear’s pelt on his chest, the meat of his arms dense and veined, face
bristling with the short grey of a week’s beard. He could be a docker, or a school janitor, except for the eyes—mean,
sharp, hungry. Rod steps over to the bed, lifts the Russian’s limp wrists, and drags
the body up so it sits slumped against the headboard, leaking pink saliva
onto the pillow. He grins, looks over his shoulder at Hermann, and barks a
laugh. “Fucking hell, he’s barely holding on,” Rod says, his accent thick
London. “Think he’s waiting for his fucking babushka to show up and hold his
hand?” Hermann grunts, flicks ash onto the rotting carpet. “Give him what he
wants, then.” Rod squints, then puts a palm to the Russian’s jaw and squeezes his
cheeks, mashing the lips into a meat-ring. He hikes the corpse’s legs open,
careless, and positions himself. Hermann sees Rod’s cock, thick as a
bratwurst and swinging heavy, mottled with veins and tufts of matted grey.
Rod spits into his palm, once, twice, then drives it in with the same
mechanical efficiency he puts into shooting, or drinking, or murder. The Russian makes a wet, high sound. It is not a cry—more the noise of
a man with a collapsed lung and no reason left to scream. Rod’s thrusts are
businesslike at first, but quickly grow punishing; the man’s hips are yanked
up with each motion, the dying hole around Rod’s dick caving and then
gripping as the sphincter gives up and blood slicks the way. Hermann watches, eyes flat. He grinds out the cigarette, sets the next
one to his lips, but doesn’t light it. The air is redolent of cordite and the
ripe stink of dying man, and of Rod’s sweat, which is its own Englishman’s
perfume. The scene is obscene, and yet there is a sense of ritual: this is how
it is done, every time. Kill the target, fuck the corpse. Rod’s rule. On the bed, the Russian is moving his lips. Maybe prayer, maybe
begging. Rod leans down, his beard scraping the man’s ear, and hisses
something in English. The Russian blinks, confused, then turns his eyes to
Hermann. They’re clouded, but there’s a moment of mutual recognition—victim
to spectator, both prisoners, both lost causes. Rod’s balls slap the Russian’s ass with a meat-wet rhythm. Blood seeps
around the root, dark and gloppy. Rod’s breathing is controlled, but Hermann
knows the signs: the slight hitch in the throat, the way his toes curl
against the sheet, the deepening of the brow. The bastard’s close. Rod slides
a hand up the Russian’s chest, gropes for a nipple, and twists; then, with a
grin, he slips his meaty hand around the Russian’s throat and starts to
squeeze. The Russian’s eyes roll up. The mouth works, desperate for air, but
Rod only tightens his grip, pounding harder now. The noises are ugly, even
for this city: choking, grunting, the wet slap of bodies. Hermann’s own dick
has grown stiff under his jeans, and he hates himself for it. It takes time for the Russian to die. Rod draws it out, squeezing with
expert brutality, easing off when the man nearly goes out, then crushing
again. At last, the body goes slack, head lolling, a string of drool trailing
down the cheek. Rod gives a last, vicious pump, then groans as he empties
himself into the corpse. “Fucking beautiful,” Rod says, voice hoarse. He keeps his grip on the
neck, just in case, milking the last pulses of semen into dead guts. Hermann lights his new cigarette. He exhales toward the stained
ceiling. “You’re a sick fuck, Rod.” Rod grins, pulling free with a sucking sound and a squelch of blood
and shit. “You always say that. Never gets old.” He wipes his cock on the Russian’s shirt, tosses the dead man’s hand
onto his lap as if giving him a congratulatory handshake. Rod turns and looks
at Hermann, cock still dripping, eyes bright with post-coital clarity. “Enjoy the show?” Rod asks. Hermann blows smoke, shrugs. “Better than Thai telly.” Rod stalks to the table, bends over until his face is inches from
Hermann’s. “You ever want to be on the other end, mate? I could give you the
proper English send-off. Tighten your arsehole up
first, so it’s a fight.” Hermann looks at the Russian, dead on the bed, legs spread and
leaking. The blood is already congealing, a puddle under his hips. Hermann’s
heart hammers. “You’re fucking mental.” Rod laughs, the sound rich and unashamed. He slaps Hermann on the
shoulder, then lets his hand slide down Hermann’s back, fingers thick and
coarse. “I think you’d love it,” Rod says. “Being fucked, choked, snuffed out
by a pro. Not many can say they went out that way. Just you and a few lucky
who met me.” Hermann’s mouth is dry. He finishes the cigarette, stubs it into the
heel of his palm, just to feel something. “You’re talking shit.” Rod just winks, then walks to the shower cubicle in the corner. He
stands there, still naked, pisses into the toilet with a sigh of contentment.
“One day you’ll ask me,” he says, over his shoulder. “When you’re ready.” Hermann says nothing. He watches Rod’s ass, thick and hairy, and the
corded muscles of his back. He tells himself he’s only waiting for orders,
waiting for the next target. He tells himself he’s not thinking about the
offer. But he is. He’s thinking about it more than anything. The fan buzzes overhead. The city moans outside. On the bed, the dead
man’s eyes stare at the ceiling, glassy and unblinking. Rod comes back, flops onto the mattress, and takes up the Russian’s
wrist, as if feeling for a pulse he knows is long gone. He rolls the body
over, lays it face-down, and pats the ass almost affectionately. “Should get going soon,” Rod says. “Cleaners will be here in an hour.” Hermann nods. “You ever get tired of it?” Rod picks at his teeth, then leans forward, voice low. “Not even
once.” He eyes Hermann’s crotch, notes the bulge, and smiles. “You got a stiffy there, mate.” Hermann grits his teeth. “Get fucked.” Rod grins wider, voice a whisper. “Anytime.” The room is thick with the stench of death and the memory of what just
happened. But for the two men, it’s just another night, another job, another
body on the mattress. Only difference is, this one will linger, festering between them,
until the day they do it for real. Hermann sits on the table, jaw clenched, as Rod prowls the room. The
corpse is cooling, stinking up the place with that sour, chemical tang. Rod leans
in the bathroom doorway, towel slung over his shoulder, still naked, dick
painted with a smear of shit and congealing blood. He doesn't bother to clean
it off. Rod grins, a shark’s smile. “You’re in a mood.” “Just tired,” Hermann mutters, not looking at him. Rod barks a laugh. “You’re never tired. You just don’t like admitting
what gets you off.” He steps into the room, balls swinging, beer gut wobbling
a little with each stride. “Want a go with the Russian? Still warm, if you
hurry.” Hermann snorts. “That your thing, mate. I’m not into leftovers.” Rod circles behind Hermann, close enough that his chest hair tickles
the nape of Hermann’s neck. “What’s your thing, then? Taking a right
pummeling before I split you open?” He drops a paw on Hermann’s shoulder,
squeezing with bruising force. “Or just want the big finish?” Hermann twists free, stands, and faces him. Rod’s cock is at
half-mast, glistening, the stench of it thick in the air. Behind him, the
corpse seems to watch. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” Hermann says, voice rough. “Fuck me, then
off me?” Rod’s eyes gleam. “Best way for a bastard like you to go.” He leans
in, forehead touching Hermann’s. “You want it, don’t you? Think about it
every time I do one of these slags.” Hermann looks away, but his own dick is straining at his zipper. He
imagines Rod’s hands around his throat, his face going red, the last thing he
sees that shit-eating grin. He shrugs, tries for a sneer. “You’d probably get off on it.” Rod just laughs, loud and ugly, and puts a hand to his cock, stroking
it back to life. “Yeah, I would. I’d make it last, too. Make you feel it, all
the way.” The thought goes through Hermann like electricity. He hates Rod, hates
how he can’t stop thinking about being taken apart by him. Rod gets closer, breath hot in Hermann’s ear. “Say the word, and I’ll
start now.” Hermann grits his teeth, his cock diamond-hard. “Piss off.” Rod steps back, arms spread, cock stiff as a club. “Anytime, sunshine.
Just say it.” The dead Russian gapes at them, jaw slack, eyes fixed open. In the
space between the two living men, something tightens, pulls, snaps. Rod laughs again, slow and low. “You’re not ready. But you will be.”
He saunters off to the bathroom, the slap of his feet loud on the tile. Hermann stays where he is, staring at the corpse. He doesn’t move, not
until his own erection starts to fade. He knows Rod is right. He’s always right. Hermann paces the shitty hotel room, running a hand through his damp
hair. The smell of death and sex clings to everything. He grabs a towel and
throws it at Rod. “Clean yourself up, we’re late,” Hermann says. “You want to miss the exfil?” Rod wipes his mouth, then looks at the towel. “What, you want it tidy
for the next cunt who comes through?” He smears the towel along his cock, then
tosses it back on the bed, right over the Russian’s ruined arse. Hermann feels his anger spike. “You never fucking stop, do you?” Rod cocks his head. “Never had a reason to.” He steps in, nose to
nose. “Know what I think, mate? I think you’re scared you’ll like it too
much.” Hermann steps back, jaw clenched. “I’m not scared of you.” Rod laughs, low and deep. “You should be. You ever seen your own face
when I’m in you, even just in your head? I bet you wank
yourself raw thinking about it.” Hermann’s hands curl into fists. “Piss off, Rod.” Rod grins. He walks to the bed, lifts the Russian’s head by the hair,
and sticks his dick in the dead man’s mouth, just for show. He lets out a
little moan, as if it’s the best blowjob in Bangkok. Then he steps back and,
with zero ceremony, pisses into the slack jaw, overflowing the mouth and onto
the sheets. Hermann watches, disgusted and—worse—thrilled. “That’s revolting.” Rod shakes off the last drops, then wipes himself on the Russian’s
shirt. “Just making sure you have an example to live up to.” He pads over to
the bathroom, water splashing as he half-arsedly
rinses off. When he emerges, he’s only marginally cleaner, but now he’s
dressed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his battered chinos. Rod leans in the doorway, squinting at Hermann. “Three days. You want
your big night, you’ll find me at the Serpent, off Rama Four. Back entrance.
Seven sharp.” Hermann scoffs. “I’m not going to some Turkish bath just to get gutted
by you.” Rod shrugs. “Didn’t say you had to. But I’ll be there. Think about
it.” He gives Hermann a clap on the back, hard enough to rattle his ribs,
then heads out the door. “Don’t get lost on the way,” he calls. Hermann is left alone in the room, with the corpse and the stink. His
head pounds. He tries to tell himself he’s too smart to take Rod’s bait, but
he can already feel the hook set deep. He looks at the dead Russian. The open eyes seem to laugh at him. “Fuck off,” Hermann mutters. But there’s no one left to hear it. Three days is a long time to contemplate your own death. In that time,
Hermann tries every trick he knows: beer, cigarettes, a spin with a ladyboy who’s more man than woman and knows how to take a
punch. Nothing helps. The thought of Rod, waiting at the Serpent, gets into
his bones. He almost doesn’t show. Almost. But seven p.m. finds him standing in
an alley behind the Turkish bath, hands jammed in his pockets, staring at the
filthy steel door. Signs near the door. Masseuses, Masseurs, Turkish bath. A few photos.
Women, boys, a very muscular man. There's something for every fucking taste.
Turkish bath, brothel, slaughterhouse. He could turn back, even now. Instead, he raps three times, knuckles
raw, and the slot opens. The man who answers is massive, bare-chested, covered in prison ink
from neck to navel. His eyes are flat and unreadable. “You’re early,” he
says. Hermann shrugs. “So’s the rot.” The man grunts, motions him inside. The air in the corridor is heavy
with steam, sex, and lemon disinfectant. Every surface is slick with
condensation. Hermann passes a line of doorways, each one leaking the wet
slap of flesh and the mewl of men and women doing what they do for money or
power. He’s led through a blue-lit lounge, past a bar sticky with spilled
liquor, to a locker room that reeks of mildew and cologne. The big man
gestures at the benches. “Strip. Towel only.” Hermann peels off his clothes, noting that his hands are shaking. He
wraps the cheap towel around his hips, follows the owner deeper into the
maze. His cock is already half-hard, blood pounding in his ears. At the center is a steam room, tiled in stained marble. The benches
are slick with old sweat and bodily fluids. The big man leaves him there,
alone with the hissing of the pipes. He waits. Five minutes. Ten. At last, a shape appears in the doorway, haloed by the yellow light
outside. Rod steps in, nude, his body steamed and glistening, knife in his
fist. He looks bigger than before—more animal, less man. Rod grins. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.” Hermann’s voice is thick. “You know me too well.” Rod circles the room, knife glinting. “Glad you came, though. Makes
things simple.” Hermann watches the blade, but more than that, he watches Rod’s cock:
heavy, swinging, already getting hard. “You’re really going to do it,” Hermann says. Rod shrugs. “I said I would.” He sits on the bench, legs open, knife
balanced on his thigh. “I’m giving you the good end, mate. Most blokes just
get a bullet.” Hermann looks at the tiles, then back at Rod. “You get off on this?” Rod leans forward, eyes bright. “You fucking know I do. Best thing in
the world: taking a man like you, breaking him down, finishing him off.” Hermann finds his own hand drifting to his crotch, squeezing the
towel. “What if I fight?” Rod’s grin widens. “Even better.” They sit in the wet silence. The room is a pressure cooker, the air so
thick with heat that sweat pours from every pore. Hermann feels his cock
stiffen under the towel. Rod notices, of course. Rod stands, the knife hanging loose at his side. “You ready?” Hermann’s mouth is dry. He forces a nod. “Does it matter if I’m not?” he asks. Rod shakes his head. “No. Makes no difference.” He moves closer,
looming, his shadow swallowing Hermann’s. Rod’s cock is fully hard now, vein like a cord along the shaft. “Take
off the towel.” Hermann hesitates, then lets it drop. His own dick is up, pointed at
Rod, betraying everything he wishes he could hide. Rod runs the flat of the blade along Hermann’s arm, not hard enough to
cut, just to feel the chill of it. “You want to try and stop me?” Hermann shakes his head. Rod smiles. “Didn’t think so.” He grabs Hermann’s head in both hands, beard scraping beard, mouths
mashed together in a bruising, ugly kiss. Their cocks grind against each
other, wet with sweat. Rod pulls away. “You could scream, you know. Might make it better.” Hermann doesn’t. He won’t give Rod the satisfaction. He just breathes,
ragged, as Rod turns him, bends him forward onto the bench. The knife is cold against his spine. The cock is hotter than the air,
pressing at his hole, the memory of the Russian on the bed in Bangkok burning
in his mind. Rod leans in, breath in Hermann’s ear. “You want me to use the knife?” Hermann closes his eyes. “Do what you want.” Rod’s voice is a growl. “It’s what we both want.” The knife is set aside, clattering on the tile. “Stand up!” Hermann obeys. A fist in his gut, deep and punishing. Then another, then another.
Three hits, fast and cruel. He folds forward, retching, and something inside lets go. Shit
splatters between his legs, down his thighs. Rod laughs, shoves him
face-first onto the slick tile. “Should’ve gone to the toilet first, mate,” Rod says, voice full of
ugly joy. He takes the cheap towel and wipes the mess off Hermann’s ass, then
tosses it aside. Rod lines up and drives in. No ceremony, no pause. Just a single,
brutal thrust that rips a scream from Hermann’s throat. The pain is blinding,
but after a moment it transforms into something else—shame, hunger, relief. Rod rides him hard, one hand fisted in Hermann’s hair, the other
palming his shoulder. Every thrust drives Hermann’s face into the bench,
cheek scraping the hot tile. “You always wanted this,” Rod grunts. “Fucking coward, couldn’t say
it.” Hermann moans, the sound half animal. The pressure in his gut is
almost unbearable, but Rod’s cock fills him, stretches him until there’s no
space for anything else. “You love it,” Rod says, and he’s right. Hermann’s own cock is hard again, bouncing off the bench with every
motion. The shame is the best part, because it means he can stop pretending.
He pushes back against Rod, taking it all, feeling every inch. Rod’s rhythm changes, slowing as he starts to enjoy it. He leans in,
breath heavy in Hermann’s ear. “I could make it quick,” he says, “but you
don’t want that.” Hermann shudders, pushes out the words. “Don’t… fucking… stop.” Rod barks a laugh, grabs him tighter, and goes harder. The bench
squeals under their combined mass, echoing through the steam room. The air is
thick with sweat, blood, shit, and the stink of two men who have crossed
every line. Hermann’s vision pulses with every slap of flesh. He hears himself
begging, whispering things he’d never say sober, and Rod answers with taunts
and little bites to the back of his neck. “You’re better than the Russian,” Rod says. “He screamed too much. You
just take it.” Hermann finds himself proud, in a sick way. He tries to reach back,
touch Rod’s cock, but Rod grabs his arm and pins it behind his back. The new
pain makes him moan even louder. “Good boy,” Rod says. Time collapses. The only thing that matters is the hurt, the fullness,
the certainty that it ends here. At some point, Hermann cums, splattering the bench and his own belly.
Rod notices, of course. “Knew you’d finish first,” Rod taunts. He puts both hands around
Hermann’s throat, squeezing. The world narrows to a tunnel, edges red and
black. Rod fucks him through it, slamming in, the sound wet and final. The pressure on his windpipe crests, pain blooming across the back of
his neck and into his skull. Hermann’s mouth works uselessly, jaw clamped
open by the vise of Rod’s grip. His body is a marionette: legs trembling,
hands splayed, the bench under his knees slick and bucking with every thrust.
His brain floats above it all. He feels his own pulse hammering in his ears,
each beat weaker than the last. “Say you want it,” Rod commands again, voice disembodied and absolute. Hermann tries. The air whistles in past the clench of Rod’s fingers.
He gets a word out, a croak: “Want it.” And again, more desperate, “Want it,
fuck, want it—” “Say you want to die,” Rod says, so calm. Like he’s ordering a drink,
or confirming a bet. A sound claws its way up Hermann’s throat. He wants to say no, to beg,
to bargain for more time, but the truth is there already, hot and black at
the heart of him. “Do it,” he manages, barely, “you bastard. Do it. I want
it. I crave for it” Rod’s laugh is a thunderclap, echoing through the steam. He squeezes,
and the world shrinks down to a pinpoint of light. Hermann’s last thoughts are fractured: the stink of ammonia, the sweat
in his eyes, the memory of a boy in a Munich alley who dreamed of dying in
glory, not like this—not as a cunt for the man he hated most in the world. Rod’s thrusts go wild, erratic, rutting against Hermann’s ass. The
pain is everywhere. He’s aware, distantly, that his own dick is hardening
again, but he can’t feel it anymore. All sensation is the fire in his throat
and the iron bands closing around his skull. He hears Rod grunt, then bellow, the noise animal, victorious. In the
same instant, heat floods Hermann’s guts, the cruel cock swelling and pulsing
inside him as Rod cums with a roar, ramming in to the hilt, never loosening
his grip on Hermann’s throat. The pressure is so absolute that it splits the
world in half: before, and after. Rod’s fist tightens, and for a moment everything is perfect, a high
white agony that eclipses all memory, all fear, all hope. Hermann’s tongue lolls.
His vision shatters into static, and the last thing he hears is Rod, panting
with pleasure, whispering “That’s it, good boy, that’s it.” The room dissolves. Rod laughs, deep in his chest. Rod holds Hermann’s
neck until the world bursts into white stars, then nothing. When sensation returns, it’s to the floor, cold and sticky. Hermann’s
body is dead weight, but he’s aware of Rod still on top of him, still
squeezing, making sure. Hermann pisses himself as he dies. The shame is gone. He hears Rod’s
voice, thick with joy and triumph: “Told you, mate. Best there is.” Then nothing, just the weight and the dark. Rod finally lets go, stands, and wipes his dick on the shit-smeared
towel. He turns Hermann over, lifts the head by the chin, and laughs. “Didn’t
think you’d go that easy,” he says. He spits in the dead mouth, then pisses in it, filling the open
throat. He drapes the towel over Hermann’s face, a fucked-up shroud, then
pats him on the cheek. Rod dresses, checks himself in the steamy mirror. He takes out a
burner phone and calls a number. “Cleanup needed, steam room 6.” He pockets steps over the body, and leaves. In the changing room he
lights a cigarette, inhales deeply. When he goes out, there’s a spring in his
step. It’s not every day you get to finish a job with that much
satisfaction. The club owner has no sentimentality. He’s seen every way a man can
die, and more ways to get rid of a body than a butcher has for using a pig.
He waits for the steam to clear, then calls in two of his boys. Together they
roll Hermann’s corpse onto a tarp, tie a cinder block to his feet, and drag
him down to the basement, where the drain feeds straight into the city’s
shit-choked arteries. The body slides in with a splash, swallowed by black water. There’s a
sound, almost a gurgle, as it settles among decades of garbage and secrets.
The owner closes the grate and lights a cigarette, thinking nothing of it.
He’s got more pressing business: a phone call to make, and a bill to collect. Rod takes his time getting back to the hotel. He stops for street
food, orders a double at a bar, even flirts with a waitress who reminds him
of the landlady he fucked and strangled in Prague. The night air feels fresh.
Everything’s finished. He showers, scrubbing blood and stink off his skin, humming an old
rugby tune. He towels off and steps into his room, expecting the same damp
heat, the same empty bed. Instead, he finds four men waiting. All Russian. He knows the look, knows what’s coming. He grins, raises both hands.
“Boys, couldn’t this wait until morning?” The first shot hits him in the gut, a lucky angle that misses the
spine. Rod drops to his knees, laughing even as blood drools down his belly. One of the Russians—the smallest, the mean one—says something in their
lingo. It’s probably a joke. They close in. Two hold him by the arms, another shoves a pistol into
his mouth, breaking teeth, splitting his lips. But they don’t shoot. Not yet. The fourth Russian drops his pants. He’s hard already, the
anticipation electric. He spits in his palm and jams his cock into Rod’s
mouth, fucking him with the brutality of a prison riot. Rod can’t breathe,
but he doesn’t care; he’s laughing around the cock,
daring them to do worse. They do. When the first Russian finishes in Rod’s mouth, he pulls out. The next
man drops his pants, forces Rod face-down on the floor, and shoves in dry.
Rod gruntsand fucks back, because there’s nothing
left but pain and spite and the will to outlast the bastards. They take turns, each one rougher than the last. Blood leaks from both
ends. At some point, Rod starts to pass out, but the third man revives him
with a kick to the ribs and a slap to the face. When the fourth Russian finishes, he wipes his cock on Rod’s shredded
shirt and grins down at the battered Englishman, whose face is a mask of
spit, blood, and some mixture of everyone in the room. By now, the hotel’s
threadbare carpet is soaked with every imaginable fluid—sweat, piss, blood,
cum, bile. Rod is still conscious, at least in the animal sense, though his
eyes are half-shut, and his tongue flops uselessly from the crater of his
mouth. He’s alive enough to know what’s next. The Russian laughs, slaps Rod’s ruined ass, and gestures to the
others, who pin Rod’s arms and legs down, stretching him flat across the
yellowing linoleum. The leader takes his time, savoring the moment. He draws
a battered Makarov from the holster under his jacket, weighs it in his palm,
then presses the barrel to the base of Rod’s spine. The metal is cool, almost
loving, and Rod shivers in anticipation. He manages a grunt—maybe “fuck you”—just as the Russian jams the
muzzle deeper, twisting it inside. The pain is cosmic, brighter than any
blackout, and for an instant Rod is more alive than he’s ever been. The Russian fires. The crack is deafening at such close range. The bullet rips through
Rod’s guts, explodes out his belly, and paints the far wall in a wild, arterial
spray of red and grey. The recoil knocks the Russian’s hand up, and a second
shot goes off, catching Rod in the lower back, shattering vertebrae and
driving bits of bone through already destroyed tissue. Rod’s body spasms,
then collapses, twitching on the floor. He’s dead before he even realizes it,
the last sensation a sharp, icy bloom in his gut that’s almost, in a sick
way, relief. The Russians zip up and wipe themselves off on the hotel curtains. At two a.m., a battered Honda pulls up to the rear of the Turkish
bath. The club owner waits at the door, cigar in hand, as the Russians drag
Rod’s body out of the trunk and heave it onto the alley’s concrete. The club
owner checks the face, makes a show of counting the bullet holes. Then he
nods. “Good work,” he says, in perfect Russian. They heave the body downstairs, into the same basement, tie it to
another block. This time, the owner stands close enough to the open grate to
catch the full stench of the sewer below. His boys tug Rod’s corpse through the
hatchback and down the stairs, shoes scraping concrete. The Russians handle
the legs, but they’re in a hurry to disappear; they drop the body with a wet
slap that splatters blood and shit across the wall, then retreat, muttering
curses and lighting cigarettes. The club owner nods approval, then gestures
to his regulars to finish the job. They haul the body the last few feet to the edge of the drainage canal.
The water below is black as tar, swirling slow with the city’s endless
effluent. Somewhere in the dark, rats and eels and half-wild dogs fight for
scraps, but tonight the canal’s quiet, rippling only with the slight breeze
that drifts in from the river. The men brace themselves on the edge, then
heave—once, twice, and on the third go they send Rod arcing down into the
void. He splashes hard, block first, and for a second the body floats
upright, arms outstretched, head toward the ceiling as if he’s waiting to be
lifted out by unseen hands. The chest is cratered from the bullet wound,
puckered and raw, and the water fills the cavity instantly, dragging the
corpse under. The owner hears the glug of air escaping the wound, the hiss of
bubbles rising through the oily surface. Rod’s face disappears, and for a
heartbeat there’s nothing but the lingering echo of his final laugh. Below, the canal curves into shadow, a labyrinth of tunnels that snake
beneath the city’s skin. Rod’s body bobs and spins through the current, pinballing off the rusted pipes and rebar that crowd the
tunnel walls. His arms tangle with a raft of plastic trash and decomposed
fruit, but the weight of the block drags him deeper, bouncing off the
concrete until he settles among the carcasses that have come before. Downstream, the current is lazy, almost gentle, but it’s enough to
bring Rod’s drifting bulk into contact with a second body. The owner knew
this would happen: there’s no real surprise, just a dark satisfaction as the
two corpses meet in the slow, oily blackness. The newcomer’s impact jars
Hermann’s body from its shelf of debris, and the pressure of water forces
them closer together until they bump, then mesh, then lock into a grotesque
embrace. Rod’s arms close around Hermann’s ruined torso, hands groping for a
grip even in death. The two bodies roll, legs entwining, faces pressed side
by side. The current is just strong enough to keep them moving, so they drift
as one, tangled and fused by the city’s disease and the urgency of their own
endings. As the hours pass, the liquid in the canal eats into the corpses,
stripping away skin and soft tissue. Every now and then, a rat or fish
ventures close, nips a chunk from a finger or ear, flees at the smallest
disturbance. The air pockets inside Rod’s gut rattle and groan, burping up
the gases of rot. Sometimes the bodies separate, only to collide again at the
next snag in the tunnel: a clotted tangle of shopping bags and syringes, a
collapsed pipe, the broken bones of a previous victim. By morning, the city will have swallowed them both. By next week,
there’ll be nothing left but stories. And in Bangkok, no one believes the stories anyway. |
