This was originally written in French.
It came from a challenge in a writing group: start with the first sentence below and weave a story around it. Crazy how ten people can go ten different ways.
I had recently read “Dragon” from Thomas Day and I guess this probably inspired the Thaï setting.
It is difficult for me to translate this to English - I have been at it for three hours now - as much of the rhythm, rhymes and subtleties of my mother-tongue get lost in translation.
Nevertheless, I wanted to share it with you guys, and save it here for prosperity.
I hope you’ll enjoy the read as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Cheers
Nick
He freed the knife from its sheath and calmly ran his thumb along the blade to check its edge. Then he slipped an earbud into his ear and started the "Jazz Classics" playlist on his iPhone.
"This time, you really screwed up, Ram," said Faek.
The santoku, in his experienced hand, twirled to the comforting rhythm of the double bass.
In his living room, Ram - a filthy rich trader and three hundred and thirty pounds beast - was tightly bound to a chair, gagged with a towel, and clearly in deep shit.
The trader barked an answer, but the lime wedged in his mouth deprived Faek of the message’s depth.
"Is it me, or are you a bit sour tonight?"
Faek loved stupid jokes; they usually calmed his nerves. Not today. He had been waiting for this moment for too long.
Sonboom Manjit, the boss of the most renowned brothel in the Soi Cowboy neighborhood, and by extension his bastard of an employer, would be there any minute.
The thing is Ram really did screw up this time.
In the Asok district of Bangkok, immunity and the fringes of debauchery were usually negotiated with a wad of cash; but when Ram killed the woman he paid for last week, he indulged in a luxury he wouldn't pay for with money.
Her name was Paya. She had been taken and sold into a life she didn't choose. To Faek though, she had been more than just another face in a brothel.
*********
Faek was one with the music when the ringtone on his phone ruined a sumptuous solo by Miles Davis.
Even from a distance, Somboon had a knack for shitting on the precious moments of his life.
”Motherfucker” grunted Faek.
He set the knife on the table, walked over to the window, and answered the phone.
Below the fifty-first floor, Bangkok’s urban jungle and its frantic fauna swarmed inexorably. Reflected in the bay window over the nighttime panorama, Ram's image—hands tied to the back of his chair— floated as the perfect effigy of everything the capital's streets were vomiting: the rancid smell of fear, the blood, the sweat, the financial chicanery. The crushing opulence and the vain struggles of poverty. And above all, of course, dirty money.
Faek abruptly drew the curtains, and as his fate was sealed, Ram's reflection vanished into the night. On the other end of the line, Somboon was delivering another endless tirade of his, and Faek wondered when he would finally shut up.
"Everything is ready, Mr. Manjit," he confirmed before hanging up.
If the situation hadn't yet dawned on Ram, the mention of the name "Manjit" did the trick, striking him with the sudden realization that he wouldn't make it through the night.
The attempt to free himself that ensued lasted only a handful of seconds at the end of which the obese golden boy was nothing more than an amorphous mass slumped on the floor, swallowing whole the chair that had toppled him.
"Did you think I came to cook for you?" chuckled Faek.
It definitely wasn't calming his nerves.
Faek briefly considered the idea of lifting three hundred and thirty pounds of fat with just a chair as leverage.
“That Somboon bastard can do the bending,” he thought.
He picked up the santoku from the table, appreciated the familiarity of its weight, and resumed the music.
*********
Faek had been toiling in the kitchens of the Doll House - Somboon Manjit’s shady business - for two months now. While "head chef in a brothel" wasn’t on his bucket list, "kill Sonboom Manjit" stood at the very top, framed cautiously. Enduring the scumbag for eight weeks had taken a lot of digestive effort, and though he hadn't yet seen a spark of opportunity, tonight, he had to admit, was a full-blown fireworks show.
Last night, the bunch of morons Somboon called his "boys" thought it wise to dip into their daddy's wallet. When the Oros Gang came to collect their money and realized there wasn’t any, the evening quickly turned into a dick-measuring contest. It was heard by morning the Oros didn’t have the smallest one. With a large portion of his gang wiped out, Somboon had no choice but to come and handle Ram himself, though he made sure to assign Faek to “roll out the red carpet” before his arrival.
”Since we’re going all out”, Faek had thought, “might as well rock the apron.”
*********
When Sonboom Manjit’s fist crashed into his jaw for the eighteenth time, Ram seemed no longer sensitive to the lime juice mixing with the blood from his pulverized gums.
Faek placed the cast-iron wok on the immaculate stove.
tickticktickticktick
heat
With the headset clamped on his ears, he admired the scene while opening a can of coconut milk. He separated the cream from the water and sent it sizzling a perfect note to the bottom of the hot wok.
ssssssss
red curry
ginger
Ram was now kissing the floor, one wild eye fixed on the kitchen, his face contorted by the knee digging into his left cheek. Faek was boiling with curiosity to know if he finally got the joke.
coconut water
shiitake
As usual, the ingredients played their part in perfect rhythm. Faek let the swing of the drums dictate the work of his knife. Together, coriander and lemongrass delivered their vegetal fragrance, and he couldn’t help but think of Paya. The smell of her skin at the nape of her neck, the call of her curves in the fleeting morning light, the taste of her---
"Help me get him up, damn it," shat Somboon yet again on the precious moments of his life.
figs
dried mangoes
chicken
Faek complied and came to lend him a hand, though he doubted the point of sitting a man up before executing him.
The chair's legs and Somboon's patience gave out simultaneously. Somboon furiously jumped to straddle the trader’s waist and revealed the blade waiting at his belt. In a final message to his life, Ram relieved his bladder into his 20,000 baht Disaya pants.
fish sauce
lime… wait…
”Aaaaah Shit...” sighed Faek.
*********
Somboon didn’t like jazz, so it wasn’t the swing, but the warm, foreign sensation of sitting in a man’s piss that guided his hands as he sliced Ram’s throat swiftly.
"Eat in or take out?" asked Faek.
And he finally felt his nerves calming down.
First, he plated his own dish, sprinkling it carefully with fresh cilantro leaves.
He did the same for the second plate, diligently removed a loose fiber of lemongrass, and offered Somboon Manjit Paya’s favorite dish.
With one exception.
Cyanide