By Joel Arnold
Read by Ben Phillips
The young men in Bangkok sometimes called him Grandpa or Uncle as he clutched
their lithe oiled bodies. His fingers grasped a bit too tight, his nails dug
into their skin and drew beads of blood. Sometimes he’d choke them, but never
enough to kill them. He had to be careful. He was gaining a reputation among
them, and a reputation was something he had to stay away from. But it was hard
not to let the old feelings overcome him, the memories flooding into his mind
of how it once felt to watch a life quickly fade behind the suffocating film of
a plastic bag.
Samnang startled. He clutched frantically at his shirt pocket. The piece of
paper was still there.