My good friend Stan has lived in Pattaya for a long time now. He currently rents a nice apartment which he shares with his girlfriend. I met her once; she is very pretty and appears to be a nice person. Stan agrees, but told me, candidly, she has one major fault. She is extremely jealous. On the occasion I met her, I witnessed an example of her jealous streak. Stan and I had been drinking and chatting in a beer bar for some time when she turned up on her motorbike to take him home. This had been pre-arranged so he was expecting her. But Stan had just ordered another drink so, when she arrived, he asked if she wanted one herself before they left. She accepted the drink and all was pleasant as the three of us sat at the table. Then I noticed her pick up his bin and go through each of the dockets. She was not concerned about the cost of the drinks nor the total amount of money he had spent; she was looking to see if he had bought any lady drinks. Stan said she did this often and, if she even suspected he purchased a drink for a Hostess, he would be subjected to the third degree.
He told me that, a month earlier, a photograph appeared in a local newspaper showing a farang sitting at a bar surrounded by several ladies. The farang was sitting side-on to the camera and it was difficult to discern his face, but Stan’s girlfriend was certain it was him. She confronted him with the photo and demanded to know what he was doing at that bar talking with all those girls. Stan was completely innocent and tried to explain the farang in the photo was not him and he had never been in that bar in his life. It took many arguments before she finally let the matter drop.
But Stan’s patience with his girlfriend’s jealousy is wearing thin after a recent incident which could have easily resulted in tragedy. Stan met up with his mate for a night of bar hopping. By 1:00am they had just been to three bars in quick succession and Stan admits things were getting very hazy. His mate said he had had enough and was heading home. Stan said he would finish his drink before going home as well.
Stan doesn’t recall leaving that bar. He is a spirit drinker and all he remembers is that the effects of the booze seemed to hit him very suddenly. He does remember being on a Baht Bus but everything else is a total blank. Stan woke up early next morning propped up against a tree at the far end of Jomtien Beach, without a clue how he got there. He tried to stand up but his body wouldn’t allow it. His world was still spinning and he couldn’t believe he could still be that drunk so many hours after consuming his last drink. Then a sobering thought crossed his mind. “I’ve been rolled, for sure!” He felt in his pocket and, to his surprise, there was at least 500 baht in small notes remaining. A quick calculation of the amount he took out with him less the amount he figured he spent, meant the cash in his pocket was about right. He had not been robbed.
His next thought was to get home, so he reached for his mobile phone to call his girlfriend to come and pick him up. His phone was not there. A tirade of abuse was about to leave his mouth when he remembered he had not taken his phone out with him. The battery was flat so he left it at home on the recharger. But he still had to get home. He gingerly staggered to his feet and began to stumble towards the road. He said he must have presented a pathetic sight and the only thing missing from the picture of a drunken derelict was a bottle of cheap gin in a brown paper bag. That’s when Stan first realized his condition was not due to the effects of alcohol. He was under the influence of something far more sinister. A passing motorcycle taxi stopped and Stan carefully sat on the back telling the driver where to go. At the first set of traffic lights, the driver stopped and Stan fell off. He grazed his arm and hand on the road but was otherwise OK. The driver helped him back on the bike and continued the journey. Stan doesn’t remember whether his girlfriend greeted him with concern or abused him for being out all night when he staggered through the door. He went straight to bed and collapsed, not to wake until the following morning.
When he eventually came round, his girlfriend began with the questioning. She suspected he’d spent the night with another woman and Stan was in no mood for an interrogation. Telling her the truth – that he couldn’t remember anything – seemed to her to be just a lame excuse. Stan called his mate and asked him to come over.
His mate arrived and sat with Stan to try and piece together what had happened. Stan made his girlfriend sit and listen in, hoping she would realize that it was not his fault. After some discussion and hypothesizing, the two friends came to the only conclusion which made any sense. Stan had been slipped a Mickey Finn. Someone at one of the last three bars they visited must have put something in his drink. There was no way of knowing which bar it was because there was no way of telling how long the drug took to work. They guessed that an accomplice, possibly in the guise of a motorcycle taxi driver, was waiting outside to offer the semi-conscious Stan a ride home. If he had accepted the offer, Stan would have been driven to a secluded spot and robbed of everything in his possession. Their plan came unstuck when Stan bypassed the accomplice and walked a considerable distance to get on a Baht Bus. Even though it was the wrong bus and heading to Jomtien, it was possibly what saved him.
By this time, his girlfriend needed no more convincing and expressed her sympathy by tending to his grazed arm. Stan considers himself very lucky but said he wouldn’t mind knowing what medication it was they slipped into his drink. He joked that he has taken sleeping pills before when he has been on a long flight, but they weren’t nearly as good as this stuff.
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