Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts


by Rachel Mindell

The bars we found that night by losing course were tucked
behind a market full at day. An entrance board read
“Boxing. Boxing Thai.” As lights this faint were made to
give one swirl or swoon or rich Caucasians Love Our Girls,
we walked passed several stands with open sides to
glares from every guard and every prize. Beside +the
+++++ring,+ a+++ lady+ pulled us++++ in. Her bat
tattoo, a smirk, those razor nails and legs like sculpture,
hips that hid away. We slumped to find a spot finally to
swig the whisky from a tub on ice, the match
was mostly staged, a tourist farce near free of punching
framed by cans and high price tail. Our bar was more
upbeat than all the rest, a chirpy chat chat marked the place
with joy at being++++ roomy, fake+ + tits
on+ + each+ boy.