Mr Bali 

He was exotic indeed. Indonesian- Iranian: god bless his parents for his vibrant gene pool. If they were to die achieving nothing else but the child at least they could say that they created a new race.  

We had a drink by a dimly lit hotel bar and he insisted on going to a party. That was the Iranian in him, always up for a party and something fun. I told him that I wasn’t a fan of the trashy bars in Kutar filled with people who were equivalent of the Wildings from The Game of Thrones: they were a sub-species of humans that I would rather not surround myself around. He said not there and took me to a hip part of town: Seminyak. He gave me his helmet and I hopped on the back of his bike. I was holding onto him, drunk and feeling dizzy. My life felt like it circled around the edge of existence and it was exhilarating. This was one of those situations that my mother warned me about: strange good looking men and stupid decisions. Her endings were never good and I only hoped this one would be equally as bad! Who wants good endings anyway?

 

As the wind blew through my hair I decided a selfie was required. As I pull out my phone a scruffy local on a bike approaches from behind and attempts to snatch my phone. I pullback hard and startled the scummy thief. He gives it another try and this time I punch his hand. He gives up as he realises I make a rather terrible intimidated victim of crime. When faced with crime I turn into a criminal hood rat. Mr Indonesia looks at me with a new sense of appreciation: he knew he was going to have fun. 

 

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