Room 602

A Night in Room 602

It's 1 a.m. in Hanoi, Vietnam. I've just returned from my first gig as a tour guide for travelers, and I'm trudging up six sweltering flights of stairs to the infamous Room 602. I'd heard grotesque stories about this room from other folks, but I ignored the warnings, thinking free accommodation might be worth a shot. Sometimes, though, free isn't good. A faint glow seeps from beneath the door, hinting at life inside. Someone's awake, I think, pushing the door open and stepping into a haze of stale air and dim light. The room is a cramped mess: four bunk beds jammed against peeling walls, a single bed by the door, and a bathroom tucked to the side.

As I pass the single bed, I spot movement on the first bunk to my right. A girl, half-naked, scrambles to yank a sheet over her pale, exposed body, her partner sprawled beside her. Their frantic attempt at modesty is futile—I've already seen too much. I mutter a "hello," but it's swallowed by the room's thick tension. Ignoring the scene, I toss my backpack onto the top bunk of the farthest bed and climb up, hoping to carve out a sliver of peace.

The room is disgusting. The ceiling is speckled with green smears: boogers, no doubt, left by some vile former occupant. My mattress sags under me, its bottom half damp from a leaking air conditioner dripping in the corner. I try to push the thought away, closing my eyes against the flickering fluorescent light. But then: slap, slap, slap. The unmistakable sound cuts through the silence. I glance down. The girl is hammering her partner's erection with a ferocity that could rival a street brawl.

I clench my jaw, anger simmering. Are they serious? "Hey," I call out, "there's someone else in here, you know. This is shared accommodation." My words hang in the air, ignored. The slapping pauses, then resumes, her moans growing louder. "Stop," she whispers to him, "I think someone's here." His response is a smug, "No, baby, it's just us." Idiots, I think. They saw me walk in. "I've got news for you two," I snap, "there is someone here, and a little respect would be nice."

They stop, briefly, but the reprieve is short-lived. The door bursts open, and two drunken Australian idiots stumble in, slurring obscenities and jeering at the couple. "Let's have a cuddle!" one bellows, stripping naked and lunging toward their bed. Rejected, he escalates, planting his testicles on the guy's head, shouting, "Teabag! Teabag!" The couple shoves him off, and after a few more failed attempts at a threesome, he mutters incoherently and collapses into another bunk. The lights finally go out, and I think, Finally, some peace.

But the slapping starts again, relentless. I'm done fighting it. Let these animals finish their debauchery. Then, a twist of fate: a deep, rumbling pressure builds inside me. I hold it, waiting for the perfect moment. As her moans peak and his breathing turns ragged, she gasps, "I'm gonna cum!" That's my cue. I unleash a flatulence that would scare Thor, a long, echoing blast that reverberates off the grimy windows and yellowed walls, ricocheting down the hall and back. The room falls silent, my retaliation complete.

Morning comes, and the room is empty, devoid of human life. The air conditioner screeches, its loose fan blade rattling. The air reeks of burnt weed and stale tobacco. I pull back the curtains to reveal a greasy forehead smear on the window, adorned with three gummy bears stuck in the center, their sugary trails streaking down as if they tried to escape. Vodka-soaked and spat out, I muse, picturing some degenerate's failed attempt to choke them down.

I climb down from the bunk, lifting the mattress to reveal a puddle of moldy water and black-spotted fabric. The sheet is stained with watermarks, a testament to the room's neglect. My bare foot hits the floor, greeted by a carpet of dead toenail clippings, stray hairs, and a chaotic sprawl of travelers' belongings: abandoned underwear, mismatched shoes, bras, condoms, and cigarette butts scattered like a post-apocalyptic yard sale.

This place is a cesspool, a den of pigs and perverts. I've seen cleaner crack shacks. My thoughts spiral: I made more in a day back home than I do in a month here. What the hell am I doing in this slime pit? I gather my things, stepping over the debris, and vow to escape this degenerate hellhole.