Richard was a numbers guy. Born in London, raised on cold logic, atheism, and Excel spreadsheets. When he bought a mid-sized Go-Go bar on Soi LK Metro, he approached it like a corporate acquisition. He optimized the drink prices, cut the bloated staff, and fixed the accounting.
He did not believe in karma, he did not believe in luck, and he certainly did not believe in Thai ghosts.
Then came the third week of November. The “Streak” began.
On Tuesday, one of his top Coyote dancers slipped on a completely dry stage and fractured her ankle. On Thursday, the main air-conditioning compressor—which had just been serviced—spontaneously caught fire, filling the bar with black smoke. On Friday night, a random police patrol walked in, completely bypassed the three neighboring bars, and shut Richard’s place down for a two-hour “routine inspection” right during peak revenue hours.
By Saturday, the atmosphere in the locker room was thicker than the cigarette smoke outside. The girls were whispering.
Finally, Noi, his veteran Mamasan, walked into his office, locked the door, and delivered the verdict.
“Boss,” she said, deadpan. “The spirits are angry. You bought the bar, but you never introduced yourself to the Phra Phum (the local spirits). We have bad energy. We need a ceremony.”
Richard rubbed his temples. “Noi, the AC was a mechanical failure. The police were just shaking us down. There are no ghosts.”
Noi didn’t blink. “We need nine monks. A boiled pig’s head. Mekong whiskey. Red Fanta. Fruits. It will cost 30,000 baht.”
Richard laughed out loud. “I am a rational human being. I am not paying 30,000 baht for a dead pig and some incense. Tell the girls to get back to work.”
The next evening, Richard arrived at the bar at 7:00 PM. The neon lights were on. The music was playing. But the bar was empty.
All 25 of his girls were sitting on the sidewalk across the street, eating Som Tam.
Richard stormed over. “What is going on? Get inside!”
Ploy, a girl who usually feared him, shook her head. “Cannot, boss. Ploy saw a shadow in the bathroom. Ghost is angry. Very dangerous. We will not go inside.”
Richard looked at the girls. They weren’t negotiating for higher pay. They were genuinely terrified. He looked back at his empty bar. Every hour they sat on the sidewalk, his spreadsheet bled 15,000 baht.
He took out his phone, opened the calculator, and did the math. A 30,000 baht ceremony vs. losing 100,000 baht a night in revenue.
Logic is a funny thing.
Fast forward to 9:00 AM the next morning.
Richard, the hardcore London atheist who used to debate religion in British pubs, is sitting barefoot and cross-legged on a bamboo mat in front of his Go-Go bar. He is sweating through his polo shirt.
In front of him sit nine Buddhist monks chanting in Pali.
And right in the center of the table, surrounded by lit incense, bottles of Red Fanta with straws poked into them, and marigold garlands, sits a massive, pale, boiled pig’s head. Someone has thoughtfully wedged a lit Krong Thip cigarette into the pig’s snout.
Richard presses his palms together in a respectful wai. He hands over the white envelopes containing 30,000 baht in donations. He doesn’t say a word.
When the monks leave, the transformation is instant. The girls are smiling. The heavy air is gone. They start cleaning the poles, laughing, putting on their makeup. The “curse” is lifted. That night, the bar breaks its monthly revenue record.
Later that evening, another expat bar owner walks in, sees the remnants of the ceremony outside, and laughs. “Mate, don’t tell me you actually believe in that ghost bullshit?”
Richard takes a sip of his beer, looks at his packed bar, and smiles.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he says. “But I absolutely believe in the people who believe in ghosts.”
In the Pattaya nightlife ecosystem, culture will beat your logic every single time. You don’t buy the pig’s head to appease the spirits. You buy the pig’s head to appease the staff.
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