I was framed for the crime. To this day, I still don't know why.

One minute, I'm an 18-year-old kid, excited for his holiday in Thailand.

The next, customs were rummaging through my bag, and lo and behold, they found enough heroin to get me the death penalty.

"This must be a mistake, Your Honour," I tried to plead, "I'm just an artist, and a not very good one at that. I would never smuggle drugs into your beautiful country!"

In the end, no words mattered. They saw not the kid, scared shitless. They saw a Farang — another white tourist they could make an example of.

I still remember the tactless grin of the Judge as he 'let me off the hook' with a 25-year sentence.

I ended up serving only nine years, but it felt like an eternity. In there, the only colours were the ones you conjured in your mind. If you ignored the bloodstained walls, that is.

One thing people need to understand about maximum-security Thai prisons is that people don't give a damn. The guards were corrupt and abusive, and many of them seemed to enjoy the power they wielded. The prisoners were ruled by gang leaders, or 'Dons,' as the locals called them. But I liked to think of them as lords because their underlings were like slave peasants working for their liege.

Each cell was designed to hold 50 inmates, but these guys managed to squeeze in 200 at a bare minimum. It wouldn't take you long to befriend those who had the least smelly feet. The most hygienic of a cell would naturally bunch together come lights out, I found.

This was because the squalor in our cells was atrocious, and disease ran rampant. And how could it not? The piss buckets were right there in our cell, stinking up the joint.

It took a while for my stomach to get used to the food. Mushy rice for the most part, the kind that would have a newcomer squirting from both ends.

And trust me, there is no greater awkwardness than having to tiptoe over hundreds of sleeping bodies just so you can have a massive diarrhea blow-out in the corner. What made it worse was that when you squatted, you had to keep holding your dick up; otherwise, it would touch the STD-infested bucket.

The language barrier was undoubtedly the worst hurdle. Now, I'm not sure if there were any Thai words that could have quelled the Don of my cell block. Not from me, anyway. He came to me after my first blow-out and told me to get my act together, or else it's curtains.

Foolishly, I tried to shake the Don's hand! He looked at my hand with disgust, nodded to his men, and walked away without looking back. I would probably have been beaten to death without my guardian angel.

He stepped in — a short and skinny Thai fellow with tattoos all over his body. On the back of his bald head was some sort of astrological chart. Despite his small stature, the Dons' men listened to him.

After waving his hands and speaking some gibberish, they all laughed, and the Dons' men left me be.

"Thank you for that," I said with a sigh of relief, "Thought I was a goner there."

"You Kiwi, Farang boy?"

His recognition of my accent took me by surprise. People tend to assume the New Zealand voice is Australian. Even better, I had finally found someone who could speak English.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

He smiled with a glimmer in his eye, and I could sense the intelligence in this man, "The World's Fastest Indian."

"Oh! You like bikes, do you?"

"Yes, Nissan my favorite."

The name stuck.

From there on, Nissan took me under his wing. He didn't have much choice in the matter. I always hovered around him. Nissan didn't seem to mind. He found someone to talk about bikes with.

I never had the heart to tell him I wasn't the biggest motorcycle enthusiast, but by the end of my nine-year tenure, Nissan had me convinced.

"When we get out of here," I told him one day, "Let's get some bikes and ride through Mexico."

"Not Thailand?" he asked, unconvinced he'd ever have the money for such a trip.

"I think I've had enough of Thailand…"

"How? You no see nothing yet."

I could only scoff at that. You saw plenty of nightmare material in maximum security.

Violence in prison was a way of life and could occur in the blink of an eye.

Step on a man's toes, and you ran the risk of being lynched. It always amazed me how quickly they would gang up on someone, like a pack of piranhas, a swarm of shanks and fists.

You had to fight, and somehow a fight would always find you. It was tough in the early days, the color of my skin made me a target, and there was only so much I could be in Nissan's sight.

Usually, the fights lasted less than a minute, and usually, you would be fending off multiple opponents. I got my feeble hits in, a moral victory, but got my ass beat most of the time. All you could do was curl up and pray for hasty assistance.

One day when I came out to the yard, clutching at cracked ribs, my hobbled walk hinted at growing defiance.

"Looks like thunder," said Nissan.

I looked around, the sky clear blue, the temperature muggy as usual, "I'm sorry?"

"In your eyes," he said.

That's what I liked most about Nissan. He had emotional intelligence. He sensed something change in me, and he was right.

I wasn't going to take my fate lying down anymore. It was less than a year into my sentence when I decided that.

There is great power in giving the world a middle finger. When you truly decide to no longer be a passenger, a tampon that absorbs life's bullshit, it's like the Red Sea splits open for you.

My journey began with martial arts.

Thai culture had a close relationship with kickboxing, but preferred a version that enabled the use of elbows, knees, and which promoted sweeping your opponent off their feet.

Muay Thai, they called it, and they trained like madmen.

With Nissan's connections, it was easy to find a teacher.

I'll never forget the feeling of being walked down by a 5'5" (165 CM) man from Pattaya. His legs were steel pipes, and his fists like bags of stone.

A crowd gathered, as it often does in prison. Any entertainment was welcomed, and who could pass up on watching a Farang boy try their national sport?

But each day, I persevered with the same drive. The laughs and snickers slowly turned into respect.

Getting into Muay Thai also allowed me to branch out and make friends.

For this reason, I will always recommend a hobby to someone who feels lost. You never know what activity will appeal to you or the people you might encounter. They could very well save your life.

One such friend was a guy I called 'Bingo', as that was the only English word he'd say. Bingo was one of those guys inside who could get you things. So, using Nissan as a translator, I got Bingo to work.

"Tell him to smuggle some pen and paper," I said.

"You got baht to buy?" Nissan asked.

"Say that if he spots me this, I'll draw him something he can't refuse."

Bingo didn't go for it at first. I could see that Nissan had to work his charm. But sure enough, one week later, I was given a pen and 12 sheets of paper.

From then on, Bingo would pester me each hour.

"Where my drawing?" Nissan would translate, "Pay me. Pay me now!"

I had to hide the product each time. My favorite part about revealing art to someone was their reaction. There would be no spoilers from me.

"Tell him to be patient. It's well worth it!"

'Worth it' was an understatement.

For when I came to Bingo with an A4 sheet of paper, he was highly impressed. Drool escaped the side of his mouth.

In his hands was a sketch of a busty babe with hair that fell to her lower back. Her fat ass burst from Jean shorts, and her nipples spiked through a thin crop top.

Needless to say, Bingo was pleased and soon I found myself in the business of selling crude prison porn.

In Thai prison, cigarettes were the preferred bartering item, closely followed by the Ya ba.

There was a popular pill in South East Asia called 'Ya ba' (pronounced yabba), which was cheap and highly addictive.

Traditionally a mix of coffee and methamphetamine, the recipe included MDMA by the time I arrived.

Although it was used by some to forget their problems, it was not without its dangers. Tourists have been known to overdose on their cheap ecstasy-meth pills. How could you not when they cost less than $1 USD?

Ya ba's highly addictive nature created a class of addicts in the Thai prison system. A crackhead would do anything for that next hit, and the Dons took full advantage.

I've witnessed gangs of 30 vs 30 crackheads fighting each other over a petty dispute between Dons they never even met, despite being in the same prison. Who owns this inch of the yard – who gets that guard in their pocket – the crackheads fought for higher reasons they ever understood, no pun intended.

So, when my pornographic drawings hit the market, the Dons naturally fought amongst themselves over who got a slice of the revenue. Not that I wanted to share, but if you wanted to survive, you had to placate some Don or the other.

It's a strange feeling, watching crackheads fight over your art. A nice one, sure, but clod in ego-driven grime.

The Don that came to me was none other than the one I met on my second day, who threatened my death after I pissed out my ass into our cell block's bucket.

Nissan translated Don's words, "I like your artwork. How about you draw for me?"

It took a huge A3 drawing of two babes making out for the Don to stop pestering me for money. You should have seen how he'd walk around with it, all rolled up like a scroll clutched to his side.

So life began looking up from that point. My training hardened my body each day, my art made me a modest penny, and my broken understanding of Thai at least let me have primitive conversations.

I had friends— well, *a* friend. Nissan always had my back. But the respect of the others still had to be earned, even with my porn on the market.

That respect was earned one day during my third year locked inside.

It was a day like any other. We were in the yard, finishing up our Muay Thai session, when the sirens rang. New arrivals had come, and I could already hear people yelling 'Fresh meat!' in Thai.

They were nothing special. Everyone looked pathetic on their first day. But there was one man, he must have been 70 years old, who was more pathetic than the rest.

He got here in time for a session in the yard. Within his first steps, trouble stirred.

He stumbled, his pants drenched in piss, his arms like flesh-clad toothpicks. Some guards took exception, and the beat down commenced.

Now, I can't describe exactly how I felt at that moment. I only saw fire and blood. After years of witnessing injustice, how the guards treated us like animals, something inside me snapped.

I cracked my neck, the endorphins from my Muay Thai workout still surging. Picking up a handful of dirt, I marched over to the guards who were beating the old man, threw dirt in one of their eyes, and began wailing on them.

This caused a chain reaction. Guards quickly set their attention onto me. I was lynched within seconds.

But everyone was watching. They saw me help the feeble old man. They saw how I went at these cunty guards. Before the rest of the prison even knew what they were doing, everyone joined in.

It was the biggest prison riot in Thailand's history.

Dozens died, hundreds wounded, guards and inmates alike. The Dons used the chaos to wage attacks on one another. Some factions tried mounting an escape. I literally saw a guard get torn limb from limb.

Only when the shots began and the body's fell dead did the carnage stop.

I didn't kill anyone. Hell, I barely even caused any damage. All I did was stand up for a powerless old man. But who got the blame for this event?

You guessed it, me.

"Kiwi!" the warden barked, "To the hole!"

Now, I'm sure many are familiar with the concept of isolation. Prisons assign isolated places where they put troublesome inmates. A form of punishment, if you will.

The isolation causes significant distress to the inmate in the hope they will never repeat the actions that got them there.

In a Thai maximum security prison, isolation was a hole dug in the ground. 'The hole', they called it. They put you in darkness, where you got one drink of dirty water each day, and meals were days apart.

The water and food is worse than usual (if that were even possible), so you'd end up defecating in your hole. Quite literally a shit-hole.

But it got even worse. The guards didn't take too kindly to inmates assaulting one of their own. And although by this time my skin was olive enough to hide my European roots, I was still a Farang at the end of the day.

They loved tormenting the white-boy.

I spent three months in the hole, all the while I took notes. Each guard who mistreated me, I remembered their faces. Even a struggling artist had better observational skills than average.

However, that is not to say the hole didn't break me. I almost lost my mind. A small crack in the shack that covered my hole was my only source of sunlight. I'd stare into it wondering how long I had to go. At some point, the days blended together, and all I had was my own thoughts, which were nothing good.

Truth was what I made of it, and my truth was darkness. Crammed, shit-covered darkness. The questions came~

'Why me?'

'What did I do to deserve this?'

'I only wanted to have a holiday before taking my art career seriously!'

There was one guard, 'Tong' they called him, who was one sick puppy. Tong supposedly meant 'Crazy' in Thai, and he lived up to that name.

A sadistic man who enjoyed inflicting pain. I'd even seen a bulging erection in his pants one time when beating an inmate.

He spoke to me through my hole's door maybe around a week into my isolation with an offer.

"I clean you, you clean me. Sucky sucky, one-minute, two-minute. Done."

I couldn't tell if he said 'Done' or 'Yum', but you get the point.

Part of me felt like accepting just so I could bite Tong's cock off clean. As my life's final act, that seemed appealing.

But no, I told Tong to go fuck himself, and for the remainder of my time in the Hole he made my life even more miserable.

I can't count the times he pissed on me. The torment would start with small things like that, but soon escalated.

It started with the ripping out of one fingernail. The next day it was two. By the time he got to my toenails, he ripped them all out in one session.

I finally understood why I would hear screams from the end of the prison.

I wondered about the old man that got me into this mess. Did I save him? Did he even care? Knowing the guards, they probably had him in the hole next to me. Perhaps I should start tunneling?

All I know is that in the midst of my madness, that resolve I had when I first started Muay Thai had increased tenfold.

'Fuck the guards.'

'Fuck the Dons.'

'Fuck the Judge.'

'Fuck the Jury.'

'And fuck this world for treating me like dirt!'

Then, as if my hatred reached out to the world, the door to my hole opened, and the light poured in.

Tong declared, "Time's up, Kiwi!"

They hosed me down and escorted my boney body back to my cell block, and when I turned that corner, my fellow inmates lavished me with applause.

"Kiwi!"

"Kiwi!"

"Kiwi!"

The old man I saved gave me a hug. That empathy tasted ever sweet after so long in isolation.

My Don gave me a nod of approval, "Kiwi."

Nissan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, a smug smile of pride all too evident.

But I walked past all of them, my eyes like poisoned pinballs.

"Bingo," I said.

By now I could understand bits and pieces of the language.

<"You want paper in?"> Bingo said.

<"No,"> I told him, <"I want paper out.">

That's when I started writing my letters.

They were simple at first.

My family did not approve of me choosing to be an artist for a job. This caused me to cut them off out of anger. But it had been years now since anyone had heard from me. My family was the first I wrote to.

But then the writing juices got flowing. I'm an artist, after all! A self proclaimed, albeit amateur one, but an artist all the same!

I wrote to every news outlet, every freedom fighting organization, bloggers, activists, and the works.

My letters had vivid details on the horrors I witnessed. I even included detailed drawings.

I slowly gained a following, and the names and faces of guards became known to the public.

The pressure mounted. One day the prison was woken earlier than usual.

"We're to spring clean!" the Warden explained.

Little did we know, the Warden was getting us all to clean up the prison before the film crews came.

They wanted to interview me, to document the poor conditions.

Well, I got my interview, didn't I? And I spoke my truth despite the beatings the Warden promised me.

Then they started dropping like flies.

It began when Tong was fired. They came to the prison and arrested him. You should have heard the choir of celebration as they dragged him out, chains on wrist.

Tong could see the writing on the wall. The Thai government was going to use him as a scapegoat.

And what do they do when they want to make an example of someone? You remember how they gave me 'leeway' with my death penalty?

A prison sentence for a guard like Tong was essentially the same thing. They found Tong dead in his holding cell. The coward bit his tongue and choked on his own blood.

And so, on the ninth year of my 25 year sentence, the surmounting outside pressure forced the government to release me.

I shook Bingo's hand, hugged the old man goodbye, thanked my Muay Thai friends, and made for the exit.

But before I left, I spoke to Nissan one last time.

"So you going now, Kiwi-boy?"

I was 27 years old with chiseled abs, legs hard as rock, scars all over, and memories that robbed my innocence. I was no boy, but you had to appreciate Nissan's call back to our first encounter.

"That I am."

"Remember our road trip," Nissan said.

"Of course. Say, you never did tell me about your tattoos."

"You never asked."

I chuckled, "Well, better late than never. Let's start with the chart on your skull. What kind of astrology is that?"

"Vedic," Nissan replied, "Old. Ancient India. Thousands of years ago."

"I see, and that stuff on your body?"

Nissan took a moment to inspect himself, "These tell story. When die, reincarnate, until you escape prison."

"This prison?" I asked.

"Mmm," Nissan struggled to find the English words, "Flesh prison."

I shook my head, "You don't believe in that shit, do you?"

"I don't believe. I know."

"Well then," I looked Nissan in the eye. I had no idea this would be the last time I saw him. I spoke of our Bike trip. "If not this life, how about the next?"

Nissan smiled, "I'd like that."

So it was. I walked out of the prison to a chorus of cheers.

"Kiwi!!!"

"We'll miss you!"

I'll admit, I got a tad emotional.

"You bastards!" I called out with tear-swelt eyes, "This isn't how men say goodbye!"

Then it was silence, and the guard at the counter handed me the bag of my possessions.

The day you leave prison is probably the strangest. They just give you back your shit, open the door, and say 'Goodbye!'.

I was so taken aback by this, I just stood there outside the prison, thinking for a moment.

But the moment I took my first real step of freedom, a bulk of metal came roaring at my side.

'HONK HONK!'

And the driver was none other than the Warden.

*SMASH!*

The impact shattered every bone in my body. And by the time I stopped rolling on the road, they came at me.

Prison guards, some hired, many who were fired, stomped and curbed me. The pain only lasted a minute, in truth. The truck had all but killed me.

The last thing I saw was the Warden spitting on my lifeless body, "Fucking Farang!"

More saliva came from other guards, "This is for Tong!"

I couldn't believe that even the guards called him Tong. That's how implicit they were with his crazy behavior.

As my life force faded, I thought of Nissan and his tattoos of reincarnation.

['You don't believe in that shit, do you?']

Thinking back, he didn't need words in his reply. His all knowing gaze said it all.

A warmth came over me as I thought about my last words to him.

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['If not this life, how about the next?']

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[REBORN AS RHAENYRA'S TWIN]

[A HOUSE OF THE DRAGON FANFIC BY ssyffix]

[COVER ART @Mike Hallstein]