Knight felt a splash as he stepped, and looked down to see his shoe resting in a rivulet of blood on the sidewalk. He traced the stream of blood to its source: a decapitated king cobra still writhing on a wet stump that served as a chopping block. A bony Burmese man in a stained T-shirt and flip-flops swept the cobra’s head onto the pavement next to several others before swiftly gutting the snake and stuffing it in a plastic bag for a customer.

“Shit.”

Knight checked his loafers, which stamped bloody footprints with every other step. He passed two barefoot young Buddhist boys walking the opposite direction, looking out of place in their orange monk robes.

Knight approached the front of a fine-dining restaurant that looked as if it belonged in Manhattan rather than in this remote jungle. Outside the restaurant, it seemed that every species of endangered animal was for sale: cages with komodo dragons, Asiatic black bear cubs, Burmese star tortoises, macaques, clouded leopards. Knight passed a Chinese customer inspecting a scaly pangolin curled up in his hands. The little armadillo-like creature was one of the most endangered animals in the world, and any number of zoos in the States would have paid thousands to add it to their collection. Given its present location, however, Knight suspected that the pangolin would not be in captivity much longer.

Knight anxiously entered the restaurant, which was filled with wealthy middle-aged Chinese men who had come to Mong La to gamble, fuck underage girls, and eat creatures on the brink of extinction. Everything in the restaurant gleamed, from the dark-red varnished tabletops to the chrome light fixtures, to the frosted-glass Chinese landscapes on the walls. The centerpiece of the restaurant, and the pièce de résistance, was a giant fish tank filled with brown liquid.

The customers suspiciously eyed the white patron—the first gwailou ever to walk through the door of the establishment. Knight warily approached the fish tank. Inside, he could make out the faint shape of some giant creature, its skin slowly decaying and becoming part of the brown slurry. Knight followed the contours of the body to the skull, where he suddenly realized what he was staring at: a fermenting tiger carcass. Jesus Christ! Knight did his best to swallow his reaction.

“Tiger wine,” a voice cracked.

Knight turned to see an old Chinese man in faded slacks and a collared shirt that was thin from many washings. Though his creased skin hung loose on his face, the old man’s eyes had the twinkle of a young boy’s. He poured two glasses of the tiger wine from a plastic spigot in the tank, then offered one to Knight with a pleasant smile.

Knight politely waved off the old man’s hospitality. “No thanks.”

“I believe your Abraham Lincoln said that men with few vices have few virtues.” The old man nodded at the glass.

Knight recoiled. “Really, it’s—”