Are there date-rape drugs in Roppongi clubs? The answer is yes: targeting both men and women.
Assuming you'd like to be date-rape drugged, the easiest way for a man to get drugs in his drink is to find a club at Roppongi Crossing that fits this profile:
On the street: Find some smiling black guys in sharp suits promoting their night clubs
Club Location: Follow one of these nice guys up or down some stairs or tiny elevator to a Club, not a prime location.
Club name: usually has “Gentlemen’s” or “Classy” in the name
Décor: small, dark, red, cramped room, couch seating along the walls, no windows, exit is hard to find.
Atmosphere: often red, dark, music thumping, mirrors, strobes.
Hostesses: tired, half-dressed Eastern European, Russian, African girls. No visas, no hope.
Staff: African waiters, Nigerian, Ethiopian, Middle Eastern. More staff than customers
Drinks: free for you, expensive for girls. Watch the wine and champagne!
No Japanese staff, no Japanese customers.
OK, you’ve found one of the several clubs that fit the profile. Here’s how it works:
Go with only one or two friends so you can easily be distracted and separated. Sit along the wall, side-by-side with space between you, and order a Tequila. Ask for a girl to join you (I asked for Princess, from Ethiopia). Order her a drink, and when hers comes, you’ll get a free shot of a strange blue drink, too. Offer your girl the free shot. She won’t accept it, she’ll push it back to you. That’s it, now you know you’ve got the drink with the date-rape drug in it.
Drink it up.
Order another drink. Chat with Princess who hopes you make it through the night.
Order another drink. (Now skip to the last line of this article.)
Now you’re drugged., and good.
More girls will join you, but you don’t know it.
They’ll want wine, champagne, private dances. You say yes to it all. You don’t know what’s happening.
They dance for you, and your eyes glaze over and if someone offers to stab you with a knife you say, “sure, why not?”
You’re in heaven where the girls are naked and love your disjointed stories.
You smile, you babble, it’s 1:00 am and the manager has had enough of you.
He charges your credit card whatever he feels.
The bottles are $200 a piece. The dances are $70 each and last 3 minutes. You’re in the private dance booth for 45 minutes.
You manage to write something on the American Express receipt but it’s illegible, but it doesn’t matter in Japan.
You get no itemized receipt.
You stumble down the steps or the elevator.
A staff member finds you a taxi. They fish for your hotel room key and send you home. Or some young criminal-in-training walks you to your hotel. Not good to have drugged patrons sprawling about the premises.
You wake up the next morning feeling horrible and not remembering a thing. Until your friend who didn’t trust the little blue drink (Rohypnol turns drinks blue), and from whom you got separated, tells you all about the night. You’re lucky you’re alive and have your wallet. Though $4,500 is sucked from your credit card.
Nothing you can do about it: sex slaves and drugged drinks and credit card abuse fall in the gray-zone of Japan. No recourse.
I got the free blue shot of date-rape drug because I ordered a Tequila first and it’s difficult to dilute one shot with another shot. My friend got his drugs right in his gin-and-tonics.
The profile and practice fit many Shinjuku clubs, too.
Remember what you did last night? No? Go to the police immediately.
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