By the time the sun slipped behind the crooked roofs of our little neighborhood and the tuk-tuks sounded like metal beetles chirping in the streets,┬аBima Santoso┬аhad already taken his seat on the throne no one could see: the swiveling plastic chair in front of his battered laptop. King of online gamblingтАФat least on our block, maybe in the district, definitely in his own mindтАФhe ruled a glowing empire of┬аvirtual slot machines┬аwhose cherries spun like possessed marbles, and┬аdigital cockfights┬аwhere pixelated roosters flared their neon hackles with a drama that would have made a soap-opera director proud. His fingers fluttered over the trackpad as if he were conducting an orchestra that only played a single, relentless note:┬аbet, bet, bet.