This crew of us from the gym follow Panuwat and Piyapong in a convoy of scooters heading into Krung Thep. We’ve got a day off training ’cause it’s like some Buddha-ese new year, even though it’s the wrong month. We’re gonna sell the Jeks this stuff called methylene that comes in mini drums that say Nescafe, but it’s not really Nescafe. The China boys meet us in this massive gravel pit with big mountains of pebbles and sand. I stand on top of one, trying to look staunch. A scrap’s coming and Jadey’s stiffy is back again.
These three Jeks dressed in soccer shirts and big chains like Run DMC take a tin of Nescafe each, and they’re giggling like mental as they toss down backpacks of money to us, then hop back in their BMW. Panuwat and Piyapong are knuckleheads; they’re too excitable, too focu
