He really needed the cash bad.
If I said to dance for a hundred bucks, he would.
But he really shot himself in the foot.
He wanted the cash but didn't want to do the work.
He thought he was a character from one of his books.
He was the Mr. Penguin who read Tarot cards for the hookers who lived in Miami Mansion on Petchaburi Road.
'I got them in such a rage that they had to pay me much more to realign their stars towards a more fortuitous reading.'
In short, he was a fucking con man.
Sure, he edited my book.
But don't promise the world when you are only going to do a spell-check.
It raises alarms.
A true conman would take me for a ride, produce some goods.
Tap into the writing software of your next novel.
Bullshit me.
Put in half an hour and razzle me with your prose.
None of that.
He felt I was already under the spell of the old wise man.
He hated every other writer in Bangkok.
They had made him look bad.
All in his mind, of course.
He hated talent.
It got in the way of his con.
His con worked better on fresh meat that didn't live in the Kingdom.
'They can't knock on my door and demand the cashback.'
More so with Covid.
'I'm going to take that fucking wannabe writer with a ridiculous Italian name to the cleaners.'
If he didn't pay his crack bill, especially if it added up to A$500 bucks, the dealer wouldn't hesitate in breaking his skull as a warning.
John Gartland was a real smooth operator.
He worked on the principle of domination.
He didn't need to assert himself much.
'Just enough to let them know who is the real boss.'
'That's why I'm going to feed his nuts to those street dogs,' said Rosa, who mauled at his nuts with her long fingernails.
'Then after that, I'm gonna make a cunt for him with another incision and send him to the ladyboy bar down the road to earn his keep.'
John Gartland was last seen selling his old saggy ass at a short time hotel in Sutthisarn.
He was on the run from The Star of Love where he had bulk billed on ketamine.
'I'm a fucking poet, don't poets get free passes?'
Apparently not, said Rosa, who aimed her Glock between his eyes.
'The only way to silence a psychopath is with a bullet.'
Amen.
Now what is the next mission, asked Rosa.
Max patted her on the back.
'I think we might have a mission for you in Burma.'
'Don't work in third world shit holes where English is the preferred language,' she said. 'They'll only con you.'
She hated the Burmese.
'They play the field with their English skills. It's their ticket to the host country that will give them everything.'
If Rosa had things her way, she'd prefer them to rot on the Irrawaddy.
'No pensions for those lazy fucks.'
'My pension comes in today,' said Gartland.
'You fucking beggar,' said Rosa, who fired a few more shots between his eyes.
'It's called Her Majesty's Pension,' Gartland went on.
He was an immortal.
He just wouldn't shut up.
A boot to the head provided entertainment.
Nothing better than watching a head explode like a ripe watermelon.
But he kept on talking, not willing to die, saying how a local reviewer told him he was the best writer in South East Asia.
Sadly, Gartland believed the hype.
