As the tourists scrambled, Arun lit a cigarette. “Think they learned anything?”
Arun began unplugging speakers. Somchai stood over the GoPro. He leaned in close, his weathered face filling the frame.
“This is Tuk Tuk Patrol 5-6,” he said. “To the Globe Twatters watching from your couches in Ohio or Leeds or Melbourne: Do not try this. We are tired. Go to sleep.” Tuk Tuk Patrol Pickup 5-6 -Globe Twatters- 2023...
“The party,” Somchai said, “is over.”
Somchai stepped into the circle. He was fifty-two years old, had a gut that hung over his belt, and the weary eyes of a man who had seen a thousand man-buns come and go. He pointed at the red plastic gasoline container they were using as a stool. As the tourists scrambled, Arun lit a cigarette
Arun wiped his mouth. “Is it the one with the pink wig or the one who thinks he’s a Muay Thai fighter?”
“Oi,” he said, not loudly.
“Code 23 is noise,” Somchai said. “But I am upgrading to Code 47: Stupidity with flammable objects. And Code 12: Blocking public thoroughfare.”
Then the Swedish girl, still tipsy, tried to spin-kick the GoPro out of man-bun’s hand. She missed, stumbled backward, and knocked over the gasoline can. It didn’t spill, but it teetered dangerously close to a discarded cigarette butt smoldering on the pavement. He leaned in close, his weathered face filling the frame
“Your permit is a napkin from 7-Eleven where you wrote ‘OK’ in ketchup,” Arun said, having seen it a hundred times.