Weng is quick-handed, the great-level thief of the Alley of Poisons tonight! He received a report from the Air Force commander that a mysterious squadron had invaded the airspace. Only he can and must carry out the mission neatly, quickly and quietly, absolutely no mistakes allowed. What will he do to complete his mission? Follow along.
Short story: "Top Spy Destroyer Squadron"
Late one night, as he was about to drift off to sleep, Someone's hand poked his upper arm, causing him to startle awake. His hands were fast, he tried to squint to see through the darkness in the small rented room. Staring at the owner of the hand My eyes haven't gotten used to the darkness yet. A soft whisper hit his ears, and the 28 degrees of sleepiness that had been clinging to the corners of his eyelids disappeared.
Urgent order from the Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Thai Air Force!!
Weng roared out the irritation in his throat, but a soft voice still escaped through his teeth. That's bad! He thought to himself, he knew that silence was the essence of the mission. But there was no reaction. replied in the dark. Weng imagined the commander of the Royal Thai Air Force probably looking wide-eyed and furrowed in the darkness. He certainly knew. He forgot for a moment, making even the slightest sound in such a moment like this.
It may cause the mission to fail before it even begins. Thinking about it makes your temples feel hot.
Weng had heard the nicknames Gun Pai and Dab Wai on television, and he had a friend who received the nickname Pak Wai. Weng felt the identity of the nickname become clear. Even though I'm shocked every time I'm called out in public. But the familiarity masked the danger in the calling.
Weng grew up in a neighborhood that outsiders affectionately call Poison Alley. But none of the people in this alley thought so. Even though it was an alley filled with the smell of groping water, tobacco, and sweat, it was filled with curses from old women with straw-colored heads. Or from the old man behind the frame
Rayban
fake sporty style But it is full of intimacy and passion because this is family. The alleys are like another world nested in the big city. It is only a step away from civilization. Looking up from the end of the alley, you can see a shop that sells bags for a price equal to the wages of the people in this alley for an entire year. Standing at the mouth of the alley, it's like receiving a cool breeze and aromatic scent from the shopping mall door into your lungs.
For Weng, this place is like a small-scale vocational training school for teachers in prison. Freshwater fishing from the Nam Khlam Dam Pi Canal where there are unlikely to be any living things. But still diligent to catch fish every time of the day. They grilled it and sold it to people wearing shirts and ties to buy and eat in the morning. The subject of cooking is widespread in every household.
Boiling and frying curry in the kitchen next to a rickety old wooden fence lined with vintage zinc. Whoever wants to learn the recipes from any household, just peek at them from the edge of the fence for a few days and they might be able to open a restaurant. Because the restaurants in the mall import their cooks from this alley. It is therefore not strange that he often tells people that the food in his neighborhood is delicious.
Even though it is made from a limited number of ingredients.
The knowledge he received from this alley was the same. No one teaches anyone because we don't want to be called a teacher by a profession that is hostile to people in uniform. So you can only watch and follow. When Weng was about ten years old, he started following the two seniors out of the alley. He closely followed the two people's methods of work.
One person attracts attention, another person pretends to walk and bumps into someone. Running a business with no cost like this is not something anyone can do. You have to be honest, clear-eyed, quick-handed, and courageous. This was his source of income in his youthful years. He kept it as a personal textbook but didn't intend to teach it to anyone. Weng thought that the day he received the nickname "Finger-handed" was no different from receiving a degree.
After entering the military, he stopped doing business without any cost because his ability to distract and his pity score was not as good as that of a child. Weng's main occupation is as a contractor for product placement in large department stores. Working with his hands is his specialty. Even though there is a reasonable income because it is a contract job. You have to hurry while the mall is closed and people are asleep, dreaming of sweet dreams of all the eye-catching merchandise on the shelves.
Unfortunately, it is not a weekly job, at most a few days. When he was alone, his income was still enough to support his stomach and spare a few evenings to heal his lonely heart. But when deciding to accept E-um Or Miss Thong Uam came to live under the rotted tin roof in hopes of saving money on heart tonics that damage the liver. So he knew he was wrong. Fight and die!
It's more expensive than the price of liquor.
Weng was forced to return to the industry again, and less than a year later he was forced to sleep under police guard at the police station because of a money-grabbing case. By covering the sale of roti with CCTV as evidence, my goodness! Even the roti cart has CCTV cameras.
And that was the beginning of my acquaintance with the local police, from non-commissioned to commissioned levels. With a quick mouth, I don't know if it came from a friend or not. When he's lonely, he often tells stories about his gray profession to the lesser police officers for fun. From theft, to counterfeiting lottery numbers, to forging handwriting, sometimes even senior police would come and listen, sometimes with snacks dipped in coffee instead of Patongko.
One time a young police officer called him "Weng Abagnale". He didn't understand this foreign surname. But it made sense, so Weng thought that after leaving Hong Kong, he would use this surname instead.
Weng Abagnale left the lotus-mosquitoed bedroom and returned to hide in the arms of E-Uam's legs in a small rented room. In the middle of the alley as usual He has no tattoos, only mosquito bites. When walking around, it feels a bit difficult to close my arms, maybe because of my plumper figure or because my arms are being pinched. Returning to the familiar outside world and the inner world (alley).
The warmth makes Weng feel jealous. He made a soft vow in his heart that he would never go back.
Life after returning to the alley seemed a little strange. He felt that the gap between the familiar people seemed to be widening. And there were some words missing from the conversation that he didn't know what they were. One day, when he talked about this to Nang Thong Uam next to a bowl of chili paste, he received a curt answer. But it struck me that "Sai"
His mouth is as heavy as his hands and feet. Think about it and your heart will be dizzy. Do people in the alley think he's a police officer? How to explain? If you explain it, who will believe it? Weng wants to defend himself, but who will listen? The more you fix it, the more messy it becomes, like a monkey unraveling a net.
A long time ago, he had been reading a sports newspaper and had come up with a catchy phrase. He felt that it needed to be applied to his life. “If you can't resist, join in.”
Since then, Heng Abagnale goes in and out of the police station as a joke, sometimes mowing grass, watering plants, sometimes buying coffee, insisting that his friends chat with the inspector. Some days you get food, some days you get money, and some days you're lucky and you get several gulps of foreign liquor. It's all a reasonable small compensation, at least it's better than starving and sharing half a pack with Mama to eat at a time with his wife.
His life is like this The life of the poor is like this.
Darkness spread throughout the room, but it was not a hindrance. Abyss was familiar with darkness. He waited patiently as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, but that had no effect. Today's mission relied only on their expertise. Today's enemy was fast and ruthless, choosing the most hidden attack position. They knew it as if they had been trained very well.
It attacks people of all walks of life, from the prime minister to people who are peeling their water. Abbot confirms that the undertaker is certain that he and Thong-um are no exception.
He could hear the sound of it buzzing past, as if it were choosing a target to attack. Weng remained calm, his plans never faltering unless outside of his range. The sound trailed off, he thought it was about to land and sharpened his needle to attack. He breathed softly, remaining silent and unmoving.
A tingling sensation appeared in the crook of his right hand as he waited patiently to confirm his position in hopes of destroying this cold-blooded monster. Symptoms became progressively more pronounced. He imagined that its bottom was bulging with red blood. He slowly contracted his muscles to tighten his needles, locking his target in place.
Just a flicker of quick-handed instinct. Pae was a soft voice, barely audible. He released energy from the lower part of his stomach, shoulder, and upper arm into the center of his palm, pressing his fingers into V-shaped grooves to fit into the position of the attack, preventing it from slipping through. Just a few microns before the impact, he stopped and regained his power. If it were some expert, he would probably spit out blood and die, but he didn't.
Cunning power was thrown at "it" in an appropriate manner. The sound of "pae" only symbolized its destruction.
Weng was still unsure, he slowly Raising that hand, he inhaled in the darkness the faint smell of blood mixed with 28 degree liquor that hit his nose. He smiled, proud of his skill. The skills that have been passed down from generation to generation of prisoners have always been effective. Weng breathed sweet-smelling breath with relief and twisted his body lazily, wanting to sleep. Thong-uam thrusted into his ass as if he wanted to be slapped.