The greasy aroma of the bustling market wafted through the air, tangled beneath the colorful signs draped with string lights. A red electric scooter struggled to weave through the crowd.
The voices of people were booming.
A box of rice noodles submerged in red soup was wrapped in a plastic bag; the waitress deftly inserted two pairs of disposable chopsticks and tied a neat knot.
"All set."
"Thanks."
The man in the suit took the packaged rice noodles and the change, nodded, and turned to leave the store.
A gray Santana was parked by the road; the man in the suit, holding the rice noodles, walked up and opened the car door, and the scent of smoke and the low thumping of bass hit him all at once.
A nasal male voice came from the car stereo, "I saw an old b's car with two chicks inside. I also saw them holding cigars, but none of them were puffing."
As soon as he heard it, the man in the suit frowned, "Turn it off, turn it off."
