📸

SNOWING IN BALI

flight, third time in Jakarta. I have three heart attacks. You don't believe . . .

In Singapore I'd been in a coma for one month, the doctor says, 'Marco is already dead', they bring the priest, my mother came, he say, 'Marco is already dead.' And then he make like a prayer, 'Maria, Marco bye-bye', and then the priest says to my mother, 'You have to pay $100.' My mother gives money to the priest. The priest goes away . . . after five minutes I open my eyes, 'Mamma mamma.' Then my mother tried to find the priest but he already escaped.

– Marco

After three months of drifting in and out of comas, Marco recovered well enough to do a runner, escaping Singapore without paying his hospital bill. It was more than $200,000 and even after insurance and friends chipping in, he owed more than $50,000. For the next two years, he was in a wheelchair, but used it to his advantage smuggling Lemon Juice to Bali.

His friends thought that the accident might make him less erratic, reckless and arrogant, but it seemed to exacerbate those traits. He'd fallen from the skies, defied death a second time; now, despite being left with a permanent limp, he truly believed he was invincible. Rafael had been working less and less with him since the accident, and after the ecstasy con, he boycotted any jobs with him, although he would later inadvertently be involved in the most deadly run of all.

After the accident, he talk bullshit about everybody, make gossip. If he knows about some deal, he talks with the wrong people to make shit. He was crazy. Man, I only help this motherfucker, I give coke, I give money, I give girls, I give him everything and then he wants to fuck with me. This guy is trouble walking – he talk too much. I start to keep a distance, because I think he get crazy.

– Rafael

📸