Snowing in Bali

⁷Trashy trash trash.

If you like reading sentences like:
“[he was] always wearing... a splash of his signature, babe-luring, Paco Rabanne XS”
or if you feel that using ‘you know what it is, my friend, it's a fucking knife and it's for putting in the neck of Marco,' as a direct quote in what, for all extents and purposes, is a reconstruction of something no camera or microphone has ever recorded qualifies as journalism - then this book is for you.

Putting the frequent use of profanities and the use of trashy language and casual sexism aside for a minute, the fact is there is nothing much to learn from this book.
Drug dealers all become drug dealers at some point, they all easily get inflated egos, they all end up getting reckless and screwing up.
Drugs are packed in surfboard bags, booms, sportscars' spoilers.
Knives are drawn, lives are threatened, a lot of cocaine is blown.
All groundbreaking revelations, I'm sure.

To be fair, the book flaunts the line ‘the incredible inside account of Bali's hidden drug world' on its cover, so it's not doing much to position itself as Pulitzer material.

I picked this up on my way back from Indonesia, fraught with first-world guilt and seriously astounded at how criminal and illegal activities are pretty much carried out in broad daylight.
I looked to educate myself on the inner workings of such a system but this book did nothing for me.