KTSR | Chapter 6

It took two shampoos for the smell of horse manure to finally disappear. Cleaning up after the morning practice was also Ijin’s responsibility, and it was certainly more difficult than the cleaning done before the session.

The day went by in a blur, with each jockey too battered to even exchange words at the cafeteria, their heads down, buried in their trays.

After another grueling day, nightmares plagued his sleep until he was awoken by the crowing of a rooster, and he limped outside.

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This time it wasn’t Gaeko but Team Leader Ppochi who was there. Incongruously, he wore a suit that reeked of cheapness. It might have been a brand name, but on Ppochi, even genuine items looked counterfeit.

“Hey. Seon Ijin. How’s it going?”

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Ppochi called out to Ijin as if he couldn’t remember the last time he’d beaten him.

Ijin, mid-squeeze of toothpaste, just stared blankly at him.

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Under the rolled-up sleeves, gruesome tattoos covered his arms, his skin stretched and lacking elasticity. That’s all Ijin could really see.

“Your tie is too shiny.”

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The most noticeable thing was his tie, embroidered diagonally with silver thread, shimmering as if made of polyester.

Hearing Ijin’s candid impression, Ppochi laughed heartily and slung an arm around Ijin’s shoulder, too heavy and reeking of perfume.

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“I like your honesty. Eh? Because it’s honest.”

He then thumped Ijin’s head a couple of times. It felt even dirtier than being hit.

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“Who else would I hear such honest words from if not from Ijin? Right? Without fear.”

“……”

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“Get on the ticket bus, fucker.”

Laughing heartily, Ppochi shoved Ijin away. It seemed he couldn’t speak without swearing. A true gangster through and through.

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Ijin gave a barely polite nod and moved on. Yesterday it was horse dung, today it’s ticket duty. This must be the easy job Bbang mentioned. Thankfully. Ijin chuckled softly as he walked away.

The 15-seater bus had been a kindergarten bus, then a senior welfare bus, and finally a swimming lesson shuttle before it was almost sent to the scrapyard, only to be acquired here for free. The passenger and driver’s side were the only parts not covered with large billboards blocking the interior view. Even the remaining front and side windows were heavily covered with turquoise tape, making the bus look ready for the scrapyard.

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“Is it just you today? Don’t bother me if you can handle it alone.”

Kkeobi, the ticket seller, pretended to know what he was doing. His hands bore intertwined scars, which was how he got his nickname, Kkeobi.

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While smoking vigorously, Kkeobi removed the tarp covering the bus. The dew and melted frost had collected quite a bit on the tarp, and due to Kkeobi’s carelessness, Ijin’s pant legs got soaked.

“Did you piss yourself?”

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Kkeobi mocked, calling him a dumbass. Ijin shook off the water from his legs.

Once the tarp was removed, the same-colored billboard was revealed, filled with tacky designs and large print. A red explosion icon served as a speech bubble saying “Scrap,” and next to it was Kkeobi’s secondary phone number.

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“I heard there’s a lot of corporates today. There’s a group coming. They’ve cleared the C.C next door, so you need to handle it well, kid.”

Kkeobi, habitually smacking Ijin’s head, climbed into the driver’s seat.

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Ijin gazed at the billboard. It read “Bankrupt Car,” “Unplated Car,” and “Title Transfer,” with more detailed descriptions like “Problem Car/Seized Car/Deceased’s Car/Mortgaged Car/Construction Equipment” below. To outsiders, it appeared merely an ad for a scrap company, but for those coming here, it was more than just an ad.

An hour after opening, Ijin was startled awake by someone tapping the passenger window. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Thankfully, Kkeobi, who hated being bothered by men, had let him nap. Rubbing his stiff neck, Kkeobi adjusted his cap.

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“Roll down the window.”

Ijin turned the lever to lower the window. Through the tape-covered window, a man, face obscured by a deep cap, appeared anxious as he quickly pushed money through, his hands trembling. Ijin hadn’t even asked what he was looking for before the man hurried him along.

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“I need a license plate.”

Taking the crumpled money, Ijin asked, “What type of vehicle?”

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“Construction equipment.”

“How many?”

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“Two.”

This was all coded. “Unplated Car” referred to a mid-range betting amount from one hundred to nine hundred. “Title Transfer” started at twenty, doubling the official horse racing association’s allowed betting limit up to one hundred. Other terms like “Problem Car” to “Construction Equipment” indicated the numbers of participating horses. Two horses per slot. Choosing by vehicle count meant selecting the numbers that went into that slot.

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Which horses were assigned to each group and in what order changed every time. This information was typically pasted on the back of flyers from local adult entertainment spots. If you weren’t deep into this scene, you wouldn’t easily know. Here, only exacta betting was available: choosing two horses that would place in the top three, in any order. And Ijin had been, or had been, the jockey most often in the top three.

“…Here you go.”

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Seeing the man’s trembling, broken fingernails, Ijin almost wished him luck but instead just handed over the ticket. The man stuffed it into his pocket and disappeared as if running from a thief.

“That fucker took it.”

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Kkeobi muttered, lighting a new cigarette.

“He got beaten up and kicked out before. Like a dog’s going to stop shitting. Even if they become crippled, they still come back to gamble.”

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“……”

Kkeobi despised these people, despite creating the game.

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Ijin’s mood didn’t improve, but it certainly didn’t get any worse. Just as he settled into the springless seat, another customer arrived.

“Corporate.”

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The new guest wore golf attire. Like the previous customer, he wore a cap, but the aura and smell he emitted were decidedly different. It wasn’t the kind of scent that erased the stench of a life spent screwing oneself over. The guest sniffed continuously, making Ijin feel dirty.

“Can I buy several horses?”

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“That’s not allowed.”

“Really? Even if I give you a fuckton of money?”

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The informality came naturally. Ijin, struggling to keep his cool, kept his mouth shut.

“Alright. Give me anything then.”

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The man glanced at Ijin, then looking him over again, chuckled and asked, “Your face looks familiar. Why don’t you come out here? Let me get a good look at you.”

“I’ll give you the ticket. Choose your horse.”

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“Being cold suits you. Sexy. Then pick me one that looks like it’ll run well tomorrow.”

“…I’ll give you Deceased’s Car 1.”

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“What’s with the ‘Deceased’s Car’? That sounds bad.”

“Should I make it Seized then?”

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“Better dead than seized, yeah. Give me that.”

Both Kkeobi and this guy smoked openly in front of others without hesitation.

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And soon Ijin realized the man wasn’t just smoking a cigarette. It smelled like rubber mixed with some strange gunpowder product burning.

The man, chuckling, snatched the ticket between his index and middle finger, then used the same hand to pat Ijin’s cheek.

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“Don’t you sell other tickets?”

“……”

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“You don’t even listen to your customers. Don’t you know the customer is king?”

It had been years since the concept of a king had died out and presidents were elected, but some still held onto such outdated ideas. Ijin consistently responded with silence.

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The man’s demeanor grew rougher, and just as Ijin was bracing for a nuisance, Kkeobi, who had been idly cracking seeds in the van, hurried out.

“Oh, boss. I’ll help this gentleman with the other tickets.”

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Recognizing the face through the window, Kkeobi scrambled out of the car. He must be a big spender. Ijin inwardly sneered at Kkeobi’s sudden change in attitude. As he took the man away, Kkeobi glanced back at Ijin with a glare dripping with curses. Ijin didn’t sneer or say a word, but simply dismissed his distaste for the man.

“Disgusting fucker.”

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Ijin rubbed his cheek roughly out of habit, then sorted the cash and placed it in the money box that sat where a cup holder should have been.

Corporate indeed…

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Although Ijin hadn’t often been the ticket boy, he was genuinely surprised that someone really bought a corporate ticket and that he had seen it in person.

Corporate was a betting category starting at 1,000, literally a league of their own. It was natural for Kkeobi’s attitude to change. But unlike Kkeobi, who skimmed a hefty commission, Ijin’s situation was different.

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The amounts they brought in were much more important than the tickets sold. Causing a big spender to lose could turn potential profit into actual loss, and debts would grow. It was either hit the jackpot or bust, literally gambling.

As the conversation dragged on, Kkeobi was away from his post longer than usual. Ijin stared into the mist-shrouded mountainside. This area was notorious for fog. It didn’t matter if it was evening or morning; if it was damp and cool, the fog crept in unpleasantly.

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Maybe he could escape into that fog… Knowing it was impossible, Ijin still gazed into the mist.

How long he had been staring, he didn’t blink when someone else tapped on the passenger window. Turning the lever to lower the window, only the glow of a cigarette appeared through the thickening fog. The glowing tip retreated, then suddenly, a tawny arm rested on the windowsill.

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