There’s a set of clear lot lines in this dusty trailer park. They form a square around a well-kept Golden West, such a lovely trailer, a square of healthy green grass, not terribly well trimmed, but lined around by one of those six-inch high looped wire fences and a row of flowers brazenly holding the territory against the scruffy, windswept dried weeds next door. Two undersized stomp dogs of indeterminate breed are snuffling and sneezing their greying muzzles in the foliage.
She’s peering from behind the sun-faded floral curtains over her kitchen sink watching the RV across the street when the box truck wheezes and rolls up outside. It’s seen better days, the U-Haul script faded and scratched by a series of previous owners. Bits of rust across the undersides, a hint of many long-hauls through northern climes. The windows are down, foreshadowing a non-functional A/C unit.
With an audible creak the driver’s door pops open and a gut heaves itself to the ground. Big feet in beefy black sneakers, untied. Sweatpants, grey with the lower legs ripped or worn off. White, or white in a former life white t-shirt draped over the gut, with somehow a black hoodie in the dying heat of the afternoon. Pristine baseball cap with the outline of some figure running with a large knife. She’s squinting at the man’s face. “¡Yava! Qué es eso?” She mumbles to herself. The man’s face is covered in a pattern of black and white paint, short beard hairs poking out over his jowels.
The dogs go berserk when a large pig hops down from the passenger side. The big man bends down and lights the cigarette hanging from the pig’s mouth. The pig’s eyeing the barking banshees hopping madly in the lawn with clear disdain. “Hey, Porkchop. Sure this is the place?” He growls.
The Juggalo janks his thumb at the Winnebago across the baked gravel road. “Over there Boss, plate reads PORN KING. Gotta be the place.” Arnold shifts his gaze to the RV, but not before noting the flutter of curtains of the trailer. He takes a long pull on his smoke, the big vehicle is properly dilapidated, sagging to the side slightly on blocks sinking into the ground, some kind of silvery tape holding together corners of the roof.
The screen door of the RV bangs open and some kind of small man shuffles to the ground. The light breeze jangles a few long threads of brown hair across his wrinkly brow and he bears the manner of a guy looking for his pocket protector and a good swingline stapler. He’s also sporting stained grey sweatpants, the mainstay of America and a wrinkled short-sleeved white dress shirt that does indeed have two pens in the breast pocket. He stares at the fat man and the pig through his glasses then shouts at the two dogs waving his fists, “SHADDAUP YOU!” A bit of spit drips from his lower lip. He wipes it away with his arm. “Gawd, I hate those things. You must be the guys.”
Arnold looks him up and down. “We are the guys. You that ‘Porn King’, shorty?”
“Yeah, yeah. You bet, you bet, come inside. You can call me King. Come see the Kingdome.” The King opens the door to his RV and waves them inside. Inside the RV looks like the 70’s but then the drugs wore off. Orange and burnt umber had a party and didn’t know when to stop. At some point the starboard side of the RV had been stripped and the furnishings replaced with a rack of computer servers, monitors and a long desk full of monitors. The port side is a jumble of bachelor clutter; clothes, bedding, cookware and odds’n’ends piled haphazardly in a visual whirlwind that doesn’t invite closer study. Out the side window a large, dusty satellite dish points skyward.
The short man claps his hands together with excitement. “Hey, hey, you want some bong water? I got it special, ya know, straight from the bong.” Heads shake no. “Ok, fine. You got the laptops?” The lurking Jugallo reaches under his paunch and pulls out a grey Dell laptop somehow hidden in his shorts and sets it on a clear spot on the small table. King caresses it with a giggle. “You got more?”
“A whole truckload outside” coughs the pig. “You’d think people at the airport would be more careful with their luggage.” He lights another smoke, spitting the spent butt onto the mashed shag carpet. “Gonna show us how this works, or what?”
“Oh yeah oh yeah, watch this watch this…” The small man practically dances the Dell across the small space and gets busy hooking it up to a nest of wiring. He cracks the lid and there’s a small sticky note on the screen with a scrawled user/password combination in the standard security protocol for people stuck with long, obscure passwords. In a moment he’s booted it up. He hops onto a stool before the tower of computer gear and cracks his knuckles. “You see all this over here?” waving to the technology.
“That’s an AI system, all new ‘dark web’ stuff called OpenFrawd.” He wiggles a mouse and lights up a monitor. It’s full of incomprehensible screens of scrolling obscure messages. “It’s brand new. Oh, this is so much better than porn work. I had a good scam going there. Did you know how much money you can make by setting up a child porn site, taking chumps credit cards and not giving them any porn? It’s crazy, who are they going to complain to? ‘Hey cops, I got ripped off buying child porn! Ha ha ha, suckers!” He beats his belly with laughter.
The Jugallo hocks up a grunt of approval, the pig merely stares. “Wouldjah get on with it, meatball?”
“Right right right, yeah. My OpenFrawd AI agent here, you see, once it has access to a laptop, it’s got everything! Every password, every account, every credit card…” he pauses, breathing heavily. “Yeah, and with a bit of help and a little setup by yours truly, Mr. AI is now pretending to be that user-guy and while we sleep, etc our AI friend is placing orders, sending emails because that laptop and all that guy’s websites and accounts thinks it’s him!” He stops and leans his arms on his knees, regarding the other two. They stare back.
“So what happens?” King asks rhetorically. “For every laptop we clean out the guy’s accounts, and the AI is doing all the work. It pretends to be him, even making phone calls! We get the money, ditch the laptop and go get a meatball sub. Clever, huh huh?” Outside the din of the dogs becomes a cacophony.
They can hear screeching outside. Is that the old lady? “Get off my lawn, cabrón!” Then a pounding on the door of the RV. A thick Mexican accent commands, “Abierto gringos, con pronto mucho!” The pig and the Jugallo move back as far as they can in the confined space while the King cautiously peers through one of the grimy windows. Outside a large SUV has appeared, several dark-clad figures and the crazy old lady from next door is shouting and shooting her garden hose at them. King mutters, “What the…?”
The RV door bangs open and an arm beckons the occupants outside. “Gringos, outside! We know you have the computers.” Quietly the two men look at each other and then to the pig. Arnold does a porcine version of a shrug and trots out the door. Three dark skinned, bearded men in black leather jackets greet them smiling grimly. One of them is soaking wet. “Well here you are!” smiles the one in the middle over the barking dogs. “Juan here thought you might be next door.” He grins. “Juan, the wet one, he is not so smart. Heh. You can call me José.” He waves to the third man, “Him you gringos can call Hose B. Heh, heh. We are here for our laptops and so many computers.”
The Porn King is incensed. He puts his hands on his hips, squints his hardest and yells, “Hey, that’s my stuff!”
José makes an I’m very sorry face, shrugs. “Go fuck yourself, little man.”
The King turns bright pink and stutters, “who who, who the hell do you think you are?”
“Yo soy un hombre con muchos computadores nuevos, amigo.” José winks and gestures to the pig. “Let’s see those computers. Truck keys, now pig. Por favor.”
Silently the Jugallo glances at Arnold. Arnold takes another long pull on his cigarette and snarls, “It ain’t locked, taco breath.”
“¡Bueno! Mucho facile.” José throws his arms up with a grin and the three banditos move to the rear of the truck. With a smile he throws up the rolling door with one easy motion. And then backs away with his hands in the air at the business end of an M4 rifle. “¡Puta madre!” he spits.
Now all three are backing away from the truck with their arms raised. “You fucking pig!” screams José. With a swift move five uniformed black-clad figures pointing down the barrels of bad-dog looking rifles drop out the back of the windowless cargo area. Their ICE insignia is prominently displayed.
Seeing that the Mexican trio is sufficiently covered, the last uniformed man from the van strides over to Arnold. “Looks like we’ve got this.” He pulls a thick unmarked white envelope from under his tactical gear and drops it at Arnold’s trotters. “Here’s your payment, Mr. Ziffel. Nice doing business with you.” He turns away and starts making some calls on his radio.
“Holy shit, boss. You are slick.” slurs the Juggalo, struggling to take it all in.
Arnold lights a fresh smoke. “Yes, yes I am.”
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