Right now…
“No trouble with the border?”
“No, no hay problema” rumbles Señor ToughGuy.
“Fuck that fuckin’ border wall, bro!”
Señor ToughGuy cracks his knuckles just for effect. He’s enjoying watching the skinny freak jump with each knuckle going off like a kernel of popcorn, the corners of his mustache twitching as he suppresses a smile.
“Dude, stop that” grumbles Tony. “You’re making me fucking nervous, dawg.”
“You’re already nervous.”
“Gonna show us the good stuff?” ask the short, greasy one. His face is covered with acne. Speed freak, thinks Señor ToughGuy to himself.
“Does the Pope lick his own balls?”
“What?”
“Yes, dammit! Mierda!” Señor ToughGuy rubs his face with his gnarled hands, the orange dawn seeping through his fingers. It’s been a long night. “Got the money ready?”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh” agrees the tall one, hopping from foot to foot. He riffles a stack of greenbacks in a white paper envelope. Señor ToughGuy grunts and with a quick motion unlocks the back of the truck and rolls up the door with a bang.
The tall freak and the short freak stop their jittering for a moment and their jaws drop. The truck is filled with shrink-wrapped cases of Pepsi, Hecho En Mexico.
“Pespi? You brought us fucking Pepsi?”
Earlier…
Arnold lights another smoke as the truck’s springs groan and jounce over the potholes. Only two left in the pack. Fuck! Again?
“Es mas barato.” The kid in the center seat stinks of sweat and frijoles.
Señor ToughGuy sucks his teeth, cracks his knuckles but keeps his eyes on the dark road ahead.
“It’s fucking cheaper” coughs the pig.
“Sí, sí. Mas barato. Ustedes no tienes mucho dinero.“
The pig is working up some serious hate, the bile collecting in the back of his throat like the effluent of some dark serpent. “This had better fucking work.”
“No hay problema, Don Puerco. Muchos gente preferente este.“
“Sure, cabrón, but they asked us for Mexican Coke!”