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Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Peruvian Heat

He didn’t quite understand it. How did he go from being a lowly smuggler to the top of some hit list? Two weeks after his friends death and his kidnapping, he found himself taking international jobs just to avoid getting killed. Though, it didn’t seem to matter where he went, death followed him around like a bitch in heat. He thought the change of scenery would do him some good and help lose his tail. That’s the only reason why he took this job in Peru.

However, getting doves to clear through customs was like getting a hard-on while your arm was being chewed off by a bear. Being stuck at the airport in Peru for 2 days had mired Carl’s sense of adventure. The lukewarm coffee in his hand tasted like an ashtray and his translator kept pointing and laughing at those damned doves like they were clowns at a circus. Carl reached his breaking point the longer he sat there listening to the gentle coo'ing and high pitched cackle coming from the corner. Realizing the Styrofoam cup had had the life choked out of it, he released his iron grip. With coffee pooling on the floor, Carl allowed the cup to fall to the ground in a muted splash. Closing his eyes briefly he took a deep breath. What he wouldn’t give for a bottle of beer and a lap dance. Getting to his feet he made his way to the corner where his translator and those filthy birds awaited. Having seen his approach, the translator attempted to cut off Carl’s progress.
"Disculpe, señor but your papers are still being verified and..."
Grabbing the front of his shirt, Carl forcibly made him address the workers at the counter.
"Every minute those doves are not on that truck, I’m gonna start knocking teeth out." Shaking the translator he instructed him to repeat his threat to the individuals behind the counter. Turning the translator's attention back to him, Carl continued.
"And when you run out of teeth, I’m gonna start breaking some bones."
Trembling in Carls grasp, he relayed the message while apparently adding some of his own persuasation. He must have said the magic words because the agents busily shuffled papers around and headed over to one of the back rooms. Releasing the translator, Carl relaxed against the counter but kept his eyes firmly fixed on Señor Dickhead.
"Don't move." He was sure the translator’s quick steps back were only a vain attempt to put some breathing room between Carl and himself, but Carl was done screwing around with this jerk.

Fifteen minutes later he heard the sound of the loading doors being opened while several individuals were rushing around grabbing dove crates. Carl felt no satisfaction. His life, as he made it, left a bad taste in his mouth. Shoving his translator ahead of him, they proceeded to the loading doors and his rental truck.
"You're coming with me." Carl announced, surprising the translator and following it up with another shove. Carl signed for his cargo while his companion climbed into the passenger seat. Climbing in, Carl started the engine. Rapid fire shots exploded the passenger side window peppering Carl with glass and blood. His peripheral told him that the lifeless body slumping forward would be no more use to him. Looks like I'm on my own. Again. Life was forever handing him lemons. It was time to make some lemon-aide. Maybe there was one last thing this guy could do, after all. Strapping several grenades to his dead friend, he reached across and opened the passenger side door. Judging the distance from the approaching vehicles, Carl started pulling pins before finally kicking the lifeless body out to the street. Carl’s low chuckle sounded forced even to his own ears. These bastards just didn’t give up. Seconds later a fiery explosion made him swerve sharply in an attempt to control the vehicle. Thinking briefly of the translator he nodded his head to the fire still raging behind him.
"He was a nice guy."

Nice guys always end up dead.

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