Post by Deleted on Sept 24, 2015 22:16:47 GMT
Ciudad Juarez, Chihuaha, Mexico
I had run out of gas by the time I got to the last stop before my final destination, El Paso. Fortunately, I managed to enlist the help of a couple of local teenagers to push that gasless wreck for the last stretch. It took us about half an hour, before we managed to hump that piece-of-shit to the nearest used car yard.
Reluctantly, I gave the kids the last of my money for their half-hearted effort.
“Necesito mas dinero, por favor,” asked one of the punks after thanking the runts. My first instinct was to slap the fuck out of that shit-eating grin on his face, but I decided against it after thinking it over for a good second: I had nothing left to pay off the local cops when they inevitably show up to find a grown man brawling with minors in broad daylight.
“No habla espanol kiddo, now get the fuck out of my sight,” I replied before shooing the greedy little fuckers away. They swore at me in Spanish, before making their way back to huffing glue or whatever it was these delinquent dipshits got up to on a daily basis.
The dealer, a balding-man with a shitty combover, immediately stepped out of his office to greet me with a sweaty-palmed handshake. It didn’t take an astro-fucking-physicist to figure out that business wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. Some of the dust-caked used rides looked like they’d been sitting there for months.
“Hola senor, how can I help you today?” he greeted me with an upbeat, hearty voice that was just about as genuine as the fake Rolex on his wrist. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain any small-talk, so I decided to cut straight to the chase.
“Alright Jefe, how much can you give me for the Corolla?” I said while pointing to the half-rusted, Japanese beer can behind me. The dealer walked over to inspect it, knocking on the chassis putting on a show that made him look as if he was doing his fucking job. He didn’t even ask me to pop the fucking hood.
I didn’t blame the poor balding bastard one bit, one look was all anybody needed to know the Corolla was a hair’s-breath away from being condemned as scrap metal. He probably thought he was being magnanimous by going through the motions; the fucking prick.
“This car needs a lot of work before I can put it out on the yard. Even if I pay to get this fixed up, it’ll probably be another month at least before somebody takes a look at it…” explained the dealer before I decided to fast-track the process a little.
“You’re going to give me a price or what?” I asked him as politely as I could, given my growing impatience at how long it was taking.
“400, and I’ll pay you in dollars,” he said with a yellow-toothed grin.
After getting the paperwork done and snatching the four Benjamins out of his hand, I continued on my journey to El Paso.
Pollomania Lucha Libre, here I come.
I had run out of gas by the time I got to the last stop before my final destination, El Paso. Fortunately, I managed to enlist the help of a couple of local teenagers to push that gasless wreck for the last stretch. It took us about half an hour, before we managed to hump that piece-of-shit to the nearest used car yard.
Reluctantly, I gave the kids the last of my money for their half-hearted effort.
“Necesito mas dinero, por favor,” asked one of the punks after thanking the runts. My first instinct was to slap the fuck out of that shit-eating grin on his face, but I decided against it after thinking it over for a good second: I had nothing left to pay off the local cops when they inevitably show up to find a grown man brawling with minors in broad daylight.
“No habla espanol kiddo, now get the fuck out of my sight,” I replied before shooing the greedy little fuckers away. They swore at me in Spanish, before making their way back to huffing glue or whatever it was these delinquent dipshits got up to on a daily basis.
The dealer, a balding-man with a shitty combover, immediately stepped out of his office to greet me with a sweaty-palmed handshake. It didn’t take an astro-fucking-physicist to figure out that business wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. Some of the dust-caked used rides looked like they’d been sitting there for months.
“Hola senor, how can I help you today?” he greeted me with an upbeat, hearty voice that was just about as genuine as the fake Rolex on his wrist. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain any small-talk, so I decided to cut straight to the chase.
“Alright Jefe, how much can you give me for the Corolla?” I said while pointing to the half-rusted, Japanese beer can behind me. The dealer walked over to inspect it, knocking on the chassis putting on a show that made him look as if he was doing his fucking job. He didn’t even ask me to pop the fucking hood.
I didn’t blame the poor balding bastard one bit, one look was all anybody needed to know the Corolla was a hair’s-breath away from being condemned as scrap metal. He probably thought he was being magnanimous by going through the motions; the fucking prick.
“This car needs a lot of work before I can put it out on the yard. Even if I pay to get this fixed up, it’ll probably be another month at least before somebody takes a look at it…” explained the dealer before I decided to fast-track the process a little.
“You’re going to give me a price or what?” I asked him as politely as I could, given my growing impatience at how long it was taking.
“400, and I’ll pay you in dollars,” he said with a yellow-toothed grin.
After getting the paperwork done and snatching the four Benjamins out of his hand, I continued on my journey to El Paso.
Pollomania Lucha Libre, here I come.