He wanted me to drive a couple of hours to the state prison outlet store, where you can buy stuff the prisoners make, and get him a hand tooled leather gun bag that he's been fiending for. I decided to do it, 'cause at 45, other than trying to talk a hooker into massaging your prostate, this is what passes for adventure.
Anyway, I drive to the store and ask for 'John.' I tell him I'm there to pick up the bag for Geck0. He stares at me for a moment and says, with this thick accent "Joo here to pick up ze bag for Ze Gecko? You don' look like Ze Gecko." So I say, "I'm not The Geck0, I'm The Rancher. Now where's the damn bag Pedro?"
You can tell that I'm starting to get a little cranky. After a couple of hours sitting in the car, Rancher Dan's man gland is starting to swell something awfull and it's a good two hour drive back to a sitz bath.
Anyway, 'John" stares at me a moment longer then disappears behind a curtain. He comes back with the bag. I thought you told me it was tooled with elks and eagles an' shit Geck0. This has got like, little leaves, mushrooms and pipes all over it. I unzipped it and was disgusted to find out that the guy that made it didn't clean it out very well. It was still full of some sort of white powder. I guess it was some sort of leather tanning powder.
I figure wtf, this must be the bag that "Ze Gecko" wants, so I pull out my wallet and try to pay the guy what you told me it would cost. Pedro, I mean 'John' starts to sputter something about "mucho mas dinero!" I'm not about to be screwed by some piss-ant former jailbird, so I slam his head into the counter, leave the money and trot out to the car with your bag.
Anyway, I'm driving back to Phoenix along the beautiful back roads of my great state, and a car pulls up behind me. It's "John" and about twenty of his South American buddies all piled into a Pinto. They start sticking guns out the window and firing. Just as we pass a highway patrolman who's having some sort of argument on the side of the road with a Border Patrol agent.
If I hadn't been in mortal dread of catching Columbian lead I'd a laughed my ass off at the expression on their faces when me and Pedro's car blew past 'em. So about a mile later Pedro and I have picked up a highway patrol car and a Border Patrol car following us with lights and sirens. About this time I decide I've had about enough, shake my Ford Excursion's transmission down into four wheel drive and departed the highway at high velocity. I made it home. I'm kinda pissed off though. I'm plenty sore and there's no way I'm going to talk a hooker into climbing into my car and massaging my prostate since my car's shot full of bullet holes.
Anyway, I've got your bag but I need you to send me your address again, 'cause I think it fell outta my pocket back at the prison store.
Anyway, I drive to the store and ask for 'John.' I tell him I'm there to pick up the bag for Geck0. He stares at me for a moment and says, with this thick accent "Joo here to pick up ze bag for Ze Gecko? You don' look like Ze Gecko." So I say, "I'm not The Geck0, I'm The Rancher. Now where's the damn bag Pedro?"
You can tell that I'm starting to get a little cranky. After a couple of hours sitting in the car, Rancher Dan's man gland is starting to swell something awfull and it's a good two hour drive back to a sitz bath.
Anyway, 'John" stares at me a moment longer then disappears behind a curtain. He comes back with the bag. I thought you told me it was tooled with elks and eagles an' shit Geck0. This has got like, little leaves, mushrooms and pipes all over it. I unzipped it and was disgusted to find out that the guy that made it didn't clean it out very well. It was still full of some sort of white powder. I guess it was some sort of leather tanning powder.
I figure wtf, this must be the bag that "Ze Gecko" wants, so I pull out my wallet and try to pay the guy what you told me it would cost. Pedro, I mean 'John' starts to sputter something about "mucho mas dinero!" I'm not about to be screwed by some piss-ant former jailbird, so I slam his head into the counter, leave the money and trot out to the car with your bag.
Anyway, I'm driving back to Phoenix along the beautiful back roads of my great state, and a car pulls up behind me. It's "John" and about twenty of his South American buddies all piled into a Pinto. They start sticking guns out the window and firing. Just as we pass a highway patrolman who's having some sort of argument on the side of the road with a Border Patrol agent.
If I hadn't been in mortal dread of catching Columbian lead I'd a laughed my ass off at the expression on their faces when me and Pedro's car blew past 'em. So about a mile later Pedro and I have picked up a highway patrol car and a Border Patrol car following us with lights and sirens. About this time I decide I've had about enough, shake my Ford Excursion's transmission down into four wheel drive and departed the highway at high velocity. I made it home. I'm kinda pissed off though. I'm plenty sore and there's no way I'm going to talk a hooker into climbing into my car and massaging my prostate since my car's shot full of bullet holes.
Anyway, I've got your bag but I need you to send me your address again, 'cause I think it fell outta my pocket back at the prison store.
If that story is true, it's the greatest thing ever.
Now reply to my damn email so I can send you some pesos to support your little jaunts to south central.