VICO CORPORATION PICTURES PRESENT:
BORDER ADVENTURES
WITH ENOUGH BEEF JERKY TO FEED A THIRD WORLD COUNTRY
FEATURING ONE CRAZY REDNECK KNOWN AS SKELLER AND A CRAZY NORTHERN MEXICAN KNOWN AS VICO SURGE WITH THE APPEARANCE OF EMERSON, THE CRAZIEST ENGLISH THIS SIDE OF THE TIME LINE
At Vico Surge place on the US side
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP” The radio alarm made a racket while Vico Surge found himself sleeping deeply, “BEEP, BEEP, WAKE UP MOTHER FUCKERING BEEP!”
“Mut de muck up,” said Vico Surge with his face on the pillow, and hit the radio once.
“HA FUCKING MISSED ME BEEP!” said the radio alarm.
“Mhe muck?” asked Vico Surge, trying to hit the alarm without success.
“MISSED ME AGAIN ASSHOLE BEEP!” said the radio alarm.
“Hom om a mit,” muttered Vico Surge as he raised his eyes toward the radio alarm.
“Ohh shit,” said the alarm—just before being crushed by a baseball bat.
“MOTHER FUCKERING BAT TO THE RADIO ASS BEEP!” yelled Vico Surge, then threw the broken bat into the hallway with the rest of his junk. “Shit… fucking eleven A.M.”
Vico Surge walked to the fridge and opened it to find beef jerky everywhere. He pulled out an old gallon of milk and poured it into a glass. Whatever came out couldn’t be called milk. And it couldn’t even be called solid.
“Damn…” said Vico Surge, inspecting the milk and checking the expiration date. “Nineteen eighty-seven? This milk is as old as me.”
“I was saving it for your twenty-first birthday,” said Skeller, reading the newspaper while drinking from his canteen and eating more beef jerky.
“Right. What’s for breakfast?” asked Vico Surge.
“Beef Jerky à la Flambé,” answered Skeller.
“Great. Enough nutritious meal to keep me going all day… wait, what day is today?” asked Vico Surge.
“Not sure,” said Skeller. “I don’t like to read the calendar. Dates scare me.”
“Holy shit! HOLY SHIT! I have to pick up Emerson at the airport!” yelled Vico Surge.
“Serious?” asked Skeller.
“Yeah, shit—I gotta go. It’s late, man… but damn, it’s so late.”
“It’s never too late, my friend,” said Skeller.
“You’re right! Gimme the keys to your truck!” yelled Vico Surge.
“Can’t do,” said Skeller.
“Why not?” asked Vico Surge.
“I was taking a shit the other day and—”
“Enough details,” snapped Vico Surge.
“No wait! They didn’t fall in the shit or anything. A bear appeared.”
“A bear?” asked Vico Surge.
“Yeah. He said he wanted all our women and hooch, so I had to fight back,” replied Skeller.
“Damn, you should be a bi-national hero,” said Vico Surge. “You can eat, drink, shit, drive and fight a bear at the same time. What a man!”
“You’re gonna make me blush,” said Skeller.
“So what happened to your keys?” asked Vico Surge.
“They broke as I used them to cut the bear to pieces,” answered Skeller.
“Ahh I see,” said Vico Surge. “What else do we have?”
“Dune buggy,” said Skeller.
“Dune buggy? I didn’t know we had one,” said Vico Surge.
“Yeah. It’s in the backyard. At the sand trap.”
“Sand trap? I don’t have a sand trap,” said Vico Surge.
“You have one now,” said Skeller.
“How?”
“Didn’t you hear all the machinery I brought in last night?”
“Nah, I was playing Halo 2 with my headset on,” said Vico Surge.
“Ahh. That explains it. Too much firepower.”
“Nah—players yelling stupid shit on the microphone.”
“Cool. Want the keys?” asked Skeller.
“Yeah but… I can’t go to the airport like this,” said Vico Surge, pointing to his blue boxers and socks. “Where’s my army cap and my aviator sunglasses?”
“In the emergency kit,” said Skeller. Vico Surge went to a kit by the door marked ‘EXIT.’ Inside he found the hat, sunglasses, and dune buggy keys.
“Ready to roll out like a Cuban cigar!” said Vico Surge. “I still wonder where the author comes up with all this shit.”
Eraser.
“Ok never mind—off I go to pick up Emerson!” said Vico Surge.
“Have fun. Don’t dent the bumpers,” said Skeller.
Vico Surge flew straight through the backyard window and into the grass. At the far end of the yard sat a dune buggy inside a crater filled with sand.
“Whoa. Skeller wasn’t lying,” said Vico Surge as he mounted the dune buggy. “He actually got a dune buggy!”
He looked at the interior—then sprinted back into the house through the same window.
“Forgot your boots?” asked Skeller.
“Fuck the boots! The goddamn thing has a cassette recorder!” said Vico Surge, rushing to his room.
“So?”
“Road trip!” shouted Vico Surge.
“Yeah! Go for it!” said Skeller.
Vico Surge flew back out and slammed a mix tape into the dashboard.
“Where the fuck was this thing built?” he asked, staring at the cassette player with eighteen buttons. A label read:
BUILT WITH PRIDE IN INDIOPAKISTASIAMINORUSSIARGENTINA
“Ohh… no wonder,” said Vico Surge, slamming the first button. The thing powered up with a weird voice from the speakers:
“Welcome to the Super Dune Buggy MXTHR-987650 Mark II Model IV with limited edition chromed exhaust.
To commence driving please insert the key in the ignition, press the pedal three-quarters before the bottom with first gear and brake one-third pushed…”
Vico stared at the console as it beeped and groaned.
“Shit… I just wanted to hear my tape.”
“…To hear your cassette tape please press play and select your desired language.
Availability may differ by nation. Promotion subject to unexpected and unexplainable changes…”
“…To hear your recording in English, press play, then press the fat capitalist guy emblem holding several sacks of money. In no way are you helping capitalists win more money.”
“Right…” said Vico Surge.
“…Para español presione la tecla de jugar y después el símbolo del indio bailando cerca de un fuego con la cabeza de un ciervo en la cabeza, sosteniendo unas maracas…”
“The fuck?” muttered Vico Surge, scanning for said button.
“…Jolines! Para español castellano presionad el botón de la cosa que dice cantar y la figurilla con el sombrero y las castañuelas…”
“What is wrong with this thing? Shut up and play!” shouted Vico Surge, pressing play and then a random button.
“You have made an emergency call to local FBI authorities. Please hold while they arrive and anal probe you before throwing you down the river—”
Vico kicked the console with a wooden bat.
“Ouch.”
“No more shit. Play the tape, damn it,” said Vico Surge.
The tape screamed.
“SLAYER!!!”
He ignited the beast, making all kinds of hell before reaching the street. Slayer blared at full volume. The dune buggy roared down the freeway, and Vico Surge drove like a maniac from lane to lane, singing in chorus.
Soon, he reached the airport. Emerson sat on the ground, duffle bag in hand.
“Salutations, my foreign friend!” yelled Vico from the buggy.
“Vico?” asked Emerson.
“That’s right! Can’t find a crazier Mexican this side of the river!” Vico yelled. Emerson jumped in, bag between his legs.
“Why aren’t you wearing pants?” asked Emerson.
“Because, my friend, this is a free land,” said Vico. They both laughed.
“So… what now?” asked Emerson.
“Don’t know. Back to my place with Skeller, I guess.”
“You live with Skeller?”
“Nah man, he lives with his wife. Lovely person by the way.”
“Ohh…”
Vico pushed the pedal to the metal.
“Watch the fucking speed, mate!” yelled Emerson.
“What?” asked Vico, passing a car at full speed.
“The fucking cars, you wacko!”
“Ohh those. Don’t worry—they come with the highway.”
“I just don’t think we speak the same language…” said Emerson, watching Vico shaving.
“What again?”
“Never mind.”
“Fucking hell! That’s a real maniac behind the wheel!” said Vico, pointing to an old Lincoln Mercury.
“Why?”
“Driving at 55 on the highway. Pffft.”
“Well, someone has decency and common sense,” said Emerson—just as the Lincoln driver fired a .45 at the dune buggy.
“Shit!”
“MOTHER FUCKER! The paint job! The fucking paint job! You are so dead!” yelled Vico, throwing his shaving blade aside. He slammed the buggy into the Lincoln’s rear