Ganar Dinero

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Ganar Dinero

Postby Srf » Mon Sep 11, 2017 10:40 pm

Opening credits

Puerto Mercedes, 1975

The downtown district of Puerto Mercedes was cast into dramatic shadows around early afternoon, as new glass and steel skyscrapers shielded the grubby streets from the burning equatorial sun. In street-level Fondas, school children and blue-collar workers sat at long cafeteria-style tables to eat a cheap, filling lunch of rice, beans and chicken. From the doorways of small, simple shops lining the pavements the inescapable sound of salsa music drifted onto the streets, packed with office workers as they made the most of their lunch hour to escape their air-conditioned desks.

A man, dressed in light linen slacks and a resplendent floral silk shirt, wiggled his hand in time with the music as he crossed the road, easy enough in the downtown traffic gridlock. He made his way to the appointed Fonda, el Dorito, and smiled at the waitress as he wandered in.

"Buenas tardes, señorita". He walked past her and headed straight to his target, a fat man in glasses sat alone at a table in the corner. He reached the table and sat down opposite the fat man. "Officer Romero, so nice to see you again."

The fat man looked up from the table. "Oh. I didn't expect to see you. Which one are you again?"

The first man looked a little irritated at having not been recognized. He reached a hand up to his head and ran a hand through his thick, well-moussed mullet. "I am la Avispa".

Romero snorted. "Alright then. Now why did the Boss call me here?"

Avispa leaned forward so that both hands were clasped together, resting on the small table. He looked Romero in the eye. "The Boss pays you well. The deal is that you do something in exchange for us, Romero. Do you remember what it is, you fat idiot? No, shut up. Well, you're a customs officer, aren't you. You let our shipments through the port without anyone checking them. But yesterday we had five million dollars worth of product seized. So you didn't do your job, Romero. The Boss is upset."

Romero coughed. He ran a hand across the back of his neck, which was sweating profusely. "Look - I'm not scared of a Barrio sicario like you, Avispa. The Boss knows I can't let every package through. It's impossible. I wasn't working last night, you have my schedule, you know when I can help you."

"It was five million dollars though, Officer Romero." Avispa lazily reached over and took a swig from Romero's beer. "I was surprised the Boss didn't tell me to kill you, actually. But he's giving you one more chance. Tonight is the biggest single shipment so far. Ten million dollars' worth, bound for North Point and Quiberon and Zegora. If it doesn't leave the port, we kill you and your family."

Romero's eyes widened, and he rubbed his neck again. "Give me the details".

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Re: Ganar Dinero

Postby Preston » Wed Sep 13, 2017 1:14 am

Evora, Summer 1975

The summer heat beat down oppressively upon the streets of Embrea's capital. Men and women, their dark business suits discarded for the pasteled colors and airy fabrics which were both the height of fashion and the practical option in warmer months, scurried swiftly to their destinations or else ducked into one of the cosmopolitan city's numerous cafes, diners and public houses for a bit of air conditioning and a refreshment. In the brownstones and tenement homes, their stately facades concealing the deprivations of those who inhabited them, window-mounted aircon units strained in their task.

In other, more affluent parts of the city, the heat-wave would have little effect: businessmen, cushioned in their centrally-cooled offices, took little notice of it. Neither did the tourists, from Quiberon and Praetonia and even an odd few from across the Oryontic, as they sunned themselves on the beaches or explored the Baroque splendor of the Old City. But in the district of Valmirinho, there were few sites to see and few who much cared to see them. Little Valmiero, its name meant, populated by a steady stream of immigrants and refugees which had began during the independence war and continued, in fits and starts, ever since.

It was to this origin that Marcelo Silva, known in these streets as O Atum Negro* owed his residence here. His parents had come over in the 50s around his age, in search of better opportunities which had in the event failed to materialize. A legacy of hard work, hand-to-mouth poverty and devout Catholicism was the inheritance they were set to leave their only son, a mechanic by day and budding petty criminal by night. The Catholic school education had done little for his prospects of moving up in the world in practical terms, but it did introduce him to a certain friend of a higher station, for whom he now waited in a dingy diner whose faded sign announced it as Cafe Santa Maria.

Emilio Ventura was, in every sense, the polar opposite of the man he now sat down to meet. Comfortably middle class, professional, Emilio worked in his parents' furniture store, a small though successful outfit which he would one day inherit. Young, relatively moneyed and occasionally brash, everything about the man from his appearance to the light tones of his skin screamed that he did not belong in this slum; the locals, though polite, stole sneaking, suspicious glances at him as he passed. A man like that, coming here, was one of two things, a lost tourist or a cop. Either way, it didn't bode well to get involved. Finding his man, he took a seat at the cheap plastic-backed booth seat.

"So why'd you call me all the way out here?," he began, leaving the last part "to this shithole" unspoken. "I blew off a date with Rebeca for this 'big thing' you had to show me, it better be worth it."

"Rebeca, is that that red-haired one? Cousin's got the big tits, you know the one?" Emilio let out a short growl of irritation at this; Marcelo quickly got to the point. "I called you out here to discuss business, I've been talking to some friends down south and they've got something that'll make us both rich, but I need your help to pull it off."

"My buddy Berto knows some farmers down there, in my grandpa's old village, coca farmers. Small stuff, they sell it at markets and shit, all the fazendeiros down there chew it, its like their coffee. But the government's been cracking down on it lately, they've got a bunch of shit they can't move, and they don't wanna fuck with nobody they can't trust. Spies and shit everywhere down there."

"So you want me to help you, what, smuggle a bunch of drugs back here and sell 'em? Do you even know how to sell drugs? Forget it man, you've had a lot of ideas but this is nuts."

"Of course I know how to sell drugs, shit ain't hard," Marcelo said, sensing his friend's skepticism. "Look, hear me out here, its simple. We rent a plane, fly down there, Berto sells us the stuff, we bring it back here and sell it. Simple shit. There and back in two days."

"Uh-huh. And how do you propose getting a plane, loaded with cocaine, back through Customs?"

"You kiddin' me? I know some boys work in customs, cut them off a slice and they'll look the other way, Lord knows they don't get paid enough to do anything else."

"So I take it what you need from me is the money and the plane. How much, exactly?"

"Three hundred thousand, plus the plane and something for bribes, just in case. Call it three twenty-five."

"Three hundred twenty five thousand reis, you're fucking kidding me right? My parents' business is barely worth that much. How the hell do you expect me to come up with that kind of money?"

"Your folks have basically turned the place over to you, right? Get a business loan, tell 'em you're looking to finance an expansion. We get back, cut and turn the product and we'll have more than enough to pay it off, with interest."

"We pay the loan off first, then I get 60% of whatever profit we get, if there is any. But I still don't like this, not one bit. This might be a way of life out here but I've never seen the inside of a jail cell and I sure as hell don't want to start now."

"I promise you you'll be fine. One quick trip, that's it, you'll have your money and you can go back to running your business."

"You have a deal. I'll go talk to the bank tomorrow and call you when I have the cash. You better not fuck this up."

* = The Black Tuna

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Re: Ganar Dinero

Postby Srf » Thu Sep 21, 2017 2:14 pm

Post OST

Puerto Mercedes, July 1975

In a leafy, exclusive suburb of Puerto Mercedes one house was a little unlike its neighbors. Men in loudly printed cotton shirts strutted across neat lawns toting submachine guns, discretely tucking them into the crooks of their arms as young children ran past, chasing each other and screaming in delight. The gangster La Avispa strolled across the colonial patio, past a long table where white-shirted house staff prepared an enormous children's birthday cake, and entered the expansive teracotta villa. Despite the sprawling, maze-like interior La Avispa navigated the hallways with intimate familiarity, and within seconds was knocking on a wall as he entered an open-plan living room. A few men were sprawled across the sofas, watching a TV mounted to the corner. La Avispa went to the man who commanded the greatest amount of sofa area, dressed in jeans and a golfing polo. A cigar hung from his mouth, and he regarded the TV with rapt attention and disgust.

"Don Molleno, your daughter's presents are being unloaded. I think Mrs Molleno will be calling the children to the table in around five minutes".

"Look at that mother fucker". Don Molleno's eyes had not left the TV. La Avispa looked up at the screen, where President Santiago was addressing reporters. Don Molleno signaled to a man standing by the TV set to raise the volume.

"... totally unacceptable. The drug gangs that plague Puerto Mercedes, flooding streets both foreign and domestic with poison, are a stain on our international reputation. Our party came to power promising to end the "Narcocracy", and we are taking steps to do just that. This very morning the national police seized thirty tonnes of cocaine from... "

"That hypocrite piece of shit" Don Molleno grimaced. "He was happy enough moving coke and smoking ganja in the jungles with me, then the war ends and he sheds his skin like a snake and suddenly becomes a respectable politician. Funny what putting on a suit does to you".

The boss grunted and climbed to his feet. He turned to the man on his right hand side. "Luis, arrange a meeting with the other bosses. Not here, in the ranch at Puerto Zavala". Don Molleno put his hand on La Avispa's shoulder, looked at him and grinned. "I am going to make that son of a bitch pay dearly for betraying me." He took another drag of his cigar. "Here's what I want you to do".

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