Marvel Saiyans - Chapter 13
At the U.S.-Mexico border crossing, an RV pulls up at the customs checkpoint.
“March in
Take command
Line up
Take a stand
Make this war to art.”
Loud industrial metal rock music blares inside the vehicle, where two Caucasians in beach shirts and shorts sway to the beat.
“Passports?” asks a customs officer. “Are you both Americans?”
“Yes, indeed, Americans.”
The driver hands over two passports to the officer, who briefly checks them. The process of entering Mexico from the U.S. is much more straightforward than the other way around.
“Are you heading to Ensenada Port in Mexico?”
“Yes, we’ll try our luck catching a tuna.”
After returning the passports, the officer says, “Is it the tuna season now? There’s been a lot of people entering Mexico these days. Safe travels.”
The driver starts the RV, speeding along Mexico’s highways.
“Damn, looks like we’ve got a lot of competition this trip.”
Exiting the highway, the RV rolls through rugged rural roads into a village where three people are waiting, smoking on the roadside.
“You’re late, Wade.”
The three stand up, their hands calloused from hard work.
“Can’t help it. Traffic was as bad as my intestines after leaving Pendleton.”
Wade Wilson (Deadpool’s real name, who has not yet acquired his superpowers) climbs into the back of the RV, revealing neatly arranged guns and ammo, including two packs of C4 explosives and over twenty offensive grenades.
The group efficiently distributes the weaponry and checks the condition of the guns.
“You all know, our target this time is the Reyes Group. Normally, we wouldn’t take such a job, but I heard Mata Group has found a very powerful mutant giving Reyes a hard time,” says the group’s leader, Jack Hammer.
“We’ll rest here for a day before heading to Mexico City.”
Most of the group are former special forces or retired Marines, battle-hardened and experienced. Some rest under the trees, while others head to a clearing outside the village to calibrate their rifles.
Jack Hammer, known as Weasel among the mercenaries, cracks open an ice-cold beer.
“We’re going to make a fortune this time, Wade. There’s nobody in Mexico richer than Carlos and Barlo.”
Jack has extensive connections among mercenaries, often organizing highly paid missions. Although he doesn’t fight, he earns a significant cut from these operations.
His phone rings in his pocket, and his expression turns serious as he checks the caller ID. He gestures to Wade.
“It’s a tough one, known as the Border Killer.”
He answers the call.
“Hello?”
A tired voice comes from the other end.
“You’re in Mexico now, right?”
Jack immediately denies it.
“How could that be? I’m in New York and took on a big job.”
A cold chuckle comes from the other end of the line.
“Well, if I see you, I won’t hold back.” Jack quickly changes his tune:
“Okay, I’m in Mexico. What’s up?”
The voice on the phone says:
“Let me join your team. I want to take on the Mata Group mission. I’ll give you an address, and we can meet there in two days.”
…
A humble roadside stall mainly sells fried pork skin, Gorditas, and Churros. The large chunks of pork skin are fried to a crisp, extremely greasy, and served with tangy pickled cucumbers, creating a delightful flavor. The Gorditas are similar to meat-filled buns, stuffed with chunks of pork skin, grilled meat, and cheese and topped with salsa sauce. A single serving is enough to fill one up halfway.
Churros are a snack from Spain similar to fried dough sticks, deep-fried and dusted with sugar.
The stall owner, a middle-aged Mexican man with a beer belly, is at his busiest, able to produce over five thousand Gorditas in a day, but now he is sweating profusely and overwhelmed.
A tall and robust Asian man sits before the stall owner, stuffing the food into his mouth almost one bite at a time.
Nonchalantly crossing his legs, Alejandro sits on a plastic chair in his suit and leather shoes, watching a novel. The contrast between his dressed-up appearance and the messy stall creates a stark visual dissonance.
He has gotten used to Broly’s astonishing appetite.
An old RV turns the corner and stops abruptly in front of the stall, its window rolling down to reveal Jack’s face.
“Hey, Ali, long time no see.”
In the passenger seat, Wade opens the car door, walks up to the stall, pulls over a plastic chair, and sits beside Broly. He says to the owner,
“Give me one of those cakes.”
“Sorry, sir, I’ve run out of ingredients.”
The stall owner seems relieved to say this.
Wade shrugs helplessly, reaching to touch the furry belt wrapped around Broly’s waist.
“Friend, where did you buy this fuzzy belt? It’s cool.”
Having trained his tail to no longer be a weakness, Broly flicks it, shaking off Wade’s hand.
“This is not a belt, and it’s my tail.”
Wade immediately pulls out a tissue, wiping his hand.
“Sorry, uh, is your tail like the Na’vi braids, uh, an organ?”
Broly, puzzled,
“Na’vi?”
Alejandro coughs and then explains:
“The Na’vi are creatures from the movie Avatar, and their braids, cough, are an organ.”
Broly silently takes a tissue, wipes his greasy hands, then picks up Wade like a small chicken and dumps him into a roadside trash bin.
“You want to die, my friend?”
As he speaks, he picks up the heavy metal trash bin and squeezes it with his arms. The sturdy bin deforms like mud, tightly encasing Wade.
Wade struggles violently, his legs flailing outside.
“Come on, buddy, and it was just a joke. Stop it, let me out. I apologize!”
Broly puts the trash bin back in place.
“If apologies worked, then what would we need police for.”
By now, Wade is genuinely panicking.
“Pfft!”
Laughter sounds.
“Jack! Motherfucker! I heard you laugh!”
Wade thrashes about angrily.
“Pfft, Wade, you know, I’m trained not to laugh unless I can’t help it!”
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