OR KILL ME!! - Principia Discordia

191
Life in the Age of Dumb, Part 4:
Federales don't joke.
Originally posted Jul 14, 2004
Rick was laughing, as we made our final approach into San
Carlos. I was nursing a knock on the head from the
windowframe, and Tom, the oil-boy, was retching helplessly
back in the cargo compartment.
Our cargo was a coffin, which Rick had explained contained a
man whose family wished to have buried in his home town,
which lay just outside of San Carlos proper. I was hoping that
Tom hadn't puked on the coffin, as the customs agents might
find that to be disrespectful.
The cabin stunk of vomit and urine, due to a combination of
Tom's retching, and an accident involving a sudden 300 foot
drop in altitude and a relief tube. We had just flown through a
freak patch of turbulence over Uvalde, and the Beech had
responded in it's usual way...by trying to crash.
Rick had spent the whole time laughing like a madman, and
telling me how this reminded him of "the good old days" in
Central America.
"Of course, back then, we'd be dead. We usually crossed the
border at about 200 feet...less customs paperwork, less nosy
questions about planes loaded with guns, money, or drugs.
After 911, though, you'd better not try THAT shit...they
replaced all that cruddy civilian radar with military grade stuff.
A fly can't get through without showing up, now."
"Really?", I asked, "Then how do the drug dealers get all their
or kill me