WARNING: MUST LOVE TYPOS...
Here we go again. Back to crypto + biker + mission.
“Who is this guy?” one of the bikers asked, meaning the bad guy who I imagined they were imagining having millions in coin.
“He’s Russian. Or at least part Russian.”
“I hate Russians,” someone said.
“Hey! My grandmother was Russian,” another said.
I snapped my fingers to get their attention. A couple gave me dirty looks for that but at least they were staring at me again.
“Like I was saying, this guy, he funnels a lot of money to the Russian mafia bosses.”
There was murmuring now.
“You mean like here, in the good ‘ol U. S. of A?” someone said in a bellow.
Good to know that they’re at least patriots. Ride that, Neil.
“Yeah. They’re into everything. Slave trade. Drug trade. Organ trade.”
More than a couple of the bikers made disgusted faces.
One biker, who’s belly stuck out so far it nudged me when he got close said, “So you’re telling me that if we pay this guy a visit, we not only stick it to the Russians, sorry Carl,” he said to his pal with the Russian grandma, “but we could make some coin too?”
“Okay smart guy,” Mr. Belly said. “Since it’s your idea, you can come with us, to show us how.”
Great. Just great.
More next time, Dear Diary,