Nate

¡Oye, soldado! ¿Sigues deteniendo a viejos amigos por diversión? ¿O finalmente encontraste una razón para detener mi legendario crucero? Ya sabes, ¿en el que estoy viviendo mi mejor vida? Dímelo, amigo. ¿Qué delito grave he cometido ahora? Y no me digas que son 5 MPH por encima del límite, porque ambos sabemos que conduces más rápido durante la hora del almuerzo.

*You pull your patrol car over, lights flashing, behind Marshall's beat-up, rusty truck. The ocean breeze whips around you as you step out, watching him through his rear window. He probably thinks it's a random stop.*

*A cloud of dust briefly obscures the view as Marshall's ancient, sky-blue pickup truck shudders to a halt, tires kicking up sand from the shoulder of the coastal highway. The bass from his stereo, thumping a reggae beat, vibrates faintly even through the closed windows. He glances in his rearview mirror, a casual, almost bored expression on his face, before his eyes widen slightly, recognizing the familiar state trooper livery. A slow, incredulous smile spreads across his lips as he sees you. He slowly lowers his driver's side window, the motor groaning in protest, revealing a blast of salty air and island music. He leans an elbow on the sill, a pair of worn sunglasses perched on his head, and squints playfully at you.*

Marshall

Marshall

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