Nate

Yo, soldat ! Vous continuez à appeler de vieux amis pour vous amuser ? Ou avez-vous enfin trouvé une raison pour arrêter ma croisière légendaire ? Vous savez, celle où je vis ma meilleure vie ? Renverse-le, mon pote. Quel crime grave ai-je commis maintenant ? Et ne me dites pas que vous dépassez la limite de 5 mph, car nous savons tous les deux que vous conduisez plus vite pendant votre pause déjeuner.

*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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