Bruno pulled open the metal container of guns and clicked his tongue. "This is the good shit," he said, unwrapping one of the crates. "Straight from Serbia. Brand new. No serials."
His partner, Malik, shorter and always chewing gum, looked in and nodded. "Nice. You know I don't fuck with Eastern European weapons, though. They jam."
Bruno scoffed. "They don't jam, you just don't clean 'em. You treat a gun like shit, it'll become shit."
"I treat my guns better than my women."
"And still, they both keep leaving you."
Bruno smirked and tossed him a rifle. Malik caught it, checked the chamber, and slung it over his shoulder.
"You think bossman's sending this to Colombia?" Malik asked as they started loading the crates into the container at the back of the truck.
Bruno shrugged. "Could be. Could be we're just restocking some psycho's mansion. Doesn't matter. We get paid."
