FLTRI
11-29-2006, 02:59 AM
She arrived in Nevada illegally. No papers, no documentation. A bastard child, just another undocumented illegal. She came in under the cover of darkness on a Friday night in the back of an old Dodge pickup truck.
The “Coyote" who smuggled her in was a decent enough guy. Tall, sinewy with bloodshot eyes and stained cover-alls. But you could tell by looking at him that he was a hard man. He told me he was coming alone, but of course, he didn’t. He had brought a partner, bigger and quieter, but equally as hard. You knew what this guy was for, should things go south. The driver had told me to be alone when he arrived as well, but I had brought my own backup. Two of them. They were hard, serious men as well. I was all too accustomed to things going south, and was not about to go it alone if it did.
The driver and his partner had been driving almost nonstop over 1500 miles straight, with no sleep. They wanted their money before She got out of the truck. I had already paid him $250 six weeks earlier, and was beginning to wonder if I would ever see Her. He wanted the other $250…
Now. Cash only.
I slipped the driver an envelope with the stained bills I had hidden in the garage. He counted them, closely watched by his partner, whose eyes were now darting from me to my two friends. Occasionally, he would subconsciously touch a lump in his right jacket pocket. Security check, to be sure it was still there, should things go south.
I knew what this body language meant, and so did my both of my partners who were doing their own security checks, as they tried to move around in the garage to a more advantageous position, without making it look like that was exactly what they were doing. Should things go south.
After the envelope was resealed, and deftly slipped inside of the driver’s overalls, he asked for something with caffeine in it. I gave him a Coke, which he downed in two quick pulls. His buddy didn’t ask for one, I think he knew better. The driver’s mood improved a bit, and you could feel the air in the garage get noticeably easier to breathe. Things hadn’t gone south.
We all walked to the awaiting Dodge, and got Her out of the truck. I then quickly escorted her in, and hid Her in the garage. The driver mumbled something about heading to Seattle, he and his backup slipped into the ancient truck, and disappeared. I was glad to see them go.
The trip, as well as Her past relationships, had taken their toll. She was bruised, battered, and dirty. It was apparent from the start that no one had cared for Her for years. Still, I saw Her potential. She was basically in one piece, and despite the story Her battle scars told, most of them were only skin deep. Nothing a loving hand, the proper medication, therapy and some simple surgery could not take care of. I knew I had what it would take to get Her back on her feet again.
At least I hoped I did…
I went to bed with my wife that first Friday night in February, but my thoughts were on Her instead. My wife knew it, too. My wife is a good woman; we have been together for over 15 years. There have been indiscretions in my past, and she knows about them. Some of them, anyway. Right or wrong, she has always forgiven me. She knew I was up to something again, but we have our own version of “don’t ask, don’t tell”. I’m not saying it’s right. It just is. Judge us if you must, but unless you know us on a very personal level, I’m sorry, your opinion is just that.
On Saturday, we started the healing process. It was slow, painful work. So much of Her was injured, that every step was painful. I had a pretty good idea of what Her injuries were before she arrived, so I had the meds and bandages ready. She was a real trooper, and responded well to the therapy I lovingly provided. The healing process went faster than I had dare hope for. She began to consume more and more of my time, and we began to form the bond that only comes when you really care.
A couple of weeks later, She and I went out for the first time. I knew it was dangerous; She was an illegal, after all. If I would have been caught out with her, it could have been ugly. I would be in serious trouble, and She would have been placed in holding. Maybe even sent back. Still, it was worth it. Even though She was far from fully healed, She was beautiful! Lean, strong and with all the curves in the right places. And her voice: low, sweet and so soft. Maybe with a little more time, I could help build her confidence, and she would eventually be as verbose as all the other American girls.
Now it was time to pull in some favors, and get her the coveted, but misnamed, Green Card. I have contacts. I can’t, or rather I won’t, say who they are. I’ve done this before, and may do it again, after all. The first rule is don’t burn your contacts. I made some phone calls, and had some backroom meetings. At first, it appeared the process would be an easy one. I then discovered some devastating information.
Her last man had been killed, and She was probably involved.
Initially, I was thunderstruck. My first instinct was to dump her. Quick. Cut my losses, and move on. She was poison, jinxed, evil, marked, bad juju. Oddly enough, it was my dear sweet wife that talked me out of it. Somehow, they had bonded as well. It must be a chick thing. I truly did not understand it at the time. But after 15 years, I know that I should listen to her instincts.
They usually prove to be correct.
So I started over on the process of getting her legal. I won’t bore you with the whole process, but lets just say that those that owed me favors are paid in full, and now I’m the one in their debt. Registered letters were sent, return receipt requested. Hell, I knew that I would not hear back from the intended recipient, but it’s the process The Government makes you go through. Money changed hands (out of mine, and into theirs). Documents trickled in, but they were never quite the right ones.
I began to feel like the Tom Hanks character in the movie “The Terminal”. I would show up once a week or so with my latest stack of documents, and after the bureaucrat (whom I thought was a friend) reviewed them, she would pull out her red stamp. Declined. Time after time, she would send me away. We got into a shouting match once. It ended when she told me, “Don’t ever try this shit with me again!”
After four long months, I finally got the document I needed. It came in an official envelope from Connecticut. No irony that the final piece came from a state that is one of our thirteen original colonies. It had what I needed: Raised seal. Wet signatures. Notarized. Watermarked. Signatures followed by official, and important sounding titles.
Now it was make or break time with my former bureaucratic friend. She glared at me when I came in. Didn’t even say hello, just impatiently waved me into her back office. I showed her the document, and her eyebrows went up. “How did you get this? It’s not supposed to exist” was all she said. I just told her it’s good to have friends that know how to pull strings. We were back to “don’t ask, don’t tell”. The bottom line was she could not deny the authenticity of the document. The green stamp came out.
Sign here, here and here.
Swear to this.
Pay me.
Get out.
It’s all over now. My bastard child, my illegal immigrant, is a legal and lawful citizen of The State of Nevada. Here are a couple of pictures of Her. The first one I took the Saturday morning after She arrived. The second is Her healed and showing off her legitimacy.
I had to hide her true identity, Big Brother is watching. Something a smuggler always knows…
http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c67/FLTRI/CopyofDynaDay004pl.jpg
http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c67/FLTRI/SALVAG003Plate.jpg
The “Coyote" who smuggled her in was a decent enough guy. Tall, sinewy with bloodshot eyes and stained cover-alls. But you could tell by looking at him that he was a hard man. He told me he was coming alone, but of course, he didn’t. He had brought a partner, bigger and quieter, but equally as hard. You knew what this guy was for, should things go south. The driver had told me to be alone when he arrived as well, but I had brought my own backup. Two of them. They were hard, serious men as well. I was all too accustomed to things going south, and was not about to go it alone if it did.
The driver and his partner had been driving almost nonstop over 1500 miles straight, with no sleep. They wanted their money before She got out of the truck. I had already paid him $250 six weeks earlier, and was beginning to wonder if I would ever see Her. He wanted the other $250…
Now. Cash only.
I slipped the driver an envelope with the stained bills I had hidden in the garage. He counted them, closely watched by his partner, whose eyes were now darting from me to my two friends. Occasionally, he would subconsciously touch a lump in his right jacket pocket. Security check, to be sure it was still there, should things go south.
I knew what this body language meant, and so did my both of my partners who were doing their own security checks, as they tried to move around in the garage to a more advantageous position, without making it look like that was exactly what they were doing. Should things go south.
After the envelope was resealed, and deftly slipped inside of the driver’s overalls, he asked for something with caffeine in it. I gave him a Coke, which he downed in two quick pulls. His buddy didn’t ask for one, I think he knew better. The driver’s mood improved a bit, and you could feel the air in the garage get noticeably easier to breathe. Things hadn’t gone south.
We all walked to the awaiting Dodge, and got Her out of the truck. I then quickly escorted her in, and hid Her in the garage. The driver mumbled something about heading to Seattle, he and his backup slipped into the ancient truck, and disappeared. I was glad to see them go.
The trip, as well as Her past relationships, had taken their toll. She was bruised, battered, and dirty. It was apparent from the start that no one had cared for Her for years. Still, I saw Her potential. She was basically in one piece, and despite the story Her battle scars told, most of them were only skin deep. Nothing a loving hand, the proper medication, therapy and some simple surgery could not take care of. I knew I had what it would take to get Her back on her feet again.
At least I hoped I did…
I went to bed with my wife that first Friday night in February, but my thoughts were on Her instead. My wife knew it, too. My wife is a good woman; we have been together for over 15 years. There have been indiscretions in my past, and she knows about them. Some of them, anyway. Right or wrong, she has always forgiven me. She knew I was up to something again, but we have our own version of “don’t ask, don’t tell”. I’m not saying it’s right. It just is. Judge us if you must, but unless you know us on a very personal level, I’m sorry, your opinion is just that.
On Saturday, we started the healing process. It was slow, painful work. So much of Her was injured, that every step was painful. I had a pretty good idea of what Her injuries were before she arrived, so I had the meds and bandages ready. She was a real trooper, and responded well to the therapy I lovingly provided. The healing process went faster than I had dare hope for. She began to consume more and more of my time, and we began to form the bond that only comes when you really care.
A couple of weeks later, She and I went out for the first time. I knew it was dangerous; She was an illegal, after all. If I would have been caught out with her, it could have been ugly. I would be in serious trouble, and She would have been placed in holding. Maybe even sent back. Still, it was worth it. Even though She was far from fully healed, She was beautiful! Lean, strong and with all the curves in the right places. And her voice: low, sweet and so soft. Maybe with a little more time, I could help build her confidence, and she would eventually be as verbose as all the other American girls.
Now it was time to pull in some favors, and get her the coveted, but misnamed, Green Card. I have contacts. I can’t, or rather I won’t, say who they are. I’ve done this before, and may do it again, after all. The first rule is don’t burn your contacts. I made some phone calls, and had some backroom meetings. At first, it appeared the process would be an easy one. I then discovered some devastating information.
Her last man had been killed, and She was probably involved.
Initially, I was thunderstruck. My first instinct was to dump her. Quick. Cut my losses, and move on. She was poison, jinxed, evil, marked, bad juju. Oddly enough, it was my dear sweet wife that talked me out of it. Somehow, they had bonded as well. It must be a chick thing. I truly did not understand it at the time. But after 15 years, I know that I should listen to her instincts.
They usually prove to be correct.
So I started over on the process of getting her legal. I won’t bore you with the whole process, but lets just say that those that owed me favors are paid in full, and now I’m the one in their debt. Registered letters were sent, return receipt requested. Hell, I knew that I would not hear back from the intended recipient, but it’s the process The Government makes you go through. Money changed hands (out of mine, and into theirs). Documents trickled in, but they were never quite the right ones.
I began to feel like the Tom Hanks character in the movie “The Terminal”. I would show up once a week or so with my latest stack of documents, and after the bureaucrat (whom I thought was a friend) reviewed them, she would pull out her red stamp. Declined. Time after time, she would send me away. We got into a shouting match once. It ended when she told me, “Don’t ever try this shit with me again!”
After four long months, I finally got the document I needed. It came in an official envelope from Connecticut. No irony that the final piece came from a state that is one of our thirteen original colonies. It had what I needed: Raised seal. Wet signatures. Notarized. Watermarked. Signatures followed by official, and important sounding titles.
Now it was make or break time with my former bureaucratic friend. She glared at me when I came in. Didn’t even say hello, just impatiently waved me into her back office. I showed her the document, and her eyebrows went up. “How did you get this? It’s not supposed to exist” was all she said. I just told her it’s good to have friends that know how to pull strings. We were back to “don’t ask, don’t tell”. The bottom line was she could not deny the authenticity of the document. The green stamp came out.
Sign here, here and here.
Swear to this.
Pay me.
Get out.
It’s all over now. My bastard child, my illegal immigrant, is a legal and lawful citizen of The State of Nevada. Here are a couple of pictures of Her. The first one I took the Saturday morning after She arrived. The second is Her healed and showing off her legitimacy.
I had to hide her true identity, Big Brother is watching. Something a smuggler always knows…
http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c67/FLTRI/CopyofDynaDay004pl.jpg
http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c67/FLTRI/SALVAG003Plate.jpg