Bite the Bullet - Saints Row

5: Casa De Nacho

Who was I kidding?

I clocked exactly five hours and thirty-three minutes before the garbage truck shot me awake in a cold sweat. Accepting my fate, I lifted my heavy head, spending the dark hours of morning pacing from one window to another. I even took the battery out of my phone for good measure, and when I put it back in, I was delighted to see no less than fifteen calls from Chief Monroe and the Commander. What an occasion, I thought as I brushed my teeth and waited for the paranoia to wear off.

I didn't return their calls. I could barely stand the mountain of voicemails. It was always a treat listening to them mask their panic and proverbial pointed finger in the usual crusty cordiality so commonplace on this island; I'd take an earful from my own commander any day over that shit. I didn't dare turn on the TV, either, given what I might see. The new guy dragged in—his terrified, vacant mugshot plastered on the morning news, Mayor Winslow delivering his speech on last week's massacre right as they phoned in the one I orchestrated last night, a caravan of S.W.A.T. kicking my door in—and now, the weather.

I choked down my pills. The milk had turned, so I took the bean juice black today, and it got me moving past the nausea and the dull pounding in my ears. I decided on something less work-related when I roamed back into my living room, chipped mug in hand, phoning my landlord. It was near the first of the month, so naturally the vulture answered right away. After dancing around the subject of my broken dishwater, I finally got a word in about some available properties.

It was the new guy's lucky day.

I scrolled to the only unmarked number I had and listened to the dial-tone, picking the neglected laundry up off the floor with my toes when the line broke away.

"...Bueno?"

Jesus, he sounded rough —I almost didn't recognize him. "Is this Nacho?"

"¿Sí?"

"Hey man, it's Troy." I heard him huff into the receiver, a muffled cough following.

"Sí, b-buenos días." He stammered, raspy and exhausted, trying to shake the grogginess away. "W'ssup?"

"Uh— how uh, how's things?" I paced, fiddling with the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. "Ya' get through the night OK?"

"...Nobody saw me. I went back to the park."

I could hear the birds in the background.

" Good; that's good." Some of my distress abated. The phone calls were important, but not that important. "It looks, uh—all clear, over here." I walked to my front window and parted the blinds for the umpteenth time. "No signs of anybody tailin' us. I think them guys did their job, so, ya' should be straight ta' come by the church."

There was a pause. "...Job to do?"

"Uh, no. No, nothin' like that. Uh, not yet. We can't make a move 'til we build up our rep, 'n all, so..."

"¿Entonces...? Wha'chu need?"

"Right, yeah, so... uh— listen, I know it's kinda' early... But, I got good news. I talked to my landlord, and there's a house for rent up here in Mission Beach, it's doable. Don't worry 'bout it right now."

"¿Cuánto?"

"Wassat?" I was barely able to hear him.

"How much?"

"Dunno' yet—look, I said don't worry about it."

"I can't keep borrowing."

"Hey, hey—no strings attached, here, man, I can't let ya' sleep in a car full of holes. Look, we'll talk about it when ya' get here, a'ight? Ya' haven't even seen the place, yet."