The U.S.-Mexico border, at the immigration checkpoint. A camper van was parked by the customs inspection station.
"March in Take command Line up Take a stand Make this war to art"
Blasting from the van was thunderous industrial heavy metal rock. Two white guys in Hawaiian shirts and board shorts were swaying to the music.
"Passports?" the customs officer at the checkpoint asked. "Are you both Americans?"
"That's right, Americans, through and through."
The driver inside the van produced two passports and handed them to the officer.
The officer took the passports, giving them a cursory glance. Entering Mexico from the U.S. was much easier than entering the U.S. from Mexico.
"Uh, are you going to Ensenada Port in Mexico?" he asked the two men in the van.
"Yes, just to check it out, maybe see if we can catch a tuna."
The officer returned the passports to the driver.
"Is it tuna season lately? A lot of people are entering Mexico these days. Have a good trip."
The driver started the camper van, speeding down a Mexican highway.
"Motherfucker, looks like there's a lot of competition for this job."
The camper van exited the highway at a fork, driving on a broken-down country road, and finally entered a village. Three men were already squatting by the roadside, smoking and waiting.
"You're late, Wade."
The three men stood up. They were all tall, with thick calluses on their fingers and palms.
"Can't be helped, the traffic after getting out of Pendleton was as clogged as my intestines," Wade Wilson said. He climbed into the van's cabin, removed the mattress, and revealed neatly arranged firearms and ammunition. There were even two packs of C4 explosives and over twenty offensive grenades.
(Wade Wilson is the real name of Deadpool. At this time, he doesn't yet possess superpowers.)
The five men expertly distributed the various firearms and ammunition and checked the condition of the guns.
"You all know, the target this time is the Reyes Group. Normally, we wouldn't take this kind of job. But I heard that the Mata Group recently found a very powerful mutant, making it difficult for the Reyes Group to resist," said Jack Hammer, the organizer of the five.
"We'll rest here for a day, then head to Mexico City."
Most of the five were former special forces members, or at least retired Marine Corps soldiers, already battle-hardened. Some lay directly under the shade of the trees to rest and recover their energy; others took their rifles and target paper to the wasteland outside the village to zero their weapons.
Jack Hammer, nicknamed Weasel, opened a bottle of ice-cold beer and took a swig.
"We're going to make a fortune this time, Wade. There's no one richer in Mexico than Filiberto and Ballo."
He had a very wide network in the mercenary world and often organized people to take on high-commission tasks. Although he didn't participate in the fighting, he always took a hefty cut.
The phone in his pocket suddenly rang. Jack Hammer glanced at the caller ID, and his expression became serious. He pointed at the phone and said to Wade.
"A tough guy, the one nicknamed Border Killer."
He finished speaking and answered the phone.
"Hello?"
A somewhat tired voice came from the other end.
"You're in Mexico now, aren't you?"
Jack immediately denied it.
"How could that be? I'm in New York, taking on a big job."
A cold laugh came from the other end of the phone.
"Alright then, if I run into you, I won't hold back."
Jack immediately caved:
"Okay, I'm in Mexico. What's up?"
The other end of the phone said:
"Let me join your team, mainly taking the Mata Group's jobs. I'll give you an address, meet up in two days."
An ordinary roadside stall, mainly selling fried pork rinds, Gorditas, and Churros. Large pieces of pork rinds were fried like tortillas, very greasy, and paired with refreshing pickled cucumbers, the flavor was excellent. Gorditas were very similar to the meat-filled buns, filled with chopped pork rinds, grilled meat, and cheese, smeared with salsa, and one could fill you up halfway.
Churros were a Spanish snack, similar to fried dough sticks, fried sweet dough sprinkled with a layer of powdered sugar.
The stall owner was a middle-aged Mexican with a beer belly. At most, he could make more than five thousand Gorditas a day, but he was currently sweating profusely and in a terrible mess.
A very tall and strong Asian man sat in front of the stall owner, almost devouring the food he made at an incredible speed.
Alejandro was sitting on a plastic chair, looking at a novel, with his legs crossed. His suit and the dirty stall were a very incongruous sight.
He was already used to Broly's astonishing appetite.
A dilapidated camper van came from the corner, suddenly stopping in front of the stall. The car window was rolled down, revealing Jack's face.
"Hey, Alex, long time no see."
Wade, sitting in the passenger seat, opened the car door and walked to the stall, pulled over a plastic chair, and sat next to Broly. He said to the owner.
"Give me one of these."
"I'm sorry, sir, the ingredients are all gone."
The stall owner actually felt a sense of relief when he said this.
Wade shrugged helplessly. He reached out and touched Broly's tail around his waist.
"Friend, where did you buy this fluffy belt? It's very fashionable."
Broly had already trained his tail to no longer be a weak point. He swung his tail and brushed away Wade's hand.
"This isn't a belt, it's my tail."
Wade immediately pulled out a tissue and wiped his hands.
"Sorry, uh, is your tail like a Na'vi braid, uh, organ?"
Broly was a little puzzled:
"Na'vi?"
After Alejandro coughed, he said:
"The Na'vi are a species from the movie Avatar, and the braid, cough, is their X organ."
Broly silently took a tissue, wiped his greasy hands, and then lifted Wade like a chicken, and stuffed him headfirst into a roadside trash can.
"Do you want to die so badly, my friend?"
He said, then lifted the heavy metal trash can, clasped it with both arms, and the thick trash can immediately deformed like clay, tightly clamping Wade.
Wade struggled violently, his two legs outside flailing.
"No, man, I was just kidding, don't do this, okay? Let me out, I apologize!"
Broly put the trash can back in place.
"If apologies worked, what would be the point of the police?"
At this point, Wade was finally a little panicked.
"Pfft!"
A burst of laughter.
"Jack! Motherfucker! I heard you laugh!"
Wade was struggling furiously.
"Pfft, Wade, you know, I've been rigorously trained, I usually don't laugh, unless I can't help it, pfft!"