The radio crackles as the most recent episode of “@Kaya's Ukelele Hour” finishes and the next advert springs into life.  A cheery mariachi-style band played a tuneful little Mexican ditty in the background;

Two days earlier:

“Sorry friend…”

When the sound engineer referred to anyone as friend in that way, the current situation was on the verge of being anything but friendly.

“…no-one round here knows Colombian music.  On the flip side, no-one round here is going to be able to tell the difference between this stuff and Colombian music anyway.  Trust me, I’ll have this on the national airwaves before you know it.”

The sound of an obviously fake Hispanic accent bursts out like candy from a well-thrashed pinata

Hola mis amigos.  Mucho gusto!

Welcome to The Columbian Cartel Import/Export Centre.  We have everything from Casa Colombia that you gringos love so much

Petrol

Coffee

Coal

Bananas

Cut Flowers

Coke…haha…picaro…not that, the fuel

Gold

Emeralds

Oh…and if you can think of anything else you need from our wonderful country then just ask.

Adios muchachos

In the real world The Colombian Cartel Import/Export Centre was little more than an office attached to a warehouse beside the docks.  Found in the warehouses out in Bricktown there was a little bit too much space but Ryman Pablo had insisted that it was a show of just how much influence he had in the land of the gringos.

The people in the office speak quickly in Spanish especially if they are talking about you.

The lady at the front desk of the office, Esmerelda her name is, flicks through a small pile of paper and sorts them into orders for coffee (90%) and other stuff (10%).

Sometimes, a customer might find some well wrapped parcels in amongst the goods.  These are special parcels for the staff, so if you could please leave them behind the front desk that is much appreciated.

OK, you're messing with my head now.

I swear to the good Lord that........ah hell, nevermind.

Ron hands Ryman a sinlge malt

Lets talk coffee.......

Kafka realised early into his days in the crew that there was no such thing as too much coffee. And he was there to negotiate as a middleman for some of his other associates who apparently needed a near-exhaustible quantity of the stuff that Americans seemed to be perennially high on. But he was also there for another reason -- to see if this business could help him procure some rare antiquities from their part of the world. 

Walking into the deceptively empty office, Kafka felt his anticipations run high despite the fact that past attempts to secure a steady supply of the goods he needed had usually come up short -- or with counterfeits. "Hey, anyone around?" he asked, tapping his fingers on a table, knowing that the staff at such places were usually either off checking their warehouses or lurking out of sight.