Border Crossing
The 18-wheeler pulled up to the customs booth, and the customs agent stepped out and called up to the driver. “What’s your load?” “Ponygirls,” growled the burly, bearded driver with the Bettie Page tattoo. “Pull into the inspection station, please.” The driver nodded and maneuvered his truck over to the designated area. He shut off the engine and stepped out. As a seasoned trucker, he knew the routine—he handed the binder full of forms to the agent and dug out the keys to open the back. ...