The Ballad of Desert 'Bo

The Sun beat down on Desert 'Bo. He scratched his sweaty navel, cocked his shotgun, placed a careless boot on the barrier and spat at a neighbouring lizard. The scrawny Mexican screeched his bike to a halt, his back arching as the heavy sack there wanted to go on forever.

"What's in that sack, greaser?"
"Just sand, 'Bo."
"Yeah! Take me for a fool eh? As if yore gunna lug sand 'cross a desert. Shit, even wops ain't that stupid. I knows you greasers. Always smugglin' sumpin' into the Eunited States. What's it now? Marijwana? Cocaine? Or your second cousin, Oily Pete? Lemme tell you sumpin', nothins got past me in these twenny years."

And 'Bo, true to his word, ripped open the sack. Ran the sand through sophisticated tests. Threw everything including the kitchen sink at it. But, no, the darn thing was sand; just sand. He let the Mexican go. The next day, the Mexican was back on a bike, sack, sand and all. Again, tests, kitchen sinks, sacrificial lizards, sniffing chihuahuas, all yielded nothing. Months passed. Same thing every day. Mexican on a bike with a sack of sand. Pure sand. Desert 'Bo was getting desperate. He lost interest in daily activities. His navel was caked over from the lack of a probing finger. His hobbies suffered. The neighbourhood lizard had put on weight, not having to run away from phlegm in pursuit. Or, as is commonly known, a phlegming pursuit.

Two years passed. 'Bo not being able to take it anymore, took voluntary retirement and went down South looking for this Mexican. He found him at a cantina in the Yucatan, giving the eye to a sliced salami. The local sultry dames looked on in disgust and envy.

"Ok, greaser, you gotched me. You got ole dead eye desert 'Bo. Now looky here, I swear I won't say it to no man, but you gotta tell me what you was haulin, 'cause my gut tells me yore a smugglin' sunavabitch"
"Aw, don't take it so hard 'Bo", the greaser whined.
"No you gotta tell me. What was you smugglin'?"
"Motorcycles 'Bo, jess motorcycles."