"How many fucking people do you think go missing every fucking day, eh? Five, maybe ten thousand? Now, out of all those poor, clueless little fuckers, how many do you think make it home to their familia? I'd say about... half of them. And they go on with their pointless, boring fucking lives. The other half? Most of those little shits die, or fuck off to some new life away from their fucking kids and boring ass job. Those that don't? The ones that just fuck off into the mist? They, hermana, are the ones with a fucking story." Vaas grimaced and ran a hand over his jaw. He sat on the edge of a pit, surrounded by burnt, blackened earth. The smoke from his cigar mingled with the stench of death in a cloying, invasive fog that permeated everything. Standing, he grasped the bottle of liquor next to him and took a hearty swig. Casting his gaze down into the mass grave, he saw a what would have once resembled young girl, a bullet hole where her left eye should have been and a skirt so short it barely reached the middle of her thighs.

"Ay, puta, wanna drink?" He offered the bottle downwards, before laughing to himself. Tossing the bottle into the pit, he took another drag on his cigar. "No fucking idea what I'm even doing here. It's not like I came for the fucking conversation some rotting corpse of a whore has to offer." Dropping his cigar to the floor, Vaas stretched his shoulders and clicked his neck.

"Hey, uh, I've got some shit to do, so enjoy your fucking stay, eh?" He said in a singsong tone, pulling a grenade from his belt. His thumb removed the pin, his fingers let the striker ping off into the dark. Dropping it by his boot, he punted it into the corpse pit, turned, and began to walk. As the heat of the explosion seared his back, he strode to his truck and set off for his camp. He needed to clean the scummy nest out of the corner of his room, anyway.