"I've told you everything I've got." He looks around nervously. "Can you please stop…

"What's your name, fuckhead?! I'm gonna go on police radio sayin' this guy told Madre to FUCK OFF."

"I'm gonna put you in a cell with a giant kipt. You're gonna be bleeding kipt dick, you hear me?"

Why are you even trying? There is no way to work yourself into a rage without it looking bad. And you look bad enough without this nasty business.

Failing the last time was so demoralizing and puzzling that you just can't work up the rage anymore.

The main thing is to not overdo it. Even when you're trying to scare someone, the most important thing is: how does it look on your resume?

And, of course, what social sensibilities you're bringing to the table. Remain sensitive. People are watching.

"Why don't you and me step outside for a little talk?"

"What?" The lorryman erupts in contemptuous laughter. "What do you think we're doing right now, runt? We're outside, talking!"

"Damn it... I meant.. do you want to find someplace private to... no, shit--"

The lorryman raises an eyebrow. "This some kind of homo thing?"

"Yeah... maybe it is..."

"Okay, that's enough, detective. That's enough."

"Let's just go and ask Tommy, alright? We're wasting our time here."

Or you could look around, find this guy's cabin. Check all the lorries. It's scary when cops are snooping in your things, no?

"We'll just have to ask someone else about the lady driver. Let's go."

Stop now. Just ask the other drivers. You have to find out who the lady driver is and you can't do it like this. It's too much.

Stop now. Just go away, ask that Tommy or something. You have to find out who she is and you can't do it like this. It's too much.

"No, no, of course not. Just tell me what you know."

"Make me, runt." He blows a cloud of smoke right in front of your face.

"I don't really know where that came from..."

The lieutenant gives you a brief, sideways glance.

"Look, I'm sorry, can you just tell me what you know?"

"The jig's up. I've got the goods on you."

"Oh yeah?" he snarls. "And what goods are those?"

"Uh... your racism?"

"What is there to talk about? It's a racist world. I didn't make it that way. And neither did you -- and you're a racist too!"

"What is there to talk about? It's a racist world. I didn't make it that way. I'm just living in it -- surviving in it. That's all this is. Survival."

"You know... your goods."

"What are you hauling?"

"Not much anymore. I'm here to pick up some cargo, but the dockworkers are on strike, so... it's a sit-and-wait-on-your-ass situation."

"What kind of cargo are you supposed to pick up?"

"Apples."

"Apples" is exactly the kind of thing you'd say if you had something to hide...

"Fair enough. I got some other questions."

"Fine." He shrugs.

He's given you the run-around. Let's be honest, you were bested.

"Sounds like a cover story to me."

"Look, ace detective, I come from a long line of lorrymen. We got ancient rights and privileges..." He loses his patience for explaining it.

"I'm here to pick up a load of fuckin' apples, man. Just regular, Kojko-picked apples."

'Kojko' may be another derogative. For a person from Graad, you think.

"Oh, so they grow apples in... Graad?"

"Yup, it's one of their main exports. They grow 'em down south Yekokataa. A beautiful place, got great scenic vistas."

In fact, Yekokataa is a desolate wasteland whose name literally translates to Zone of Ecological Catastrophe. It features no scenic vistas and supports virtually no plant or animal life.

"Yekokataa is not in the south and they definitely don't grow apples there."

"Yeah? Says who?"

"It's literally in the name: Zone of Ecological Catastrophe."

The lorry driver glares at you intently, then shrugs. "Then I guess they grow apples somewhere else. You can never really tell with those Kojkos. They're everywhere -- except their own homes."

"Actually, I'm not that interested in your cargo."

"You keep saying 'Kojkos'. What does that actually mean?"

"He means the people living in Graad."

"You know: Graadniks. Graadvolk. The degenerates from Graad."

"Okay, so it's an ethnic slur."

"Hey, if the name and description fit by the very grace of nature, who am I to say otherwise?"

"Apples then. From Graad. Right. Sure."

"Apples." He puts out his cigarette and flicks the stub across the street.

"So. Can I see the apples?"

"Did you miss the part where I said they aren't here yet? Besides, even if I did have some I wouldn't go putting my nose in them..." He looks at you with a strange glint in his eyes.

Relax. You've got all you can get here. He probably doesn't even know what he's hauling -- even if it is something unsavoury. So he'd remain unaccountable.

"Okay, but why the word 'Kojko'?"

"'Cause that's what they're all called. Kojko Pitjic, Lzloslaw Kojko. Kojkowicz Someone. Low self-esteem those guys have. Mind you, they look Occidental, but they're not... really like us."