Los Angeles suburbs, Caravan truck parking lot.

This is the largest parking lot in Los Angeles, with 1000 parking spaces, and the length of the parking spaces ranges from ten to twenty meters.

The parking lot includes a supermarket, shower room, and restaurant, meeting any needs of truck drivers.

On the west side of the parking lot is a blue truck with two tall exhaust pipes, vintage appearance, and overwhelming dominance; this truck is the prototype of Optimus Prime, a Peterbilt 389.

The cabin space is large, with three seats at the front and a bed at the rear. Sleeping here is more comfortable than staying in a motel.

Right now, a white man around 30 years old is making a phone call inside the truck cabin, looking somewhat anxious.

"Hey, George, it's me.

I've thought it through, decided to pawn my truck, how much can you give me?"

A voice from another man came through the phone, "One hundred thousand US Dollars."

The white man's tone suddenly rose, sounding very excited, "What? You must be kidding me! I spent over two hundred thousand dollars on this truck."

"As you said, that's the purchase price. Vehicles are consumer goods, depreciation is normal." The voice on the phone was very calm.

The white man hammered on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and spoke with some helplessness, "OK, fine, a hundred thousand it is. When can I get the money at the earliest?"

"Following the process, it would take at least half a month."

"No no no, that's too long, it must be quicker, or I'll find someone else."

"So urgent?"

"Yes."

"How soon do you expect?"

"Three days, I'll give you three days."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"That's none of your business, just do your part, and I'll repay on time."

"OK." The voice on the phone recalculates, "Eighty thousand."

"What do you mean?"

"If you want the money within three days, I can only give you eighty thousand US Dollars."

"Fuck, are you messing with me? A hundred thousand was already low, and now you're cutting the price."

"No, I'm not cutting the price, it's the rule."

"Damn the rule, I just want a hundred thousand US Dollars."

"Then you can only follow the process, it takes at least ten days. I gave you the options, you choose."

"You're such a stingy bloodsucker!" The white man was somewhat angry but had to endure it, his cheeks and neck turning red with anger.

The voice on the phone didn't rush him, just waited quietly.

A moment later, the white man sighed helplessly, "Alright, eighty thousand it is, I need the money tomorrow."

"Deal.

This afternoon I'll bring the contract to you."

The white man hung up the phone, "Fuck, you damned bastard..."

Cursing continuously, it seemed the only way he could calm his inner rage.

He cursed until his throat was dry, then grabbed a mineral water, took a swig, and tore open a bag of bread to eat.

On the bed behind him lay a lot of food; there was even a urinal next to the bed. He avoided getting out of the truck as much as possible; it's the safest place for him.

This was his mobile fortress.

Through the window, he saw a black man approaching from a distance.

The black man was dressed shabbily, with messy hair, walking unsteadily, as if he hadn't fully sobered from a hangover.

Damn, black trash.

The white man had never seen this black person before, his gaze fixed on him, feeling a bit more vigilant as the black man walked toward his truck.

The black man walked to the right side of the truck; as the truck was tall with a blind spot, he couldn't see the black man for now, his hands gripping the steering wheel subconsciously, ready to start the truck at any sign of trouble.

"Sizzle..."

In this breath-holding silence, he heard a discordant sound.

"Fuck, damned drunkard, dare to piss on my truck, I @#￥%..." The white man first breathed a sigh of relief and then cursed loudly.

He opened the truck door and jumped down, cursing, "I swear I'll stick your little dick into your mouth.

If you dare to piss on my tires, I'll definitely make you lick it clean, I swear I will."

The white man walked to the right side of the truck, seeing a puddle of liquid by the tires, exactly as he imagined, with the black man pulling up his pants, "You dead black bastard, dare to piss on my truck, you're doomed."

The black man laughed, "Who told you I was peeing?"

"Then why are your black paws pulling your pants?"

"My pants are loose, and what you're doing is very rude."

"What's this puddle of liquid on the ground? Don't tell me it's your spit."

The black man took out a bottle of mineral water, with a hole poked in it, pressed the bottle, and water spurted out, "Want a drink?"

"Fuck, you're messing with me."

The white man blurted out, suddenly realizing something was wrong, and turned to run back toward his truck.

But it was too late; while he and the black man were arguing, someone had quietly approached the truck.

Jackson pressed the door of the truck cabin, showing his police badge, "LAPD,

Sir, don't rush to get in the truck; we want to talk to you."

The white man showed a nervous expression, sweat pouring from his forehead, "Who are you?"

Jackson pointed at his police badge, "With your eyesight, isn't it too dangerous to drive a truck?"