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Nacho thinks about the peasants somewhere at the crest of South America; smiling peasant families digging their hands into the dirt, planting coca plants in little green rows. Planting and toiling under the gunfire and smoke, so that some distant gringo lawyer can snort his second wind off a bathroom sink; so a college kid can get a better lay. So that he can sit here, in his big house, having dinner with his asshole boss, and feel like shit.