Well, now, would you take a gander at what a routine 10-by-50-klick sweep of the U.S.-Mexico border has turned up on both visible-spectrum and ultra-infra? Seems a group of 12 to 14 local males has assembled a promising array of edible/potable organics along with both a high-potential-energy controlled heat source and a large-capacity solid-water encapsulation right in this here topologically consistent area! By which I mean, of course, a meat-griller, a beer-chiller, and a natural dance floor. You know, if my predictive diagnostics didn't know any better, I'd say that there has the makings of one hell of a shindig.
This is one scene that's definitely worth establishing a low-sonic-output, nap-of-the earth reconnaissance patrol around. I think I'll just set myself a few waypoints that let me sniff the smoke and take in the sights, such as… Yes! My onboard predictive-aquifer map was right; the arroyo's filled up with nice cool rainwater. Perfect for skinny-dipping—and who just happens to have the finest array of undetectable airborne video equipment money can buy? That's right. Can't wait till the girls get here!
Check it out! Even a passive sweep of low-energy-spectrographic coherent light registers enough artificially entubed lipid-rich protein cylinders to feed 66.75 adult males, 82.05 adult females, or if I estimate a crowd approaching gender parity—yeah, as if any party ever does!— means we got hot dogs for like six dozen people. And seeing as a fructose-enhanced organic-ethanol solution is being prepared in the local area most sheltered from solar radiation, I'd say some good old fashioned shade-tree wapatula's gonna be introduced to the systems of those selfsame people.
And—UPLOADING/PROCESSING—oh my, my, what's this? It seems my optics indicate the recent and repeated presence of four wide-track vehicles, and that tread-pattern analysis returns a 94 percent probability of them being American-built truck chassis, General Motors brands, Tahoe, Blazer, and Navigator models. Combined with the discarded plasticized-ringlet and male-casual-footwear-sole pattern accumulation around the crudely fashioned low-temperature preservative module, I estimate a 87 percent probability of subject unit mission profile: Beer Run. Aww, yeah, that's a big affirmative.
Wait, what have we here on the other side of the ridge? A low-efficiency, high-fuel-consumption paramilitary vehicle with retrofitted custom suspension! Additionally, its active electron emissions indicate a high level of sophisticated onboard electronics. Its proximity to the Texas border returns only one possible match from database: Sweet-ass slammed-out Hummer with twin 800-watt Rockford–Fosgate subwoofer cabs, motherfucker! Subsequent cross-reference of calendar-versus-average-adult-female-height cross-analysis produces following result: Yeah, shorty! It's your birthday! Gonna party as if simulating your birthday!
Oh, but snap—plotting the curve of estimated per-person fluid intake versus capacity of single sanitary unit available indicates that this here portable sanitary toilet will be overflowing in as little as three hours after socializing commences. And that's if no one's puking, which I return as a probability of no fucking way, or 9.4 percent based on purity of available alcohol and those three coccobacilli-laced burger patties in the cooler. Oh, well—"It's not a party till you puke" is a phrase that my high-sensitivity capicator microphones have detected 476.887 times before.
So anyway, if I set myself to Maximum Fuel Conserve, I'll have just enough in the tank to observe these people, extrapolating that they're going to party to the break of dawn at 0455 hours local time. Booze, boobs, burgers, and judging by the complex aldehydes my chemical analysis modules are picking up, some pretty good bud. If I was working for those DEA assholes, I'd be able to crash this party. But hey, that's not me—I'm the kind of predator drone that likes to just hang out on the edges and watch things happen.
Still, a party this bangin' makes me wish I could legally operate within the borders of the United States just so I could swoop down and say hey. Well, maybe someday.