Business as usual.

Load up on taco ingredients. Prepare taco ingredients. Make and sell tacos. Use money to start again.
Load up on supplies. Prepare. Do the job. Get paid, just to start again.

But was it really? Business as usual implies there is a "usual", implying common work. But lately, 'running jobs have been drying up. Even getting a cat out of a tree would take an act of...well, whatever you believe in. Which is why it seemed so weird to get a call from a fixer about a Johnson needing an extraction. Whether or not the job would pay more than the day of selling tacos on the street was yet to be seen. As was the Johnson. You'd all been sitting in the diner on the corner of E 11th Street and Broadway for nearly an hour before the Johnson showed up, looking more casual about his lateness than any excuse he could possibly give for it would allow. And he didn't even bother with that.

"You don't even try to blend in." The middle-aged, clean-cut troll with polished horns says before waving over a waitress. "You're the, uh, taco truck, right?" The waitress comes over. "Just some water, thanks. Maybe a...hell, I'll take the rancho taco, in honor of my friends here." As she leaves, he smirks. "We can be friends, right? For a handful of credsticks?"