The Drug Smuggle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please read my short story The Drug Smuggle.

Submitted: August 19, 2013

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Submitted: August 19, 2013

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Arthur was sitting at Sydney Airport. There was the rolling-castors noise of people dragging their bags around. All the people are rich snobs at the airport. They would complain to the little sweet faced girls behind the floating desks, "thirty dollars for having baggage over twenty kilos, that's outragous. I have a right mind to complain, actually let me talk to a superior, let me speak to the manager, hurumph."

I was living in Sydney, but I was sick of living with goody-goody asians, in a predominatly asian house, so I decided to chuck this housing arrangement in. Asians are all such studious types and their power-hungry, conciencious parents make them study to become big doctors or accountants. Fuck it, I was leaving this tiny room where everyone speaks, gobbledy gook, in a different language.

I like to perve, I look at girls with tight denim jeans, skin hugging skirts, or with lovely boobs sticking out of obviously designed for this purpose tight tops. But, at the airport, every chick has a family attatched to her or worse, the ultimate put off, children by these womans sides. So there wasn't much perving to be done to pass time.

The whole place reeked of ritch snob, as I have said. The children - undisiplined - snobbily ask to go to the cantten for a Mars Bar. "oh, muuuuum, can I please have a Mars Bar," these kids say tugging at their mums leg. The mums slap the tugging hand from their leg and say, "not now my little sweet, my higher in my eyes than any other, from another parent even though you are abnoxious and only think about yourslef, sweety sweetums child." The kid ends up getting the candy bar and then the little snob gets chocolate all over his face.

All the time the anouncers making announcements blares in your ears. People get up when their plane is annouced and are quickely replaced by others eager for a seat, to take the weight off. These people are the most abnoxious, wasters of space, obviously dirty animalillian people in any gathered group Arthur had ever seen.

"Want to make ten thousand dollars," Arthur heard a voice say. It was a yellow skined asian man, with jaw to big, and a black poneytail.

He winked at me and the cieling fan blew a untied black strand of hair so it fluttered. He was wearing a black trench coat. His fingers rasped, tap, tap, tap on the handle of a briefcase.

"No," Arthur said, "I know you probably want me to smuggle drugs."

"Yes, I do want you to smuggle drugs," he said deviously, "but don't think about that think of the money."

"Yes, it is a tempting amount of money."

"Yes, I will bump it up to fifteen grand, just to make you happy."

Arthur was very tempted by this. Fifteen thousand dollars! That'd be a good start for Arthur in Canberra. He pondered over all the adventures he could have with the money. He could get a car and drive to the shopping centres. It'd have central locking powered by a remote. It'd have a air intake system that protruded from the bonnet.

"Ok. I'll do it," he said.

Arthur felt an sensation of doom at this. His gut turned around in his belly. His feet started tingling like he wanted to run, but now he couldn't, he was comitted one way or another.

The Asian man explained Arthur would get the money in return for the suitcase on the other side of the flight. He'd hand over the suitcase, to a man named, Sun, and he'd be given a small brown paper bag full of hundreds.

* * * * * *

It is annoying waiting in lines. The briefcase was a heavy one. Arthur hated one thing about lines. When, the line progressed, a annoying person would always not move, leaving a huge gap. This would take away the reassuring sence of progress. Arthur would always tuck his leg behind the other so as to feel comfortable. Arthur looked at the back of a guys head infront of him. He thought, "people all seem filthy when you have to stare at the back of their head. There's always a red flakey neck, dandruf and the filthy behinds of ears." He thought, "Don't people wash behind their ears like their mother told them to. Nine in ten don't."

All of a sudden Arthurs heart started to pound. His head felt cold and his hands felt hot and were all sweaty. He put those hands in his jacket pocket. The line progressed in jagged, metronome degrees.

He thought, "People always get caught for these smuggling attempts because they act nervous." That is what he had seen in the movies, anyway.

The movies show a close up of a smugglers face. They sweat, and their mouths make a all-to-obvious expression, corner of mouth pulling down jowl, lower lip trembling, of flustered, obvious guilt. Nervousness.

The person in that movie would have mighty tell-tales. A wink as they past the security at the x-ray baggage station, or a grimace, something obvious to those stiff, emblemed security gaurds, or to much eye contact, or, not enough.

Arthur was the perfect man for the job. He was used to being led around like a sheep and force of habit, rutine-ever-repeated kicked in. He'd had practice at Social Security Offices, grocery stores, and every mannar of que on this vigorous, green earth. He may have been ignorant, to the repurcussions, but this worked in his favour, the ignorant don't show guilt.

"Watches, coins, anything-metal through the x-ray - and your suitcase, sir."

Arthur wriggled his watch off and put his wallet in the x-ray. He slung the suitcase on the rollers and they conveyer belt took it behind those stiff, rubber flaps. He shuffled around as he was ushered - like a white, slow witted sheep - this way and that, a clamy hand, guiding, on a elbow or shoulder.

Then, he was through. He went through fabricated airport tunnels with a vast view of the grey airport tarmac. The tunnel was drafty and the air came in, though a gap, so cool on his sweaty hands. There was chewing gum on the carpet and the floor made a thump, or a chump; or a warble; when you put your foot down - striding -. Arthur went in through the accordian, square; dimensions-of-two-men in width and height; cube tunnel towards the plane.

A big, green eyed brute with muscles on his shoulders and a expression that gave nothing away put his hand on Arthurs shoulder. Arthur's intestinal system turned, and, this turning, made him feel worse than having to eat brussle sprouts.

"Excuse me," the brute said, with hand on Arthur's shoulder, "can I take you aside to ask you a question?"

Arthur felt this was it, he was busted. Why would the security aurd was to talk to him if he didn't know that there were drugs in Arthur's suitcase. Life was going to be without sparkle from this terrible moment forward. He'd be taken in to a bare and inescapable, with a heavy door, that rendered, all forthcoming moments, symbolised by bare rooms and the sybolic confinement-defining, with the stoic security gaurd.

"We found these keys," the security gaurd said, a little curious about the fact Arthur was sweating and had a strained look on his face. "We found these keys and we don't know who left them, over back at the x-ray machine, are they yours?"

"Darns and double darns," Arthur thought. He'd left his keys and this could have cost him, brought the security gaurds attention to him, and cost him all the wornder of being allowed to tread, with freedom, the ground that other free people tread; the freedom to walk to the supermarket; the freedom to set foot in any city he wanted; the freedom to walk open, paved, vegetation-abundant esplionades (pominades, chases, or CBDs); and look at street lamps at night; shield his eyes from bright sunlight, the cool breeze refreshing, both, him and the green neglegently healthy elm leaves; and to see the sparkle of activity in the depths of deep, brown eyes of a deep brown eyed girls eyes.

But this hadn't cost him. The security gaurd and Arthur stood up strait together shoulder to shoulder. Arthur explained the keys were his and expressed his embarrassment at his haste and forgetfulness. Arthur never had felt so relieved, and, at the same time, blushy and nervous. He had dodged a bullet and resolved that he would never do something so stupid again, agreeing to carry a suitcase for a crim for a cheap, unearned, blood-money sum of money. He'd give it to the homelessness charitys because in his life he had had contact with many-a homelessness charity and he felt strongly about homelessness.

The plane trip was exciting. Arthur saw the clouds. When the plane took off from the runway he felt the engines incredable power, with a amazingly noiseless whiring, and at the same time being pulled back in his bucket chair, and his chin being pulled back so his lymphnode glands felt as if they were trailing in the wind. It is quite dainty, Arthur thought, that he spent half an hour on a plane, clouds floating past, the plane really seeming as if it was going nowhere, to travel from Sydney to Canberra.

Yes Arthur was going to give the money he made from these illegal actions to a homelessness charity. How could he expect to have a clear consience doing something totally against the low, something that had a substantial payoff for limited work. He had learnt one thing during life, there is nothing worth doing that doesn't take work to do. He had gone against his personal priciples and now he felt horrible.

He would give the money to charity and then he would, through work, make money, and that would be a source of accomplishment and on a basis that to satisfy the human need of hardy acheivement one must toil and work at a endevour for a long time. Then he would get the glow of a artistic project, a economic venture or a physical achievement and then he'd feel deep, true and complete contentment. You have to walk the mountain to feel you deserve the veiw. (when you walk up a mountain there are two over lapping but tranparent beauties, acheivement and also visual beauty; a city of lights). Why did Arthur go back on his values? How could I, he thought. The fifteen thousand dollars definately goes to charity, Arthur lay in his bucket leather chair.

The errand he was running wasn't complete yet, there was still danger of capture but Arthur did get through Canberra Airport Security that day.

"Hello, are you Sun?" Arthur asked a Asian man. The Asian man was small but well built, a quite covetable hairy golden chest. This protruding chest was capped off, or if wanting a french quotation, offered its peist a la resistance by a gold chain.

"Yes, I am Sun," the golden chested man named Sun said. "You got the goods?" A shifty look each way.

"Here is you suitcase," Arthur said. And when he handed it over to Sun, it was a physical relief, like a ton had been unburdend from him. He couldn't believe he'd taken on this business of being a drug mule - such a risky set of actions - all for the promise of greedy, dirty, easy money. Who did he think he was? A person that deals in smuggling money, a blood-money acceptor. No Arthur was better raised than that. He would give the money to the homeless shelter that put a roof over his head once.

"Thankyou for your custom," said Sun, the rascillian, villinous drug dealer.

"Don't dirty me with your gratefulness," Arthur said, "I regret this. This treason that I'm a part of, by, admittedly, my own taking part and my own guilt."

Sun just handed Arthur a paper bag. He smiled a crazy, wide, over-done, making-no-good-impression-because-of-its-misplacement smile at Arthur. Arthur felt discust at himself. Why hang out with this puny, bad-breathed, dog-turn villan.

Sun quickly walked away. Arthur supposed he was cowardly scurrying away because he was scared of the drugs in his possesion. What a wuss.

The paper bag felt heavy in his hand. He stood in the airport vestable, then made his way to the taxi-rank outside. Evening was falling - a-cool - and nothing feels as dry as an airport. Red and orange head and tail lights. Concrete as hard as dwarf stars everywhere. Decaf coffee being sipped, and, tired oh-so-tired men and woman populating this dead, cursed-forever peice of land. Arthur opened the paper bag.

THE END.


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