The Boy who pulled the Labrador's tail

This is another one of my badly written short (longish) stories.  This one is obviously a work of fiction.  I wouldn't ever smuggle drugs over international borders, nevermind take them.  I also wouldn't be as dumb as to admit it on the internet.


It's 2010 and in the height of the global recession and I'm dressed like one of those blazer/jeans combo wearing arseholes, hiding my hungover eyes like I'm Johnny Depp in Blow. Unlike Depp's character, I would soon find out that I'm not as cool as he is when it comes to transporting drugs over international borders. It's late afternoon and I'm in the middle of the security line. People are in front of me and behind me. Then I feel someone else's presence, crawl up on me like a sex offender ninja. A sweaty ghost of a man, brushing his rash-like stubble against my tender, twenty-three year old cheeks. I look around and realize that there's no-one there. And then I realize something else. My thumbs have discovered something – in that little useless Russian doll inner pocket of my jeans – you know the one just big enough to fit a condom in is a tiny baggy of low grade cannabis. Just enough to roll a single Rizla, heavy-on-the-tobacco joint. That ghost returns, and jabs a needle into my veins. A needle which injects a thousand spiders into my bloodstream, making me itch and jitter irrationally. I take a deep breath. It's too late to turn round. To do so now would alert suspicion. The only way forward is, well – forward.

I'm 90% fear, 10% swagger. My balls are as big as yams, my dick as small as a frozen pea. I shuffle forward, remove my bet, the laptop from my bag. The jacket is off and though I'm still wearing my t-shirt and jeans, the cool summer breeze hits me like a gale from an arctic tundra. I am simultaneously exothermically producing heat, whilst feeling the icy coldness of the abyss within me. With everything I was bringing now on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine, I threw myself through the jaws of death that was the metal detector. The one thing I feared – the one sound I didn't want to hear rang off. My heart sank. My asshole tightened. That ear-piercing beep went off, echoing through my brain. The one that would doom me to the prison of not just correctional facilities but of my mother's shame. I thought to myself, then and there though, that if I were doomed even to a thousand hours of community service for the scraps of a spliff, I would do it with a chuckle.

“I think I must have swallowed a piece of metal as a kid – I'm always setting these things off.”

It was true – I had swallowed a few coins as a dipshit four year old and I was always setting metal detectors off, despite never carrying any jewellery or weapons.

The old man customs agent granted me that chuckle.

“Ha, it's just a random stop and search, nothing to worry about,” he said with a failed attempt at reassurance.

That's what it was. A random stop and search not at all linked how damn good looking I was or how much of a 'I'm carrying drugs on me' vibe I gave off. Nothing to worry about though? He wouldn't be saying that if he were in my shoes, the ones which were now stabbing into my feet like I was being tortured by a drunk acupuncturist.

The old fella comes over and I try not to enjoy another man patting me around my crotch too much, but I try to relax into it as much as possible. At this point in time, I am having my 'In Elysium' moment. I'm already dead.

“Nice Transformers t-shirt by the way – great movie”

I think about arguing with him for a moment, tell him that Michael Bay's direction was pretty terrible. I could launch into a tirade about the objectification of a teenage Megan Fox and how I am an old school cartoon fan, which even then I shouldn't be because they're only designed to sell overpriced flimsy plastic toys, but I don't. I don't, because I've realized that he's not found that little piece of puff, nestled in that pouch normally reserved for prophylactics. That I don't have to worry about crying to my mum, or scrubbing graffiti off of public property, or even about which paramilitary prison gang I'd have to do favours for. My asshole loosened – not at the thought of having to look after the soap, but in the immediate feeling relief I experienced when I realized I was free. Free to put my laptop back in my bag, put my belt and jacket on and cruise through the airport at a leisurely pace. Now I really was Johnny Depp.

Off I went. The first flight took me from Belfast to London, where after cruising through another airport, I'd wait to fly to Gothenburg. The hangover was still there, but the anxiety was gone, replaced with almost pleasant tiredness and ever increasing dehydration. Despite this, I felt serene; if going through that security line didn't break me, then no amounts of shitty Ryanair flights with their lack of legroom and their constant bombardment of advertisements would. I felt blessed by the spirits of both Mr Nice (who was alive at the time, but I had read his book) and Pablo Escobar smiled down upon me. See, this wasn't even the first time I had gotten away with smuggling a bit of grass through airport security. I thought back to the time where, only two months prior I had gone on a lad's holiday to Copenhagen. Despite being patted down in Belfast they hadn't found the two grams of lemon haze folded up in my wallet. When we had flown over to Luton airport for the connecting flight, my friend had managed to trigger the X-Ray machine. A younger male and older female security agent had rifled through the bag and pulled out a series of ever increasingly comical novelty items – as if Austin Powers had designed The Generation Game. Custom underwear, a giant novelty condom, regular condoms and finally a grinder all got dragged out. It was a nice, chunky stainless steal job. The male agent pointed it out to the middle aged woman, who despite working in a job where you might be expected to know what a grinder was appeared to have absolutely no idea.

“That's for oregano, isn't it mate?” asked the man.

“It is, yeah,” agreed Pol, grinning like the Cheshire cat from ear to ear.

We couldn't believe our luck and despite the fact a couple of the lads were annoyed at me for taking the risk I had, the joint at the other end of the flight had tasted even sweeter. I would experience this sweet taste again.

After those airports and flights, I found myself in Gothenburg airport, being handed back my passport and wished a good stay by one of the polite agents at arrivals. Fresh air and the chance to roll that one-skinner of victory was mere metres away.

And then he appeared.

Well I say he, I just assume that blonde haired demon was male and when we spoke, his voice was deep, bassy and intimidating.

The area immediately after the passport control was a hallway with two unisex cubicles on the right hand side (they're pretty progressive in Sweden and have de-gendered toilets decades before anyone else – a little bit shit if you are a guy busting for the urinal but you just have to suck it up) a queue of people waiting for the toilets and then, three of Sweden's finest customs agents. Two human and female, the third was our furry little demon himself.

The dog locked his beady little eyes upon mine and I found myself entering a Dr Dolittle/Shining trance.

“I know, motherfucker,” he said, his words humming through my ears.

“I'm sorry, I'll get rid of it. I promise,” I yelped.

“It's too late.”

Right then and there, those spiders re-emerged started crawling through my veins and into my capillaries. I was twisting, scratching and probably twitching like the subject of a biotech experiment.

These people needed to HURRY THE FUCK UP.

Eventually, the queues dissipated and I got into the toilet cubicle. I unzipped my jeans and pulled them down. Then, whilst simultaneously pulling out my member, shrivelled like the global economy, I withdrew the scrawny morsel of marijuiana. My treacle like urine splashed aggressively over the seat of the bog, my shakey hands dragged the scraps of herb out so my eyes could regard them one last time. How bad could this really smell? How strong a sense of smell could that dog have? Before I could even consider trying my luck any more, my hands sprang open, which meant that dark yellow fluid now puddled onto the floor from my dangly pea-shooter and our border-crossing-bud was submerged into the bowl. I sighed, concerned that this baggie would clog the cistern and I reached into the pool of piddle to withdraw it. I opened the lid of the woman's sanitary disposal bin and dropped it in, finally in a place where it may be the least offensive item. I washed my hands, dried them and finally put that pathetic excuse for a penis away. It was time to leave the airport and head off to the city centre, without weed, but without handcuffs either. Or so I thought.

As I approached the three custom agents with a nervous smile, they barred my exit.

“Hello sir, can you come with us?”

I panicked. Could they have cameras in the toilets? Surely that was illegal. Surely that was a complete breach of human rights. That would mean they would see how small my dick was. I looked at that small, evil piece of shit, as it tried so hard to be cute.

“It was you? Wasn't it?”

The two human custom agents led me to a tiny room adjacent to the hallway, where they would rummage through my hand luggage on a small desk.

“Can we have a look through your bag?” they asked, as if they hadn't started it already.

“For what reason are you in Sweden, sir?”

“Oh. I'm here to play a card game.”

“What? Like poker?”

“Eh.. sort of, Magic the Gathering,” I croaked out, meekly.

“Ah yes, I see now,” one agent said as her hands disregarded how expensive my cards were on the secondary market. “And your passport sir?”

I reached into one jacket pocket. Then another. And another. Then my jeans. I sprinted back to the toilet cubicle and there it was, nestled atop the hand dryer. I grabbed it, breathed a sigh of relief and handed it to the agent.

“It's a good thing we stopped you sir.”

“Yes it is, thank you,” I said with a nod and a smile.

Content with my bag and my documents, they let me pass. I entered into a room designed for letting people wait on buses. Through the windows I saw one coach bound for the city centre peel away. No matter. I'll just wait for the next one.

I pulled out the novel I was reading from my bag – one of the Stieg Larsson books. “The girl who pegged a dragon in the arse with a strap on” or something. You know, when in Sweden, read some Swedish literature. 15-20 minutes passed and the two customs agents appeared.

“Sir, why are you still here?” one asked.

“I'm waiting for the bus.”

“Oh. There are no more buses left.”

“You must have missed the last one when we were searching through your stuff.”

“Oh. I shit. I better get a taxi,” I said with a sigh. This was going to cost me.

“Where are you headed?”

“The city centre.”

“Well that's where we're going. We'll give you a lift.”

“Amazing. Thank you.”

They led me to a Volvo (of course) and I got into the back seat behind the driver. The the two female custom agents up front and guess who was there in the boot. Yep. Man's best friend, after a little it of tail wagging settled in behind me.

The demon and I locked eyes with each other once more and did our Shining bit.

“Nice try, motherfucker, but you can't catch me, I'm the ginger pube man.”

I broke my gaze with the pooch and spoke to the agents once more.

“Awww he's a good boy.”

They laughed and as one drove, the other gave me some information about the city and asked me about Magic.

“The card game.. is it like warhammer?”

“Oh god no. I have lost my virginity, you know.”

They laughed. I laughed. My phone rang.

It was my friend who I was staying with.

“Hey man, where are you?”

“Funny story, but I've got picked up by the cops already. Don't worry, they're giving me a lift to the city centre.”

“Ok, great, see you soon!”

I ended the call and the custom agent driving the car piped up.

“We're not the cops, sir. We're the customs agents. We're the good guys.”

I chuckled.

“Right you are,” I said, winking to the dog.

The rest of the trip wasn't as eventful. I played some cards, badly, making mistakes with cards that better players wouldn't have. Regardless, I'd say it was worth it for that experience alone. It was the last time I'd smuggle any amount of cannabis anywhere. After that, it was only ever hard drugs, but that as they say, is a story for another time.

I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

My Paypal Link