Fighting fire with firewood
I was looking for a little excitement so I decided to become a drug dealer. The plan was to go to London to pick up a shipment that this Somali cab driver expected from his contact in Yemen. I was the perfect candidate because one, I’m well liked in the Somali community (I once worked across from a fine ass Djiboutian girl who taught me a few phrases, if you can say “I think its snowing” in Somali, you’re golden) and secondly, I was white and customs would never suspect me of being a mule for some Arabian Peninsula plant that nobody’s ever heard of or could give two shits about.
We made the deal over shwarma after declining to join him and his friends at a Somali dance club. I told him I wasn’t in the mood to paint my face and dance around a fire and he laughed so hard that tumbleweed soup came out his nose. We made the arrangements; I was to stay in a first class hotel in Fitzrovia, and meet his connect in a tea house by the nearest tube station. No guns or tough guy attitude required they considered me to be doing them a favour; I could just act completely natural, a Canadian guy in my brothers sweater sitting cross legged on the floor with a dusty ass, toothless Yemenite botanist just a block away from Piccadilly Circus. What could go wrong?
From there they’d take me out to the ports in Twickenham, where I would get the container vessel and the fake ass bill of lading. I was told I’d be more likely to get in trouble from IFAD than customs because they’d be more pissed about me moving invasive species rather than the fact that I was gonna get a whole whack of East African immigrants stone off their asses on this shit.
I was assured if I made the trip a few times (without getting caught) that I’d be living comfortably. Temptation is a bitch.
We made the deal over shwarma after declining to join him and his friends at a Somali dance club. I told him I wasn’t in the mood to paint my face and dance around a fire and he laughed so hard that tumbleweed soup came out his nose. We made the arrangements; I was to stay in a first class hotel in Fitzrovia, and meet his connect in a tea house by the nearest tube station. No guns or tough guy attitude required they considered me to be doing them a favour; I could just act completely natural, a Canadian guy in my brothers sweater sitting cross legged on the floor with a dusty ass, toothless Yemenite botanist just a block away from Piccadilly Circus. What could go wrong?
From there they’d take me out to the ports in Twickenham, where I would get the container vessel and the fake ass bill of lading. I was told I’d be more likely to get in trouble from IFAD than customs because they’d be more pissed about me moving invasive species rather than the fact that I was gonna get a whole whack of East African immigrants stone off their asses on this shit.
I was assured if I made the trip a few times (without getting caught) that I’d be living comfortably. Temptation is a bitch.
2 Comments:
I agree, temptation is a bitch. But it helps to show us how strong we are ;)
What a talented pet journalist IONA
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