"I don't think you understand, ma'am," you explain to the customs agent, "my grandmother baked that ceremonial dragon statue herself so that I'd have something to eat on the plane. That's sugar in those bags, not pure heroine."
The agent responds to your "explanation" with a blank, nearly dead stare. It is the stare of a woman who has heard egregious lies with such frequency that she now takes her own son saying "I love you, mama" with a grain of salt.
"So," your voice turns up in uncertainty, "I'll be needing that back?"
Jarring. That is the word you would choose to describe snap of the latex glove against the agent's wrist.
"Ma'am I believe you should know that I recently relieved a colon transplant," you explain. "I can't be held responsible for anything you find up there."