You knew the risks when you took the job, but you hadn't planned on the security agent making you run the box of donuts through the x-ray machine. Now, half naked and tied to a chair under the harsh light of a single unshaded incandescent bulb, you being to feel the first pangs of regret.
"Tell me who your baker is!" shouts the fed standing over you.
He's tall and thin but somehow sporting a double chin that pours over his collar and onto the two-in-hand knot of his slim black tie. You can't help but think his tie is a bit too tight, that his head might pop like a ballon if you pricked it with a needle.
"You don't want this to get ugly," he continues, "and it can get all kinds of ugly. So start fucking talking."
You try to speak but all you can manage is a sniffle and
"Look, man, I get it," says the rotund, soft-spoken agent behind you as he places his meaty hands on your shoulders. "You didn't mean for any of this to happen. You bought a dozen glazed, and the baker asked you to take a couple jelly back with across the border for a few dollars. You weren't trying to hurt anybody. Hell, you're the victim here."
You nod at the floor, but it doesn't seem to notice. Agent balloon head, however, notices.
"This piece of shit ain't a victim," he snorts to agent big body. Then, to you, "you look like a career smuggler to me. This ain't your first jelly. No, you've done this before. What else you moved? Apple fritters? Yeah. You've shoved eclairs up your ass, too, huh? Hell, I bet you've brought truckloads of eclairs across in that keister. Thought you could get away with it forever, huh?" He leans in close and you catch the scent of cheap cologne and menthol cigarettes. "Let me tell you something - pastry punks like you always get caught."