There’s that brief moment when you can see it all go wrong. The world around you just goes pear-shaped, then it splatters and usually there is no chance to duck. Then your vision returns to normal, and there you are, cuffed, and hauled off to jail.
The five unlicensed puppies are fairly easy to explain to a judge. After all, dogs do breed, and ending up with more puppies that you can easily get rid of is not exactly an unusual occurrence. The fact that these are all purebred puppies wouldn’t even be a big issue, if the five puppies were all the same breed. Being caught with five unlicensed puppies in five different breeds is just a little bit harder to explain.
Of course, the several kilos of organic matter is much harder to explain in a way that doesn’t simply admit to breaking the law. It is pretty fragrant, so my claim that I thought I was carrying 50 kilos of the finest green tea is likely to fall apart pretty quickly. The fact is that it is true, but I am certain I’ll never convince either judge or jury of that.
But of course that is all the easy stuff, the low hanging fruit. They are going to hang me up high for the last thing they found. Another 100 kilos of fine white powder. The sort of thing that could be mistaken for confectioner’s sugar until it is tasted. Now that I knew I was carrying, and I’d picked up the puppies and the tea for cover. If that damn fool hadn’t been so eager to move his pot that he’d sold it to me as tea, I would have been free and clear.
The barrel of coffee beans and the two barrels of cocoa beans were just backup to distract any dogs they brought my way. And I expected to have a year’s supply of cafe mocha as a bonus on the job.
So here we are. They’ve got me dead to rights on the illegal transport of puppies, pot, and dope. They confiscated my ride. They did offer to release the coffee and cocoa, but that doesn’t help as long as I’m locked up. Of course, I also picked the slowest and least active border crossing, and so I’m toasting in a backwoods county jail while they decide which book to throw, and how hard to throw it.
And I have a quandary.
An admirer just sent me a cake with a clear message in it, and the fool hick jailer just passed it on through without looking.
I do the right thing, and turn the saw and instructions over and let them catch my outside helper. Since the help is probably coming from the same incompetent people who got me in this fix in the first place, this is a far more tempting idea than it seems. Of course, this does involve having limited wardrobe choices for the foreseeable future, and orange simply isn’t my color.
I could spin a different yarn, and conceal the saw for a better chance to use it. This runs the risk that my outside help might get nervous and tip the authorities when I fail to execute my end of their farce of a plan. This may still be my best choice.
Or I could just admit my failure here and now and use the saw as a means to suicide by cop, suicide by prison guard, or suicide by gang member in the common yard. This isn’t an attractive option at all.
And so, I have a quandary.
And cake. At least there is cake.