the smuggler’s bible

Sultan

The chemicals are stored in an airtight metal box under the front seat of Sultan’s truck. There’s a padlock on it, but this is mostly camouflage for a small spring-loaded contraption that fires a poisoned needle at anyone who doesn’t know the trick.

The trick—as with so, so many of life’s little riddles—is simply not to fuck with it.

“What if you need the chemicals? Like in a hurry?”

Sultan shakes his head and pours himself more coffee. “If you need shit like the stuff I got in a hurry,” he says, “you already messed up pretty bad.”