The Pusher

Sweat greased my hands as I approached the security desk. I was red and looking suspicious, knowing my cargo could lead to a disastrous series of questions, friskings and maybe confiscation. I placed my bag on the conveyor belt and held my breath as it disappeared into the darkness of the x-ray machine. I stepped through the metal detector and awaited my bags. The security guards chatted about various trivial things as my bags went unchecked. I was through! All I had to do now was make the drop. I scurried off, vaguely worried that the security guards didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.
Stockton's eyes lit up as he peered into the bag. He whooped and sniffed the aroma of the contents.
"Any trouble getting it through?" he asked.
"No, piece of cake," I said and he flashed a grin at me.
"Excellent," he muttered, his attention taken by the delights within the bag.
Premium French Pink garlic is a rarity in this country. I picked it up from an old lady at the Christmas market. Stockton is hooked, he has a bulb a day habit and he's nowhere near cutting down. The half-kilo I got him may just about last until Christmas. He has a delightful aroma, not in the least nit unpleasant...