Late one night in Meshed, Iran, Sally the Smuggle trolled the streets in search of a good buyer. She had on her person twelve half-stacks of Ignusdiazem, a drug as difficult to come by in the region as it was coveted.
Slinking down arcades and alleyways, she soon came across what she estimated to be a prospective buyer.
It was rare to see a man dressed in a green silk suit and sunglasses at 23:45, standing near an all-night cafe (equally rare) nonchalantly smoking a cigar and eying her suspiciously as she approached him tentatively, draped in the traditional “chador” so as to appear less conspicuous.
Still, it was incredibly dangerous for her to be out this late. Not for herself but those around her, for she was Sally the Smuggle, and she could smuggle more than lightweight objects, she could smuggle herself.
Across the street was a mosque and two clerics stood outside passing between themselves a hash pipe. The Silkman (as he would soon be called) continued to eye her suspiciously. Suddenly a lion with spiraled horns appeared. The ground split between Sally and Silk and the sky was suddenly filled with green, incandescent orbs so that it appeared to be daylight out as far as the eye could see, or rather some sort of testing ground for extraterrestrial weaponry. The smell of sulfur filled the air and everyone save for the two S’s were frozen in place.
“I recall long ago, I saw you in the court of an ancient king whose name escapes me. You were up to just about the same thing you are now, blending in quite apparently. But that’s neither here nor there, fact is, this fact proves you’re one of us, so why don’t we blow this popsicle stand, sweet cheeks?”
“But- but… the lion, the orbs, ground split before us, frozen natives…”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Little did either of them know, one of the half-stacks had been untied by a portal stool and the mass amount of powder had mingled with her sweat, just now taking effect.
“Tongue twister Pahlavi sediment blend of tyrants leaking point of departure from tomorrow stool softener chameleons are slipping of roofs of pure marshmallow and I’m no larger than a clown fish breathing hydrogen in adobe light sockets while Frank Sinatra creoles bloody mary agony by poolside filled with tongue depressors and Sierra Madre lack of sleep in lost yorkshire pudding and terriers leaping over shotput…”
“Uh-oh,” the Dodger thinks to himself, “We don’t have long before this place is swarming with ‘undesirables.’ Had better make a run for it. Never a wise thing to make a scene.” He sniffs the air, “Does smell like sulfur though. Strange.”