I got my eyes on another runner. He’s standing out like something sore doing that crimby an’ all. He’s going down that’s for sure.
Me? I got this made. You just watch I’m gonna waltz through here and right out the door. On the 76, home and hosed.
Yep. The stupid fuck got caught. Ain’t gonna happen to me. I’m making eyes at the baby in front, all casual-like. Waiting me turn, not paying attention to the guns or the officers. I’ve got nothing to declare except my genius. I smile to myself as I saunter past.
For 100 consecutive days I will write and post a short story (about 100 words) incorporating a randomly selected word from Afterliff: A new dictionary of things there should be words for.
The transparently fake saunter of one who is about to be stopped going through ‘Nothing to Declare’.
To glare at the morons who applaud any silence in a symphony.