Goddamn this was uncomfortable.
His palms were cold and clammy, like he had his hands submerged in a bucket of lukewarm water just seconds ago. He ran his fingers along the inside of his hands, feeling the sticky slickness of his sweat. Standing in line, just feet away from two armed guards, he wanted to look normal. Well, as normal as a man with a half-kilo of cocaine in condoms filling his stomach could be.
A 'body-packer' is what they'd call him. The more common term's a drug mule. He used several multilayered condoms, about the girth of a carrot and the length of a finger, filled with cocaine. Took a while to prepare it and just as long to get them down. Over a pound of cocaine filled those condoms. Over a pound of cocaine filled his stomach.
Take some time to remember the last shit you took. Just picture it in exquisite detail displayed in your mind. Now think of this shit as a luxury. Think of it as a big no-no. His stomach hurt. It felt like he needed to take that shit, despite the diphenoxylate dose. But the next dump he took would be worth thousands of dollars. He started to regret eating at the terminal's diner. Never make that mistake.
Suddenly the line shifted forward. He was next up. The archway of the metal detector stared him in the eye. And so did the black guard to his right.
"Please remove all metal objects from your person and place them in this tray," The guard pointed to a metal container on the counter. "Then walk through the detector and obtain your items on the other side"
A sudden stomach cramp hit him when a thought occurred to him: the pipe in his pocket. Before he ate, he sat in a toilet stall and smoked the rest of his pot. He was planning to get baked and fall asleep on the plane. He couldn't remember if it was his old metal one, or the glass he stole from his brother.
He stepped forward and held his breath as he walked through the machine. It was silent. He let out a gush of air and confidently strutted forward.
Behind him, the contraption chimed. It called him out. His coke filled stomach dropped. His head swooned. The guard turned toward him and pointed to his pocket. His pipe.
"That," The guard announced. "Your belt. The buckle's metal"
It was. He quickly slipped out of it and tossed it in the tray next to his keys. Once again, he stepped back and walked through the metal detector.
Nothing. It was the glass pipe. Hooray for thievery.
He quickly snatched up the items in the tray and skittered away. His stomach was still paining him. He had to get into his seat and get to sleep to forget about everything. As quick as possible.
The corridor that lead to the plane was longer than anticipated. Finally he made it to the end, where a trampy flight attendant stood. He pushed past her and found his seat. Just as his ass hit the cushion, his stomach groaned violently. His abdomen tensed. Swear to god, any second his asshole would explode. He needed a bathroom.
Frantically crossing his fingers, he searched for a shitter. Down the aisle, past a few old-timers, he found it. Vacant. Within seconds, his cheeks were on the cold seat, pants at his ankles, sweat running in streams down his soaked forehead. What he had been needing, wanting, but fearing... happened.
A condom snaked out of his asshole quickly, followed by another, and were splattered with hot shit. His stomach compressed harshly as crap sputtered out, bathing the coke filled rubbers in greasy mess. He gripped the sides of the tiny aero-john and let his bowels empty. Another tube of coke fell on top of the steaming mess spurting out of him. The overpriced airport food went through him quickly. He was done after a few final afterspurts.
How would he get those fucking condoms out of there? Three of them were outside of his stomach, outside of the safety he needed them to be. Three-quarters of his previous stomach contents were covered in thick diarrhea in an airplane latrine directly below his ass. He wiped and stood up. The stench was overwhelming.
He looked into the bowl at the damage below. No way could he get that coke back without getting filthy. He reached for the toilet paper and received all of it available: two squares.
He had to do the unmentionable. For the drugs. For the money.
Exasperated, he stared at the bowl. He dropped the paltry two squares to the floor and breathed deep, sucking in his own stench. His hand hovered over the steaming hole, wavering before it dropped. His fingers plunged into the murky water and searched frenzied for one of the condoms. Finally, he grasped the thick rubber reluctantly with his full hand and tossed it hurriedly into the sink next to him. It flopped around like a dying fish.
He took a breath and plunged both of his hands into his own waste, fishing out the two others. They slipped around his fingers, swimming through the muck that spurted out of him seconds ago. He got a hold of one and let it join the lone one in the sink. One last jimmy-hat to go.
Shit halfway to his elbows, over $8,000 worth of cocaine in the sink, and his pants still around his ankles, he wasn't in a good position for someone to walk in on him. The noise of the door opening was close to the last thing he wanted to hear. Door open, him bent over just inches from whoever decided to open it, he glanced back to see his assailant.
Standing with a look of confused terror on her face, was a blonde girl around the age of 14. Her eyes shifted from his face, his arms, the toilet, and his bare ass. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He was frozen as much as her.
"Close the fucking door." He gritted through his teeth.
She slammed it quickly, then let out a quiet apology to him. He was alone again, his work lying stagnant in front of him. He jutted his hands into the mess and pulled out the final shit covered rubber. In the sink with the others, he flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet.
Thankfully, his stomach didn't hurt anymore. With still one more condom in his belly he felt refreshed. Then he looked at his very near future. Somehow, he had to get those condoms back inside of him.
With his pants residing at his feet, he turned to the sink. The thick condoms, reservoir tips jutting out, were sitting clumped at the bottom of the murky water bath. Shit was floating around, moving with the waves that the stream of the faucet created.
He flicked his hand around the knob, turning the water off and sat back on the toilet in silence. Silent, tight fists on his chin, elbows on his naked knees, feet planted on the ground, he stared at the three drug filled bundles in the sink.
Why was he doing this? How the fuck did he get pawned into being a mule? Money is truly the root of all evil. He needed the cash. His car, his apartment. He thought it was going to be easy. He didn't ever imagine something like this happening. Just staying optimistic kept him brave. He had to continue. He needed to continue.
In his pocket, next to his brothers glass pipe, was a small travel size tube of AquaFresh toothpaste. He pulled his pants up, belted them and pulled the tube out. In his hand he unscrewed the cap and placed it on the sink, teetering near the water. In his other hand was one coke filled condom. Double fisting these objects, he let out a sigh.
No matter how minty, no matter how great tasting, no matter how strong the flavor of a toothpaste is, it can never quite cover the taste of a shit smeared rubber. He had the condom slathered in thick paste halfway in his mouth. Looking in the mirror, he could see some running down his chin.
It was foaming up as he tried to push it further down. The tube's cap fell into the pool of water and settled near the other two four grand each condoms. His eyes bulged.
Any girl can tell you, deepthroating is a difficult task. But actually attempting to get a small cock sized drug bundle down your gullet is one of the most challenging acts to pull off. Especially when you have to take it whole as it's slathered in toothpaste.
With one slowly sliding down his throat, he couldn't breathe. His eyes bulged out more, veins snaked under his skin, gripping the sink hard. Finally it was released into his waiting stomach, freeing him, giving his breath, life. One down, two to go.
He grabbed the tube of AquaFresh and squeezed a sizable amount on the next rubber. This one seemed smaller, should be easier to get down. He hoped.
In between his teeth, he could taste rubber and mint. He gagged on the condom creeping down his throat. It slid down quick with an aftertaste of condom and toothpaste. Better than shit, he thought. Only one more to go.
This final condom looked larger than all of them. The girth rivaled a cucumber. This would take work. He gripped the tube of AquaFresh and squeezed the rest of it covering the entire latex. The condom was coated in the stuff. Hopefully it would mask the taste and enable the girth unchallenging.
Hitting the back of his throat, brushing against his uvula, was unbearable. He was close to vomiting. Thoughts of what he was actually doing bloomed in his head. He couldn't take his mind off of that fact that he was throating coke enveloped in something usually wrapped around a dick. This was playing with his tonsils. This is what was deep in.
Vomit shot out each side of his open mouth, spattering the mirror in that acrid liquid. He spit out the condom, splashing back into the water bath in the sink. Dirty water fell over the edges and saturated his shoes. He spewed a little more, adding more to the stew in the sink. After the urge to vomit stopped plaguing him, he stared at himself in the mirror, with a goatee of foam and vomit. Tears beaded his eyes.
Behind him, there was a knock on the door. He quickly turned toward the sound, startled. He was shaking.
"Excuse me, sir." A woman said. "We are going to be taking off soon. Please return to your seat"
"I, uh"
He didn't know what to say. What could he say?
"Sir?" She was growing impatient.
"I... need toilet paper"
"I'm so sorry, sir, we'll have some for you in a second"
He needed more time. How could he get this condom down in "a second"? Unless.
He yanked the back of his pants down, bit his tongue and grabbed the condom. This needed to be up his ass, quick. Before that trampy attendant came back with his TP.
With very, very little toothpaste still on the rubber, he positioned himself in front of the mirror, still spattered with his vomit. He looked so vulnerable with a drug filled condom just inches from his puckered butthole, staring into a dirty mirror. He shifted his weight to the left and lifted his ass higher. The reservoir tip acted as a point in which he could begin the insertion. He pulled it closer and felt the condom tickle his asshole. It was cold and wet. Slimy. Perfect.
Now, when you're asking that woman about deepthroating, feel free to inquire about anal. Ask her how it takes a while to get everything going. Ask her how something with that girth is never supposed to enter an opening as small as a poopshoot. Hopefully she can explain that it is nearly impossible to get it all the way in without some kind of lube. Hopefully she can gather the facts to bring up a vivid enough image of how difficult it would be to stick something in your ass. Now imagine doing this in a cramped airplane restroom.
Now imagine with that condom finally halfway inside, the door opens a crack, pressing against your ass cheeks. Pressing against that condom.
He gasped. The flight attendant pushed the toilet paper roll through the crack in the door. He yanked it out of her hand and looked back. Brief eye contact just before she slammed the door. She knew. She had to.
He finished shoving the condom in his ass with a lot of work. He looked down and pulled the plug on the sink. He watched the murky water swirl, bringing the cap along for the ride. The water disappeared into the small hole and the cap stalled on the side. He stood up and pulled his pants up.
At that instant, he was maybe the most uncomfortable he'd ever been in his entire life. He could barely walk, let alone position himself around to open the door to get outside. But he managed.
The trampy attendant was waiting for him with a smug grin on her face. She looked him up and down, at the sweat saturating his shirt, pants soaked with dirty sink water, his strange wobble. He penguin-walked down the narrow aisle and slowly, slowly sat into his seat, ass cheeks pinch closed. She passed by, oozing an odd look and told him to buckle in. He slowly, slowly slid the strap over him and slowly, slowly buckled it.
She walked away, shaking her tiny ass, and he closed his eyes. In just a few seconds, despite everything that had just happened... he drifted... off to sleep.

That feeling you get when you know you're about to sneeze, that tickling in your nose, an incessant irritation that you only wish to disappear as quick as possible- that's what Hell is. Except it is timeless, eternal. Never ending.
He knew what was going on, but he couldn't quite grasp the fact. He was asleep, dreaming, rather vividly, an almost carbon copy replay of what got him into this mess. He was lucid, but stuck in a trancelike state, just watching mindlessly from the inside. It was like Deja Vu, but forced. Plastic, fake and manufactured. He was watching a POV B-movie of his memory.
That damn music was playing. Some ska cover of an oldies song that nobody had ever heard before. It was creeping through the air like some infectious airborne disease, fucking up this conversation. And this was a goddamn important conversation.
The conversation that opened up his life to all of this.
"So, you'll be getting half a key to distribute, just to test the waters. After that... we'll see if you have a good turnout. If you do"
The dude was skeezy, to say the least. That dirt under his fingernails, wedgie in his ass kind of skeezy. Bags under his yellowed bloodshot eyes kind of skeezy. And he had more money in his hands than most people had ever seen together at once.
Except this money was a brick of cocaine. One key. Fifteen grand.
"This aint gonna be a small time dealin' job, neither"
Scales sat on the table in front of the both of them. These scales would determine the fate of his bowels. He was-

"Please buckle your seatbelt, sir, and prepare for landing"
That flight attendant. The trampy flight attendant.
He opened his eyes and saw her standing in the aisle next to him. He was sweaty again, but free from that nightmare. He was clammy, cold, confused.
She still stood there, staring at him.
"The belt is located at"
"I know, I know where the belt is located at"
He fastened his belt to get rid of the tramp. But she still stood there.
"Sir, are you feeling well? Do you need a... a sick bag"
He brushed her off, holding away dizzines, shaking his head.
"No, no. I need nothing. Nothing"
She looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, nodded, and turned away, confused. He followed her down the aisle, occasionally pausing to help passengers put on their belts. He felt sick. His stomach was tight and bloated. Thoughts raced through his mind, crashing into eachother. He felt like he was still high from that weed. He couldn't focus.
The pilot's voice, a raspy deep smokers voice that reminded him of his father, boomed over the intercom, announcing that the plane would be landing in Los Angeles Airport at three o clock on the dot. The click of the speaker, and it was silent. He stared outside, at the dirty streets he'd be walking soon. Long stretches of highway, condensed with tiny ants driving tiny cars. Wide parking lots. Spots of grass.
Breathing was a challenge. His heartbeat was steady, his breathing was strained. Pain shot up his wrists, from his nails digging into sweaty palms. He anticipated the landing.
Finally, he saw runways. A few planes flying above. It was close.
Now all that was left was the hard bump of rubber on concrete, and getting offboard. He'd be free from that aviated prison. And he could walk through the airport, quickly, to get a cab.
In his pocket was a bottle of pills and a torn scrap piece of notebook paper. Smeared ink scrawled by a lazy hand. The address he needed to be at as soon as he was off the plane. His sweaty hand wrapped around it. Luckily, it wasn't lost. He hadn't a few dollars to his name and enough drugs to buy whatever he wanted in his stomach. And in his ass.
The plane landed without event.

If you've ever been in one, an airport terminal is like an amusement park. The food costs 300% of what is does outside, it's more packed that you want it to be, everybody is full of energy, and everywhere you look, there is something to gawk at.
Like that guy, bloated, clutching his stomach, sweat pouring down his face and saturating his clothes, sprinting toward the nearest bathroom. That guy, who looks like he just ate mexican food, has three thick condoms of coke inside of him. And they need to get out.
Of all the characters in an airport, he stands out. If anybody was, say, searching for him, it wouldn't be difficult. They'd just have to calmly walk toward that restroom door he slammed through and quietly join him. With the click of a lock behind him, that guy would be stuck inside that bathroom he needed, alone with his follower.
It would be so easy.

Before he could get the stall door closed, someone kicked it open. Someone he didn't quite recognize, but had seen somewhere before. And his eyes were angry.
"You fucked up, boy"
The voice was just as eerie. He'd heard it before. Couldn't place a name.
"You fucked up big"
The guy moved forward, tearing off his cowboy hat and throwing it to the ground. He was wearing a white button up shirt and jeans. His belt buckle shined.
"You want this strictly business or very personal"
"I-I-I don't know what you're talking about! I just need to take a shit"
"I know what you have inside of you; I want it"
He was hoarse. The guy grabbed him and pushed him up against the cold, hard tile. Their voices still shook the room.
"Business or personal"
"I don't know what the FUCK you're talking about"
The guy slammed his fist into the stall wall, denting it.
"BUS-iness or PER-sonal"
The smuggler spit in the cowboys face.
"Fuck you"
"I'll take that personally"
With much force, the cowboy flipped the smuggler around and tore away at his belt. He slammed his face into the tile, bloodied nose making a spatter on the pure white. The cowboy yanked at the smuggler's pants. They fell down to his ankles exposing his nudity.
Peeking out of his clenched white buttcheeks was the tied end of a filled condom. The smuggler struggled, fighting against the cowboys grasp. With each movement, the condom slipped deeper and deeper inside, until it wasn't visible anymore.
"Stop fucking fighting"
The cowboy got grasp of the smuggler's wrist and brought it upward above his head. He matched it with the other wrist and held them high above, against the wall. With one hand around both of the smuggler's wrists, he used his free hand to tug away at his shiny belt buckle. The smuggler looked behind him and saw the buckle swing open. Fear saturated his eyes.
"You don't know what you're in for, ya faggot"
The cowboys spit hit the smugglers back as he hissed his words. His belt was off and his pants partially down. The smuggler kicked his feat back, barely missing the cowboy's crotch.
"You little bastard"
The cowboy slammed the smugglers face into the wall, successfully cracking the tile and shattering his nose. Blood spurted out of his face in warm geysers against the wall. He whimpered and closed his eyes.
Behind him, the cowboy's erect cock slipped through his tighty-whiteys. He entered him quick, forced the entirety inside this passed out bloodied hull of a man. The cowboy pumped fast and hard, sweat beading his face, groans echoing off the smooth walls. The sound was quiet, innocent, reverberating. Nobody could hear his wet panting. Nobody knew of this poor shmuck stuck in the drug life being raped by a dirty cowboy who knew of it all. The door was locked. Outside was loud.
The cowboy put away his bloody dick and buckled his shiny belt. He wiped his sweaty face and picked up his hat. Behind him the smuggler lay crumpled in blood, his pants still at his ankles. Ass in the air, his hole was gaping open, a mess of blood and fluids. He was quiet, still knocked out. Probably dead.
Hat on his head, jeans zipped up, boots on tight, the cowboy turned back to the mess and unlocked the door. With a sigh, he walked outside into the bustling world.

It didn't matter. He'd be dead in a few minutes.
If a condom filled with anything more than 1.2 grams of cocaine ruptures in the gastrointestinal tract, which is most common for body packers, it is presumed fatal. The LD50 (or median lethal dose required to kill half of a tested population) for cocaine is 95.1 mg/kg. If over 2 grams of cocaine are ingested by the average human, it is 100% fatal. Our smuggler accidentally ingested well over this level.
The effects of a typical cocaine overdose usually lasts only a few minutes, followed by death. But with a quantity as large as this popped condom held, it is almost immediate. Blood pressure rises quickly, resulting in an extremely high heartbeat rate. The resting pulse rises to over 120 beats per minute. The heart pumps the drug quicker, resulting in overexertion. Hallucinations. Convulsions. Vomiting. Hyperthermia. Stroke. Heart attack. Death.
All of the above.

Those last fleeting moments before death, when seconds melt into hours, when time is no longer perceived the way it used to be, when reality slowly fades away flooded by the overcoming being of nonexistence... aren't too bad.
A massive overdose of cocaine flooding his veins made his heart pound, his teeth clench, his head swoon. Given he was passed out in a ball, bloodied and battered in an airport bathroom, and he wasn't lucidly experiencing the entirety of this, his body was. His breathing became labored, choppy. And then the convulsions hit.
He spasmed violently against the wall. His broken nose still gushed thick blood over the floor. He smashed his face repeatedly into the porcelain of the toilet, smearing it with his chunky snot and blood. His tongue split between his tightly clenched jaw, the tip severed by his teeth. The small piece stuck to his chin in the various fluids. Cuts erupted along his forehead, ushering copious torrents of blood. With his eyes still tightly shut, vomit spurted out of his nose and spread across the growing puddle of blood under his face. He kicked at the metal stall door. It flew open exposing someone opening the restroom door.
A business man, suit and tie, briefcase in hand, wife and kids at home, just off a four hour flight, walked into this scene. Displayed before him were the broken dreams of a man. His final fuckup. Surprisingly, a massive cocaine overdose via popped condom from shitkicker stall-rape has amazing replay value. This disturbing image, a man nude from the waist down, flipping around like a fish, blood and vomit mingling around him on the floor, would haunt this business man for years. His dreams would progress into nightmares with the innocent opening of a door to reveal the prize.
Just as he had come in, the man left. Maybe to find help, maybe to get away. But this means nothing.
Because only a few seconds later, the smugglers sporadic seizure came to a jerky stop. His breathing weakened into nothingness. His rapid heartbeat pounded into his ribcage one beat.
Two beats.
Three beats.
Four beats.
And silence.