A stoner who’s just been called over the red lane at Singaporean customs is sweating profusely and looking jittery AF, witnesses have confirmed.
Benji, 32, spends most of his time hopping between Asian countries where the weed is cheap and his salary as a freelance graphic designer allows him to live like a king.
Every once in a while, though, he has to return home to Canberra. Unfortunately, this time he’s booked his return flight via Singapore. And that always involves the terrifying experience of getting searched by police in the most militantly anti-drug country in the world, where one pill – let alone a bag of weed – is enough to warrant the death sentence.
“Open your bag, sir,” the customs offer says to Benji, who’s fidgeting with his dreadlocks. He avoids eye contact and nervously unzips.
After rifling through Benji’s meagre possessions – including a broken ukelele, a soiled pair of Thai fisherman’s pants, and a partially ripped Kerouac book – the guard points to Benji’s “special” pocket. This is where he stores his bud, baccy, grinder, and packet of Rizlas.
Thankfully, Benji cleared this pocket out before he left Goa. Or did he? Amid the chaos in his fried brain, he can’t grasp hold of any clear memories from the past 24 hours. He could really use a smoke right now.
Trembling, Benji opens the pocket. It’s empty. He turns it inside-out to prove there’s nothing in there. Some tiny skerricks of what could be weed flutter out, but the guard doesn’t notice. Relieved, Benji can’t help himself from grinning.
The guard looks Benji in the eye, fully aware of what’s going on, but unable to prove it. Grudgingly, he motions for Benji to pack up his stuff and move on.
As Benji is zipping up, a cute little beagle wearing a Singaporean customs jacket comes towards him. Benji looks down and remembers that lump in the left pocket of his cargo pants. The dog sits down next to him.