The Bad Guys were given 90% of the script but still fucked up their role in the movie. Cops knew who, where and when...but we skated.
How did they miss an ounce of heroin, 60% pure Moon Rocks, stashed on my person?
A magician shouldn't reveal techniques...but it's basically down to another bust a year earlier.
Preparing for a long train journey, I had 22 small folds of good brown in a snuff-type box, as well as five foils interleaved in a book called "Four Basic Principles To Make Fortune Come Your Way." I never got to read it, but found out one of those principles is not to act like drugs are legal.
An hour into a 36 hour journey, I was wrenched out of nod by the lapels. Piggy eyes staring into my contracted pupils. One of a pair of cops began a thorough frisk. Just before he got to the cargo pocket with my kit, I thought fuck it and grabbed the box of wraps. Before I could swallow them, the other cop punched my head and grabbed my wrist. The stuff flew in the air and onto other passengers, one lady shielding her baby from the evil shower.
One cop tore my luggage to pieces, finding nothing. While the other took me to the toilet, for intimacy.
"This will cost you a thousand dollars, or it's jail. Where's the rest of your money? Only $30 here."
"There's no 'rest'. I'm a junkie, man, broke."
He even checked under my balls, in case I had a wad of notes there. Sadly not. Had to be content with whatever stuff they picked up in the carriage, and my pocket dough. He kindly returned $5 for snacks, which I straight away offered back for just one bag of my stuff. Leaving with my drugs and money, he refused indignantly.
"No. We are the police!"
The rest of the journey was misery numbed by downers. Amidst a nitrazepam fog, I decided to improve concealment tech.
This I did by stitching a credit-card-sized pocket inside my jockey shorts. Positioned a thumb length from the button and a finger-width down. The shorts can be maneuvered so that the package is covered by a belt, if worn. It should be safe from a pocket search, and from a ball-grope when cops 'check for an extra nut.'
Saved my life literally, during a very thorough palm-frisk at Colombo Airport. The penalty for heroin trafficking in Sri Lanka is death; my fat personal supply would have qualified.*
It also saved me at this Bridge Bust. As my partner in crime was stripped and searched, I was deploying a little charisma. My turn came and I wasn't stripped fully, but of course they wanted to look in my underwear. I undid my belt and jeans and hooked my thumbs in the shorts waistline, palming my stash. Lowering the ensemble, I stretched it out so a cop could look at my groin and down the legs.
"See? Nothing much there, sad to say, ha-ha."
As with any trick, it's partly about props but mainly in how the show is presented.
Of course, the best tricksters seldom need props; they perfect 'mind-control'. But it's hard to control other minds when control of yours is lost to drugs...