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[Ancient History]

Neon lights reflect off shiny green wrapping like verdigris and ancient chrome. A ribbon the color of old blood ends in a bow more complicated than the virginity knot of a trained geisha. The package Mr. Johnson hands you is the size and heft of an adobe brick.

Micromillimeter radar bounces and bores through the foil, returning useless garbled crap in your image link. The chemsniffers have gone mad and question marks sidescroll along the bottom of your vision. You don't have to take a sniff to know your enhanced olfactory vision won't reveal a thing. Next to you in the booth, the shaman has started to whimper like a wounded dog and shy into the corner, as far away from it as possible.

Not that you expected anything less. You don't have to ask what's in it. You already know.

Fruitcake.