| This is an incomplete story.
Contraband is a story that was started by a user some time ago, but wasn't completed, and may never be completed. We're sorry for the inconvenience! However, feel free to look here to read completed stories!
One of the items being smuggled into the CPFW Universe, an Espresso Machine.
|Protagonist||Bureau of Fiction, Royal Freezelandian Guards, RFG Recon, Captain Nyle Lankav, Private Opal Numysh, Foldy, Harrow|
|Antagonist||The Rikolliset (the Freezelandian mafiya), Mikhael Vassikin, Luba Yakut, Alfhilde Vanslow|
Contraband is the story about criminals smuggling illegal items from other dimensions, particularily the Earth. It is set in the 2020s. Read the story to find out more!
- Frostborough Docklands, 2016
Radiation reports from random locations have shown that portals to the Box Dimension are opening at record levels. The Eastshield and Freezelandian Black Markets are full of strange items, which are currently under investigation by the EPF. Meanwhile, while The Royal Freezelandian Guard ship, the Gryphon, was searching for criminal hideouts in the Weddel Sea, it was ambushed and sank. The Rikolliset is searching for survivors to interrogate and mindwipe them.
The two smugglers huddled around a flaming barrel in a futile attempt to ward off the Winter chill. The Club Penguin Fanon Universe was not a place you wanted to be after March. In Antarctica, even the penguins wore scarves. No universe they had ever been to was colder.
The men were Rikolliser enforcers, and were more used to spending their evenings inside stolen cars. The large gangster, Kamar, checked the fake Rolex watch beneath the sleeve of his fur coat.
“This thing could freeze up,” he said, checking the diving bezel. “What am I going to do with it then?”
“Stop your complaining,” said the one called Josef. “It’s your fault we’re stuck outside in the first place.”
Kamar paused. “Pardon me?”
“Our orders were simple: sink The Gryphon [^]. All you had to do was blow the cargo bay. It was a big enough ship, heaven knows. Blow the cargo bay and down she goes. But no, the great Kamar hits the stern. Not even a backup rocket to finish the job. So now we have to search for survivors and mind-wipe them.”
“She sank, didn’t she?”
Josef shrugged. “So what? She sank slowly, plenty of time for the RFG personell to grab onto something. Kamar the famous sharpshooter. My grandmother could shoot better.”
Alfhilde, the Mafiya’s penguin-on-the-docks, approached before the discussion could develop into an all-out brawl.
“How are things?” asked the bearlike Alfhilde.
Kamar spat over the quay wall. “How do you think? Did you find anything?”
“Dead fish and broken crates,” said Alfhilde, offering both enforcers a steaming mug. “Nothing there, anyway. It’s been over eight hours now. I have good penguins searching all the way down to Fanon City.”
Kamar drank deeply, then spat in disgust.
“What is this stuff?”
Alfhilde laughed. “Earl Grey. From you-know-where. It’s coming into the portal by the box load.”
“Be warned,” said Kamar, spilling the liquid into the snow. “This weather is souring my temper. So no more terrible jokes. It’s enough that I have to listen to Josef.”
“Not for much longer,” muttered his partner. “One more sweep and we call off the search. Nothing could survive these waters for eight hours.”
Kamar held out his empty cup. “Don’t you have something stronger? I know you always keep something hidden somewhere.”
Alfhilde reached for his hip pocket, but stopped when the walkie-talkie on his belt began to emit static. Three short bursts.
“Three squawks. That’s the signal.”
“The signal for what?”
Alfhilde hurried down the docks, shouting back over his shoulder. “Three squawks on the radio. It means that they have found someone.”
The survivor was not RFG, or at least not one on duty, that much was obvious from his clothes.
Though the man’s clothes were relatively intact, his body had not fared so well. His bare feet and flippers were mottled with frostbite.
The search crew had carried him from a glacier ravine three klicks south of the harbor on a makeshift tarpaulin stretcher. The smugglers crowded around their prize, stamping their feet against the cold that invaded their boots. Kamar elbowed his way through the gathering, kneeling for a closer look.
“He doesn't look well. Must be cold” He noted.
“Thank you, Dr. Mikhael,” commented Josef dryly. “Any ID? Player card, anything?”
Kamar conducted a quick thief’s search. Wallet and watch.
“Nothing. That’s odd. You’d think someone in this day and age would have some personal effects, wouldn’t you?”
Alfhilde nodded. “Yes I would.”
He turned to the circle of men. “Ten seconds, then there’ll be trouble. Keep the currency, I need everything else.”
The sailors considered it. The man was not big. But he was Rikolliset. The Freezelandian organized-crime syndicate.
A leather wallet sailed over the crowd, skidding into a dip in the tarpaulin.
“Well?” asked Josef. “Do we keep him?”
Alfhilde pulled a platinum BoF card from the kidskin wallet, checking the name. The card was broken and useless, but the guy was worth something.
“Oh, we keep him,” he replied, activating his cell phone. “We keep him, and put some blankets over him. The way our luck’s going, he’ll catch sick. And believe me, we don’t want anything to happen to this man. He’s our ticket to the big time.”
Josef was getting excited. This was completely out of character for him. Kamar clambered to his feet.
“Who are you calling? Who is this guy?”
Alfhilde picked a number from his speed-dial menu.
“I’m calling Vassikin. Who do you think I’m calling?”
Kamar paled. Even calling the boss was dangerous. Mikhael Vassikin was well known for "getting rid" of bearers of bad news.
“It’s good news, right? You’re calling with good news?”
Alfhilde flipped the BoF Card at his partner. “Read that.”
Kamar studied the card for several moments. “I don’t read Angliski. What does it say? What’s the name?”
Alfhilde told him. A slow smile spread across Kamar’s face.
“Make the call.” he said.
- * - The Gryphon is a Royal Freezelandian Guards ship, which at the time was combing the Ocean Territories for holdouts of criminals.