I used to be such a trader, smuggler, and transporter, for a long time.

I began as a bodyguard. I'd go up a skyscraper that had cool and authoritative-sounding nameplates on the doors, to escort, without saying a word, eggheads, who'd sometimes wear a shirt and sometimes a suit bought the day before. I'd escort them to another, almost identical, tower, where they'd meet other eggheads to talk with such excitement that it seemed they'd found the cure for cancer. Maybe they had.

Since I was calm, well-built, and, honestly, somewhat ignorant, my name circulated through this little network. My missions multiplied without incident, and it was as if to them I was merely part of the interior design.

One day they gave me a suitcase. I was promoted from bodyguard to transporter; it was now my duty to bring the deliverables to the eggheads from the other tower. My missions were plain sailing. Actually, one time I was chased by two Chinese in muscle cars, but they weren't good enough: I got away with a few dents in my Opel, which was fortunately covered by expenses.

But you know what they say: an idle mind, especially when there is so much sparkling intelligence all around, is the devil's workshop.