MY CONTRABAND: SMOKE SIGNALS AND TWISTED TALES

This here's the grimy side of things. The part where shadows dance, whispers travel faster than a runaway train, and truth gets twisted like a rusty metal fence. We're talkin' stash, ain't no two ways 'bout it. The kind that makes your heart race faster and your palms sweat. We got smoke signals flashing in the night, screaming secrets nobody else