"Mister Cloone?" said the sergeant as he sat down. "You know why we're holding you, right?"

Cloone shrugged and leaned back. "Fascism? Something something smokes?"

Sergeant Miller took off his own glasses. "We're stopping you here at the Richford/Quebec crossing because you were smuggling Cuban cigars into the country. Why would you do that? You didn't even try to hide them."

"It's the Hemingway in me. Cuba. And 'fuck the system'."

"You think that smuggling cigars makes you Hemingway?" asked Miller.

"I think it's a good start," replied Cloone.

"We have the boycott in place for a very good reason. Cuba is a dictatorship. And, yes, I know that Hemingway lived there. Are you a writer, Mr. Cloone?"

"Yes I am," he responded. "And it's not like Hemingway supported CASTRO or something."

"Um ... yeah, it is exactly like that," said Miller.

"Well, we do what we need to, don't we?"

Miller leaned back. "You know what the secret to Hemingway was?"

"Short sentences?" said Cloone.

"No, Mr. Cloone. Authenticity. AUTHENTICITY. The way one is Hemingway is to make oneself authentic. Not to ... to" -- he pushed the box of Cohibas aside -- "whatever this tobacco thing is."

"Are YOU a writer, sergeant?" asked Cloone.

"As a matter of fact, yes I am. And I believe that the way ..." -- he looked around and leaned forwards -- "the way to show up Americans..."

"Your employers," said Cloone.

"Yes, my employers. Is to be authentic. To fight not with tobacco, not with cigarettes. Fight with yourself. Use yourself."

"If you're a writer, what are you doing here?" asked Cloone.

Miller put his glasses back on. "A lot more than you, apparently," he sighed.