the smuggler’s bible


Cimarron and Toader breeze through the rubble field looking for alloy. Toader pecks around, digging in the crannies. His partner swings his arms wildly, knocking crescent shaped holes in the stacks.

“Squidgy cave!” Cimarron yells.

Toader leans in to pick up the jabbering squidgy and slides his monocle over his eye to get a better look. He peels a tiny sliver of alloy off the wretched thing and hands him over to Cimarron.

“Shame it’s so little,” he says, without clarifying which he means.

They eat the squidgy one. And they eat its wailing family. Times are tough out there.