the smuggler’s bible


Bloodtooth gets into it with some chumps at the tavern. Cards lead to words lead to fists lead to table legs. He wakes up with fresh bruises and a coat check ticket in his hand. It doesn’t belong to him, but he heads for the lobby and turns it in.

They hand him back a blue velvet number with a map sewn into the lining. He limps off without paying his tab and tracks down an appraiser.

“Well, it’s amateurish and literally incredible.”

“Sure, ok.”

“A patent forgery.”

“Uh huh.”

“Boy, you may have just stumbled onto the real thing.”