the smuggler’s bible

White Ratchet

It’s cold, now that the sun has gone down. White Ratchet creeps through the underbrush, wincing when a twig collapses under his steel-toed boots. Ahead is the clearing and the hulking black shadow of the zeppelin. He turns and whispers, “Grenades.”

Together, thirteen hands reach into satchels and draw forth death. They prime and throw—the fire is beautiful. White Ratchet stands hidden among the flickering shadows and watches, smiling.

The enemy panics. They are moths fluttering in the glow. They are wide-eyed, bleating sheep. They are men, goddamn them, and White Ratchet hopes every single one of them burns.