the smuggler’s bible


Some plainclothesmen nab Skullduggery exiting through the back door of the Tin Soldier—a seedy joint in a town full of seedy joints. They ice him in an interrogation room under the white lights. Spiderweb cracks spread out under his hooves as he paces the cement floor. Barraclough and Pontchartrain come in after two hours and hang their dripping coats on the backs of the metal chairs.

“We could start with your alibi,” Barraclough shrugs. “But I don’t think you’d even pretend to have one.”

“Stuff it, gumdrop,” Skullduggery says, smoke rising from his nostrils and curling around his horns.