the smuggler’s bible


Cupid steps into the club with his shirt collar popped and the buttons unfastened almost to his navel. The DJ catches a glimpse full in the face and collapses, mouth frothing, in his booth.

The dance floor parts in a slow wave as Cupid makes his way into the throng. His posture is flawless. “Damn, C,” somebody calls out. “I sort of pictured you more in like a fancy café or something.”

“People forget sometimes,” Cupid says—he snaps his fingers and the music starts to build again in a slow, thumping crescendo. “I’m the god of love and desire.”