the smuggler’s bible


Osvaldo kicks the pedal just as strobes blast the stage. He’s sweating bullets and can’t see shit. The blackness stretches out before him, rising up and up and up like a wave. He waits for it to drop, praying that it will crush him into pulp and spare him the agony of drowning.

A glint to his right—salvation—his pick shrieks out of the fog and lands on the high E so hard it showers the front row with sparks.

The crowd goes absolutely nuts, but the promoter stiffs Osvaldo on the fee later because of the fire hazard.