the smuggler’s bible


The hose rolls off of Fiona’s lap when she reaches back for the empty gas can.

“Are you kidding me?” she hisses, snatching it out of the mud and wiping at the muck with her sleeve. “So gross.”

Footsteps clatter in the alley and she hunkers down until the motorpunk finishes pissing on the wall and heads back into the sheet metal hut where the gang is brawling and drinking their sour, black carburetor wine. Fiona grimaces and takes a deep pull on the smeared end of the hose to get the fuel flowing, then spits on the nearest bike.