the smuggler’s bible

Boyd

There’s one seat left, squeezed between the wall and a booth way down at the end of the bar. Boyd slides in and tucks his legs around the stool (which wobbles nauseatingly).

The words carved on the wall beside him say “spot sux.”

“Sure does.” Boyd leans over and waves at the bartender.

There’s an old beer coaster on the bar someone used to test their dried up ballpoint pen. “bad angle,” the scribbles say. “yell 4 doug.”

“DOUG! HEY, DOUG! He’s not looking.”

“hmmm,” the napkin on the floor says in smears of bright red lipstick. “might be dan.”