the smuggler’s bible


A stray shot shatters one of the tall windows and hits a shelf. Dust and torn paper flutter on the new breeze. Other things float on the breeze, too—hoarse shouts and the sharp rattle-bang of another enfilade.

“I didn’t show up to sit through amateur night,” Dorian says. “Every man has silver.”

“And every bee has a sting. Still, they die by the hundreds when a wasp is among them.”

There is a far off sound like a peal of thunder. The timbers of the house shake.

“What about hand grenades? Certainly your metaphor has room somewhere for those.”