the smuggler’s bible


Dishonesty drags his tarp to the field behind the old mall, drapes it over a rusted fence post and crawls underneath.

“Friggin’ check didn’t bounce,” he grumbles. “Bounce your head off small claims court if you’re not careful.”

The sheriff will find him—Dishonesty always goes to the same place, after all—but usually it takes a few hours before the tin star thinks it’s worth the trouble.

“Stupid landlords. Stupid banks. Stupid police.”

It’s not even his fault, he thinks, eyes squeezed tightly against the afternoon light. What kind of mother gives their son a name like that anyway?