the smuggler’s bible

Mister Mothman

“You understand that I don’t make promises. Chase all the leads you can grab and sometimes it still winds up going nowhere,” Mister Mothman says. He lights his pipe, tosses the match and traces a spiral in the air with one finger. “Concentric circles. Get it?”

“Sure, but you come highly recommended.”

“A man’s got to be good if he can’t afford advertising.”

“I mean, no other detective—”

“Stop.” A breeze nudges the curtains in the sudden silence as his wings sweep forward and back, eyespots shining. “Don’t call me that,” Mister Mothman says. “The state won’t license a cryptid.”