the smuggler’s bible

Mister Mothman

Wait until dark, then head downtown. The traffic is a line of tail lights blurring into the fog—a bright streak painted across the bridge, red on silver. Anyone heading home is too tired to notice him, or give a shit. The police don’t care. They’re busy knocking down vagrants and walking on them to avoid scuffing their nice black shoes on the concrete.

“Little help?” Someone propped against a wall, knees drawn up to their chest. A hand extends a creased paper cup. It doesn’t look heavy.

“Sorry.” Mister Mothman says, passing. “I’m afraid I’ll need the bus fare.”