the smuggler’s bible

Mister Mothman

The hand holding the key is shaking. He hears metal scrape against the knob, then a frustrated curse. A soft click. A creaking hinge. Worn crepe soles brush against carpet. The man turns on a lamp and sees him spread out against the wall. He stares past the wings to the huge shadow they cast. His hand opens involuntarily and a bottle thuds onto the floor, spilling wine.

“Oh god. Jesus. I’ll—I’ll tell you anything. Whatever you want.”

“Slow down,” Mister Mothman says, rolling up his sleeves. “Don’t give it all away before we get to the fun part.”