the smuggler’s bible

Mister Mothman

Mister Mothman calls the client from a payphone in a hotel lobby. He squeezes into the booth and cradles the receiver against his shoulder. While he waits, he wets one thumb and rubs at a spot on his shirt that looks suspiciously arterial.

The line connects.

“First attempt was a bust,” he says. “Nothing good to report, but nothing bad either. Don’t worry, I have a few more ideas. It’s always the last one you try.”

“Sure, I could skip to the end of the list, but that’s—”

“Have it your way. I’ll call when I know something.”