the smuggler’s bible


The sky looks like a slab of creole marble that somebody roughed up with an old sledge and a weekend of passionate, dedicated work. City council holds their emergency meeting in the football stadium to strike dead the dual birds of topical illustration and seating capacity. They shove Firdaus onto the stage because he’s the TV meteorologist, and that’s the best guess anyone can come up with regarding authority.

“What is that?” someone yells. “Does that mean snow?”

“Technically speaking,” Firdaus says, as lightning strikes and a fist-sized green raindrops begin to fall, “this cloud formation is, uh, awfully rare.”