the smuggler’s bible

Moss

The food vendor scoops a greasy pile into a cardboard tray and hands it to the man in the tweed suit.

“Brilliant, old chap,” the man says. He lifts one glistening golden lump and examines it. “I say, excuse me, what do you call these delightful treats again? Oh, yes, I see. ‘Tots,’ is it? Bully! Now, back to England for the Que—”

Moss slams down the red ‘REJECTED’ stamp. “Goddamn propaganda,” he mutters, tossing the page into the garbage with the others. “All this magazine has besides an unfortunate ‘potato’ theme is scruples. Too late now to sacrifice either.”