the smuggler’s bible


The hotel clerk is a machine stamped specimen of his profession. He’s perfectly still, hands flat on the desk, waiting simply for time to pass.

Satan enters with a blast of hot air from the parking lot. He drops his bag, mops his forehead and squints at the man’s name tag. “Endive,” he says. “Seriously?”

Endive shrugs.

“Whatever. Listen, I have a hangover and I’m in sort of a hurry. Let’s just cut a deal, okay?”

“One night is ninety. Two for one sixty.”

Satan groans but he pays up. Part of being the best is knowing when you’re beat.