the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

The red bulbs are shattered, and green light flickers across the rooftop every few seconds. Hiro steps carefully, sword ready.

The tree is at the center, surrounded by teetering, haphazard mounds of presents, decorations, food—and bodies.

“Fuck,” Hiro says. “I thought you were just spoilsports.”

A voice hisses from the shadows. “Without belief, an idea is feeble. To kill the season, kill the people.”

“And what’s with the light show? Something to rhyme about?”

“No. That’s so you wouldn’t see me.” The voice is close. Hiro spins, slashing at the twisted smile curling atop eight feet of green fur.