the smuggler’s bible

The Wolf-Man

He wakes up in a barn outside of town. The door is open, hinges creaking as it moves with the wind. He shivers, rubs at his eyes. The ground is red. His hands are red.

He takes a coat off one of the bodies in the corner. It’s green wool with bright crimson embroidery, too small to button properly. He lets it hang open in front, sleeves barely reaching past his elbows.

He rummages in the pockets and pulls out two slim peppermint sticks. “Jesus Christ,” he says, breath misting in the morning air, “of course you assholes don’t smoke.”