the smuggler’s bible

Vlad Dracula

Vlad Dracula wears a scarf to the dungeon—blue and white stripes. He intends to goad the creature by wearing the costume of its affiliation. Also, it’s cold as hell down there, man.

It lurches forward as he approaches, reaching out with trembling stick arms that narrow to knots of shivering twigs. It nears the line of candles below the cell bars and recoils, hissing.

Oh, children.” Its eyes are dead flecks of coal wedged above a carrot nose.

“Don’t be a creep,” Vlad Dracula says. “I swear to god, do none of you Christmas guys know when to quit?”