the smuggler’s bible

Yash

Yash is busy heaving twelve-pound hunks of raw meat over the enclosure wall when something catches his eye. He stoops to retrieve it, four inches of metal glinting in the dirt.

In his palm, the item looks suspiciously like one of the main retaining bolts from the gate. Impossible. Haha. Jesus Christ, can you imagine?

The specimen lets out a playful growl and pounces, shredding the back of Yash’s khaki work shirt as he scampers toward the main building.

His bosses are pissed. The shirts are technically company property, and lord knows the budget isn’t what it used to be.