the smuggler’s bible


They send down a company boy out of San Pedro with an offer: no banks, no courts, no press. Just two fighters in the ring and the bigger fish gets to eat. C-suite greenlights the whole thing in an afternoon.

After a three count, Givi closes in, trying to take it to the mat. The company boy puts his hands together some weird say and—swear to god—blasts a beam of pure white light straight through the conference room wall.

Share prices fluctuate mildy, but this is business. Ain’t been a new trick invented in about a million years.