the smuggler’s bible


Sometimes it’s bad. You’re lying on your stomach under a car or whatever with a flashlight between your teeth, twisting your elbow to unfasten rusty little hex screws on the panel. And you don’t know what the fuck happens when the timer hits zero.

Silver, thank god, has decent leverage this time. Lighting adequate. But there’s no mystery. He knows precisely what gnarly shit is gonna start hissing out of those glass vials in about fourteen seconds.

“You built it, right? Shouldn’t you, like, know how to defuse your own shit?”

“Please,” Silver says, grimacing, “that tone is not helpful.”