the smuggler’s bible

Frankenstein’s Monster

Frankenstein’s Monster settles onto the park bench and leans back, crossing his legs. The wood groans, but it holds.

People filter out slowly as the sun goes down. Not dark yet, but chilly in the shade. A man in a dark suit and overcoat passes, hesitates and turns back. He stands beside the bench and lights a cigarette, looking straight ahead. There’s a green sprig of holly threaded through his lapel.

“Our policy is not to negotiate with terrorists,” the man says at last.

“Well, don’t worry.” Frankenstein’s Monster waves a hand casually. “We’re not ready to make a deal.”