the smuggler’s bible

Vlad Dracula

The moon is a bright foil disk that frames the castle perfectly, a flinty hand emerging from the hillside. When viewed from the crumbling switchbacks on the road that splits the pass. For, like, a few weeks in October.

And Vlad Dracula spends good money clearcutting the sightlines to preserve the effect. Firelight glows in the high window of one jagged tower where he holds conference.

“They’re pissed, right?”

“A little nervous. Things are very uncertain. Everyone agrees spooky is sort of having a moment.”

“All right,” Vlad Dracula says. “If anyone mentions the snowman, tell them to fuck off.”