the smuggler’s bible

Femi

Somebody at the radio station gave the new kid a shot, and for three straight hours it’s just guitars screeching angrily over a drum kit piloted by someone who obviously would have preferred a nuclear explosion but is still determined to do his best under the circumstances.

Femi has it turned up as loud as it goes. It’s a nice night. Warm and clear. The windows are all broken, so he ashes his cigarette with neither concern nor regret.

The red lights are still flashing in the rearview. They’re close, but perhaps, Femi thinks, not quite so close as before.