the smuggler’s bible

Franzi

The skeleton in Franzi’s bag is mumbling quietly to itself, which is unsettling but preferable, ceteris paribus, to the shrieking from earlier. She steps carefully over a log to avoid jostling the cargo too much and heads deeper into the moonlit woods.

Do you know how hard it is, really, to keep a coffin in the ground? Seems like a snap at first but after a few centuries of flood and other natural processes, oh boy. Ghosts, though, they hang on.

“Blah, blah, bones laid to rest,” Franzi grumbles, checking her watch. ”No, of course, happy to help. Honestly delighted.”