the smuggler’s bible

Henny

The door in the back hallway is rattling again, harder than usual. Henny turns the volume up on the television and wonders idly if the rain makes it excitable.

“Goddamn commercials.” He gets up and heads into the kitchen for another beer, peeks between the blinds at the moon, framed by the clouds like a giant yellow eyeball leering through a keyhole. Henny shivers and tugs the curtains shut.

More rattling from the back, then the gunshot sound of wood giving way under a heavy weight. Henny counts the thuds as the padlocks—all six of them—hit the floor.