the smuggler’s bible

Roscoe

Roscoe gets dragged out on Friday night to some kind of Halloween pop-up bar downtown. Everybody dresses like a zombie and the drinks are really terrible. The floor, he notices, is kind of sticky. Like, more than could possibly be accidental.

“I dunno,” Roscoe says, holding his glass up to the light and swirling the liquid around. “Seems … viscous.”

Lily shuffles uncomfortably back and forth. “What if we gave it another fifteen minutes? Maybe it gets better.”

“Fine,” Roscoe says, “But I don’t care how cool it turns out—if they’re still playing the monster mash, I’m out of here.”