the smuggler’s bible

Mohan

“It looks sort of like a candy cane.”

“Because of the hook, you mean?”

“And the stripes.”

“Okay, but candy canes are red.”

“No. Not all of them.”

Mohan sets down his wrench and steps away from the device. He takes a long look into his manager’s eyes, senses—just for a moment—the lengths to which this man is willing to go, the shape this argument might take and the gulf of time and effort necessary to reach an armistice. Victory impossible. Every scrap of energy consumed by nonsense.

“We’ll tweak the paint,” he says, surrending entirely.

“Good man.”