the smuggler’s bible

Rostislav

Rostislav sits cross-legged with the shattered remains of the device splayed before him. He starts the chant deep down in his chest and clears his mind, slips easily into the sacred trance of his order.

“MACBOOK,” he cries suddenly, “ARISE AND NAME TO ME YOUR WOES. I COMPEL YOU TO ANSWER.”

A faintly luminescent apple rises from the wreckage and spins slowly a few inches off the ground.

“Fine,” it says, its voice like a whirring fan. “I got smashed.”

“FOR WHAT REASON?”

The apple sighs. “Your email was kinda slow.”

“DAMN STRAIGHT,” Rostislav says. “AND I TOTALLY WARNED YOU.”