the smuggler’s bible

Sundry

Sundry jumps the fence and sprints through the culvert, hunched up like a weasel. He pauses to gasp. Just for a moment—whoever trained those dogs knew their fuckin’ shit.

He hits the slope and digs a furrow sliding down on his ass, clutching at weeds in a frantic braking maneuver that spills him spread-eagled into the parking lot behind Crockett’s Chili Spigot.

The air is hazy with spiced vapor. Sundry sneezes. His eyes tear up as he crawls on his belly. Through the door, he can hear the waitress bawling out specials.

“Take a whiff,” Sundry says, “you fuckin’ mutts.”