the smuggler’s bible

100-word stories every wednesday and friday. also published at diminished.cc.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,110 | Michi

ALCHEMY LABORATORY

Beakers, flasks and stoppered jars line creaky shelves. There's equipment on the workbench beside a book. It smells crazy in here.

Exits TRAPDOOR.

>look book

Okay, reading rainbow. The book is is open to a recipe for invisibility potion.

>look equipment

There's a small brazier and an, uhm, alembic.

>look alembic

I mean, I think that's what it is. I'm pretty sure. There's some mixture residue left inside.

>drink mixture

Listen, that could be anything.

>drink mixture

You vanish completely. Hmm, really more of a disappearing potion. Oh well, that's wizards for you.

You have died. Restart? (y/n)

a story concerning Michi.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,109 | Iseult

"This is the spot."

"The very same. You are sensitive in these matters."

It was a cheat. Iseult feels nothing about the broad, dark table (positioned specifically so the occupants might easily be observed indulging themselves at baffling expense) except a dismal, proletarian instinct about the sort of person who would reserve it. In fact, there's a slim crucifix wedged in among the tapered candles.

"The gentleman has dined here for years," the head waiter says proudly. "And often with very charming company."

"His wife?"

"Aha," the man says slyly. "Yes, I suppose it was known to happen on occasion."

a story concerning Iseult.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,108 | Basile the Heron

The mayor is furious. Basile founders in the sea of her wrath, cringing appropriately, all the time with a seasoned eye trained on the horizon, alert for any break in the weather.

"And he was a volunteer for god's sake."

Sensing a subtle note of conclusion, he promptly attempts a sortie. "Courageous, of course, but obviously lacking substantially in deftness and expertise. Thus, the poor fellow is ultimately culapable for his own grisly demise."

"While you, amazingly, suffered no misfortune."

"Madame, be reasonable," Basile says. "I departed with all swiftness while he was being devoured. The situation was extremely dangerous."

a story concerning Basile the Heron.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,107 | Eiko

They are ushered smoothly upward through several escalating strata of accomodation. The home station of a major concern is regulated by cynical ambition arrested just at the edge of excess by mutual advantage. Here, the surface tension rests in delicate equilibrium. Their forged identification causes not a single spreading ripple.

Chrysoprase and Chalcedony begin immediately to dismantle their quarters in search of surveillance devices.

"Why would they bother," Eiko says, "unless they already suspect something?"

"They're convinced. The graspers are spying on each other." Chalcedony, grinning, produces a tiny sliver of circuitry from beneath a chair. "We're just background noise."

a story concerning Eiko.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,106 | Lancelot

You chop the other guy basically in half, then let him go because you're a gentleman. That's it. Trial over. Obviously somebody else poisoned Patrise.

Everyone is laughing and seems happy to see you. Even her. Even though she freaked out and banished you in the first place. The queen is happy crying. Probably everying has been reevaluated in light of the murder accusation.

She was there once, remember, when you needed her, bringing the sword you thought you'd lost. God, there's always a sword. It seems like such a little thing, now. But you promised. Don't forget. You promised.

a story concerning Camelot.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,105 | Lone

Lone tries the password he found taped behind the monitor. It's so easy he's worried it might be a trap, like a bomb to catch hackers. But the security terminal unlocks and starts dumping files onto the screen.

What he really needs is a code for the keypad in the lab. Instead it's somebody's diary. Lone taps return a few times, then escape.

fever in subject—

Skip.

containment failure—

Skip.

every (repeat EVERY) internal organ—

Boring. Lone logs off. Easier to crack some lockers and rummage through shirt pockets. Yeah, sort of irreverent, but, hell, that's where people leave things.

a story concerning Lone.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,104 | Principium Hiemis

The world is gone, ruined like a cup of sorbet rolled through the gutter. The essence, after a fashion, remains, but subtracted of all pleasant qualities. Also, looking sort of squashed.

Principium Hiemies waits, watching the glow fade in the final, deepest fissures. There's no atmosphere. Once it gets cold, it will stay that way. He could crack it like an egg, but the husk serves as a monument. You need those (a few at least) to keep you honest about your record.

Ah, cruel, bright magma hardens. The work is etching tombstones, the cemetery nothing but a trophy case.

a story concerning Principium Hiemis.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,103 | Dryope

The thing about goddesses is they're fucking crazy for disguises. Anything at all in the world conceivably could be the magic-drenched Super Sentai transformation of divinity incognito. Well, it could be anything. Some stuff is sort of more likely. Flowers are a good bet.

Dryope barely clocks the blood dripping from the stems of the purple verbenas she picked before the retaliatory curse catches her in a flying backbreaker windmill chokeslam.

"How the hell," she says, herself rapidly morphing into a gnarled lotus, "could I possibly have known?"

You couldn't. You never can. So just watch your shit, all right?

a story concerning the Greeks.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,102 | Loup Roger

Loup Roger calls in every favor. He hangs on doggedly, leaning on any shred of advantage, ancient, modern or invented, until it splits, then tells lies, hissing like a striped adder, to wring anything worth having out of old contacts. He spent his career gathering the scraps. Time, now, to light a few matches.

"This is it," they say. "Finished and quit of you henceforth."

Quite possibly. But imagine Roger's position. The long, steep slide ahead. Oh, yes, you'd be snatching madly at gnarled scrub and root on your way past, too.

Why give up? Why? Just because you're beat?

a story concerning Lowen.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,101 | Thornquist

Thornquist steps carefully, gliding like silk, preferring vantages submerged in darkness. He is alert, always, to his footing. Ankles have been turned on sillier things than an a cracked sherry flask.

The beast is ahead, and not far, hunting and itself hunted, just out of sight. A further complication: Thornquist has become aware of a third dancer in the waltz, clumsier than his partners, tripping along in the rear. Perhaps, he dares hope, the beast's master.

So they go, tense as the strangler's wire, eyes straining for the faintest glimmer of advantage. One shallow spark. A diamond on black velvet.

a story concerning Ossian Thornquist.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,100 | Mister Mothman

The money moves in unpredictable ways. It swirls from place to place, from investment to account via complex financial instruments. Save the headache. Meet it wherever it's going. Better yet, open your wallet and catch the winning lottery ticket fluttering in on the midnight breeze. Hope you know where to stand.

No. Lose sight of it for a second and it's gone forever. You have to make a deposit. Stick it out, ride the dollar the entire winding distance.

Mister Mothman dials his client. "Let's talk expenses," he says, cool and delicate. "The figure I quoted originally was somewhat deficient."

a story concerning Mister Mothman.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,099 | Iseult

Her new client complains of nerves exhausted by near-death. Falls. Fires. Swerving traffic. Every time, Sixte sees it coming in his dreams.

Iseult's skeptical of the premonitory angle. The human brain doesn't need a haunting to foster disquietude. Plus, the manifestations have been private. Except the first. At dinner, in front of god, the waiters and everybody, a butcher's knife floated out of the kitchen and embedded itself in Sixte's table. He blames his wife—lovely, mocking and dead these three months.

Iseult peels out, headed for the restaurant. When you're not sure, she thinks, go where the ghosts are.

a story concering Iseult.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,098 | Vortigern

The children remain asleep, peaceful, dreaming. Valuable lessons were learned in the past. They are nourished and unharmed (but for one pinprick, and this never felt) because the rules indicate that this is correct. Easier for all concerned not to have involved them in the first place, but there was no real hope of Gisela choosing to return of her own accord. Otherwise everything might have been resolved years ago.

Perhaps this way is better. Vortigern adjusts the drape of a tablecloth and sets down a tray of cakes. Long absence, after all, merely fortifies the sweet wine of reunion.

a story concerning Gisela.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,097 | Basile the Heron

"Hold the light higher. Yes. Good." Basile peers at the cavemouth. "The hobthrush, generally, is not a fastidious creature. Its habitation tends toward squalor. This specimen is either a particularly tidy outlier or has not long been in residence."

"Very astute."

"Notice, also, the—please, the light. Thank you. Notice the scratches. Here and here, where the flank spines rub. Enormous. Truly gargantuan. Proceed when ready."

"Myself, sir?"

"Certainly. Such is your duty. The lantern must go ahead or my swordplay will suffer." Basile cuts at the air experimentally. "Now, let us begin. And try not to look so sullen."

a story concerning Basile the Heron.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,096 | Mador

The trial is taking a weird turn. Mador has a few fractions of a second's warning as his lance breaks into, just ballparking, about a million and a half pieces, detonating with a sound like a church pew getting jumped on by an elephant. The cloud of shrapnel races away in slow motion to orbit the moon.

Oh, he realizes. I'm getting my ass kicked.

Then there's a pinpoint surge of pressure at the front of his shield and he, his horse and his (suddenly somewhat weaker) convictions regarding the queen's guilt are picked up and tumbled in the dirt.

a story concerning Camelot.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,095 | White Ratchet

White Ratchet twists to follow the angle of a small spotlight jutting through the close heat of the engine compartment. Entry here, and then… He pokes the end of his forefinger through the crumpled edge of a matching hole. Yes, exit there. He wipes his hands on a rag and levers himself up and out onto the broad hood of the crawler.

"A shot perforated one of the conduits," he says. "Not scrapped, but the whole line boiled off."

"Not scrapped isn't exactly in good working order. Think it'll drive?"

"Well, it had better." White Ratchet shrugs. "Get the tape."

a story concerning White Ratchet.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,094 | Iseult

The penthouse is bright and stylish with an open design. Curtains flutter. Iseult follows the breeze past a drink cart and a low table carrying on gamely under an overflowing ashtray and a crowd of prescription bottles to the terrace. The man at the rail turns.

"You're the exorcist."

"That word carries some baggage," Iseult says, "but sure. That's me. Judging by your living room, you must be the guy who hasn't slept in three days."

"Four. I have very bad dreams."

"And one last gamble."

"Almost the last. The modern medically induced coma, I am informed, is exceptionally peaceful."

a story concerning Iseult.