Anyone who’s a real smoker knows what’s going on here. Maybe he’s at a stressful work event. Maybe he’s at a family gathering. Regardless, it’s clear that he’s having to placate the anti’s in his life as his nicotine levels drop to dangerously low levels. He’s becoming snippy with those around him. His chest tightens and he can hear his heart pounding behind his ears. There’s only one thing that can set the situation right. He excuses himself, makes sure the coast is clear, and l, hands shaking with anticipation, pulls one of those cylinders of joy from its red carton and introduces the fire. The first drag sends his eyes rolling backwards as the nicotine rushes through his body, tar depositing in his black lungs, feeding them what they demand. Immediately another drag, followed by another. He pulls hard, sucking every milogram of tar and nicotine deep down. A double pump at the end, where the tar has concentrated toward the filter, to tide him over for now. He rejoins the event fortified with tar and nic. He’s all good and can handle situation. But how long will he last until his addiction pulls him back? Not long, I recon.
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