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Cigarettes kill, but they also entertain. The tradeoff is often worthwhile.

Waiting for my Greyhound in ultra-sketchy downtown Kitchener, I was approached by an ugly little imp of a man with grimy yellow fingers. "Can I have a smoke?" Feeling upbeat, I hand one over. Instantly: "Can I have another one?" Well, fuck no you can't. You haven't even lit the one I gave you. "Can I have two dollars?" No! I explain to the fellow that you can only ask any given person for ONE thing, just one, to the great amusement of fellow public-transporters. Unphased, the imp wobbles back and forth, spittle flying from his lips, and regales me with tales of his first cigarette at the tender age of five. He hauls lovingly on cancer and, with great pride, explains that once he packed a pipe full of some gross chew-tobacco and the bowl somehow ended up in the toilet. Of course, he fished it out and lit it up. Smoking is the best thing in the world, and he can blow smoke-rings. He purses his cracked lips, tries and fails miserably. I tell him to get a new hobby and board the bus sideways.

In Toronto, I wait for my ride on the curb of Bay Street. Two tiny girls of fifteen or so are leaning nonchalantly against the wall. One calls me over: "Dude, smoke?" I hesitate, then relent. She eyes me up while her friend smiles widely, showing her braces. "Did you think I was gonna mug you or something?" I laugh: I weigh more than both of these teeners combined and tell them so. She smirks. "I'm packing, you know." She reaches into her jacket and pulls out two foot-long hunting knives and brandishes them fiercely before looking around suspiciously and returning them to their hiding spot.

Holy shit! "She's cut people before," her friend tells me. I nod warily. Getting stabbed by a little girl would potentially be the most embarrassing way to die of all time. They laugh, I smile. They're stranded in Toronto, no money to get back to Kitchener. I should've known - all the fucking crazies are somehow linked to K-Town. A threesome in a nearby alleyway is playfully suggested, but all I can think of are those knives (and STDs, statutory rape charges and EWWW! aren't far behind). I decline and head back to my curb while they mosey back into the terminal. "Thanks for the smoke dude!" she calls. "Thanks for not stabbing me," I reply dryly. A pause. "You're too cute to stab!" And the door swings shut.

People wonder why smoking persists in light of the terrible evidence against the cancer-stick, but the strange and bizarre experiences shared between aficionados of the disease are often too tempting to pass up.

Posted by Chris at 01:02 PM >> Commentations (4)