The Fatal Irony of the Smoking Man

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He smoked a cigarette and wore a pin-striped suit when he went to visit his fiancée.

“Moneysocks,” he told her, “is raising prices.”

He was a compulsive smoker.

Zeta, his fiancée, frowned at him.

“That's one more reason to stop,” she told him back.

“Criminy Jickets, woman, it's not so bad for you.”

“You could contract lung cancer,” she nagged.

“Criminy Jickets.”


He smoked a cigar and wore pajama pants when he started hacking up his lungs.

“Criminy Jickets,” he said, “Criminy Jickets. I really am going to die.”

He went to the fridge and got some cold turkey.


He was feeling better already, even the week later. Zeta was planning to marry him, his life expectancy higher than ever.

It was lunch. Usually, he went to Moneysock's shop and bought a few packs of cigars and cigarettes. Today, he was going to buy a new suit free of the smoke-smell.


It was because he wasn't getting cigarettes that the car hit him.

“Criminy Jickets,” he said, as it crushed his cancerous chest, “Criminy Jickets, I really am going to die.”

Oh, the irony.





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