kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"BoxcarCigars.0"

words

The worst thing about boxcar cigars is the prick that sells them to me. He's a third-world reject that's done far, far too many third-world drugs to manage a store. Everything's the customer's fault, or if he's in a good mood, one of the children he uses--don't ask me how he gets around the child labor laws, but I presume he has to be moving more than the boxcar cigars. The insults he uses, even polyglottal, are absurd, and when he's really worked up spittle flies all over his merchandise. I make sure never to take from the top.

The nicest thing about boxcar cigars is the cedar case they come in. The smell of the tobacco emanates from the cedar--not from inside the case, but from the case itself; fresh from the store, it's been suffused with the sweet tang of hands that had moments before been rolling the sticky leaves, suffused with the rich smoke of deals lubricating its way out of its home country and into mine. As soon as I set it down in my apartment, I slide my hands along its contour and imagine the nicotine slowly transfering from the box's past into the present of my bloodstream.

It's a shame he insulted my wife. I told her he just talked a lot. That she had nothing to fear. It's a shame he assaulted my wife, pressing his thick, greasy hands against her taut, supple ass. Her knee in his nuts was enough to make him stop, but honor demands more. It's a damned shame, because I'll miss those boxcar cigars. I'll just have to remember the look on his face as I hold him and pull his tongue through his neck, and hope that that's enough.