“Got a fag mate?”
The chav sneered at my lack of charitable assent.
“Got 20p for the phone then?”
His eyes fill with the further unfairness of life. He jitters in his skin, hands firmly in his thin coat pockets. Agitation spurs him on.
“No need for that is there?” he barks at my stoic face.
Not to exacerbate the situation, and purely out of need, I produce a fully formed cigarette from my baccy pouch and light its delightful end. The excess smoke engulfs the Eastmoorlian creature and he splutters with pretend distress.
“All right, mate. No need to rub it in, innit.”
“You can’t rub smoke in,” I say, informatively.
His lack of words portrays his disbelief at this cold hearted fag bearer whose wanton malice makes his bitterness spurt fountains of bile within his Gregg’s filled stomach.
“Please mate, just one, eh?”
I pull another freshly rolled cig from my pocket and place it in his grubby hands.
“Make sure you breathe it in nice and deep,” I say, as I generously offer a flame to spark his desire. And he follows my instruction, nice and deep, into his squishy lungs, into his corrupted blood, into his body and soul.
I think he’s trying to thank me, but the melting flesh from his throat must be catching the words.
He coughs. Then hacks.
The red stuff falls from his mouth. He tries to speak, something to do with “What the f…” But he coughs again. The pool of bloody lung cajoles around his ragged trainers.
“Why don’t you take another drag?” I say.
I think he saw my satisfied smirk as I left, framed by the concrete pavement and chunks of his own innards.