Bootleg cigarettes stick to my gumboot as I sludge through the thick black sand beach mud. I hate Mondays. Makes me regret getting a job. What's even worse Is I can't even smoke the darts I stepped on that are stuck to my boot, and I'm craving with deep need for a cancer stick at this very moment.

It's juicy watery cloud of sulphur poison, I live every moment of it. I can't stand to be away from it, almost like a dying phone call with a potential employer, you dart around trying to find it.

Funnily enough my employer, the one that got me this job, he hates smokes. I pretend I do too. He walks past me and commands me to scrape the apparent rubble off my boot. I do as he orders.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He walks on without a clue and I try salvage one for myself. But I can't. Even if I could it'd be pointless, no lighter.

So instead I stand there, shivering in the pure void of no nicotine. I've damn near forgotten it's warm embrace, it's motherly caress of things will be ok. It's a damn near binky. You know like a dumby. Fuckin handicapped is what I really am. God those withdrawals reek, and I can't let my employer know, he'll dispose of me on the spot for foul practise. Damn it sucks to be 40 in the 40s picking up rubbish in a tar pit.

More I think about it where'd that cigarette pack even come from? No clue, no idea, no compromise it's clear, no regards of where to from here, not one bit. So instead I carry on as I was. That's damn near me. A nic fiend after it was banned in 2033. Not a proud day, shops burned and robbed in loot. Cars tooting away and people selling packs out of boot. Quite scammy really. No light In the sky no more. Just smog from pollution. If I have to look into a grey sky of destruction each wakeful hour, at least let me smoke the pain away.