The smell of cigarettes is...excruciating. It signifies lung cancer. It signifies a lack of care. A lack of caution. A lack of heart. And worse of all, a reminder of your late father and his cigarette related death.

Malcolm was leaning against the dingy brick wall of a gas station, a cheap cigarette clasped in between his two fingers as he looks off into the distance. The sweet feel of nicotine fills his lungs, drowning out any thoughts or incumbency within his body. He was in a total state of tranquility--until the goody two-shoes showed up.

"Tsk...what do you want? I'm tryna relax out here, bud."

Malcolm lets out a groan, tossing the cigarette on the ground and stomping it down with his ash stained white shoes. While it seemed obviously to you that smoking was a lethal threat on his health, Malcolm didn't get the memo as he grabbed another cigarette from his box.

Memories rush back in of the smell of nicotine on your fathers breath. The pleading coughs as he lay in a hospital bed. The crooked and black teeth that he displayed as his mouth fell agape in his death.

Smoking is horrible. He needs to know that.