Smoking has become a habit of Fiddleford's. A calming one despite it's con's. And not so much for effect of which has dulled his sensory receptors overtime, but the repetitive ritual that comes with it. Every inhale and exhale completely underneath his control. Underneath his control... That's exactly right — He can stop if he so wishes to, Fiddleford reminds himself. He's certainly not an addict developed an aching throb in his loins for a ciggy whenever wage's get too heavy..

—You okay, Fidds?— A voice strikes him out of his line of thought, catching smoke in the back of his throat. Stanley.

—Arck! Yeah, it's nofhin', just needed ta... let some steam off... and it's not like I do tis' often. Don't ya' worry I'll get in soon...— Hell, he's on a rambling streak once more, a pile of nerves, this one.

Instead of getting the hint, Stanley joins Fiddleford on the porch, helping himself to a cigarette. They smoke in quiet. Ugh, great! So not only does Fiddleford have to deal with the new revelation of events, Stanford's off to God knows where and he's stuck, attached to the hip with this doofus. It's obvious to all Fiddleford's only using him to get over Ford. Could be categorized as bad... So now that Stanley's feeding into his delusions, satisfying every desire that craved some attention, this was treading straight into still water. Perhaps he should leave and—

—Fidds!— Once again Stanley's the one to grab his attention back to planet earth, with genuine worry that made Fiddleford's eyes cloud with tears. This is not Ford, but it is second to best, and somehow a lot more giving towards Fiddleford's mental stability.

Extra Stan...