Addict

"Hey, mister, there's no smoking in here!" The young busboy shouted, pointing at a sign that featured a cigarette with a line drawn through it.

The long, thick man in an unbuttoned overcoat with upturned collars snorted in response. He slowly tapped the filter of his as yet unlit smoke while he regarded its features. Broncos. Broncos... So utterly American. They probably pictured some rugged, muscled, handsome man with 3 days of unshaven growth on a face overshadowed by a Stetson cowboy hat. If you smoke Broncos -- you'll be a cowboy. Nevermind that most of the cattle in this country was pumped out like cars from an assembly line and the only bronco 98% of the nation had ever seen was at a rodeo. And whatever fat cats produced those were probably publically anti-smoking...Such an unpopular thing these days.

Sending an arrogant look in the busboy's direction, the man in the overcoat lifted the rolled tobacco to his lips and held it there loosely for a moment. An overweight man with a fake Rolex looked up from his greasy plate of eggs and took in the scene with growing interest.

Using his left hand, the man pulled his hunter green derby tighter over his eyes, and with his right searched for the book of matches always in residence in his back pocket. He struck a match and the fat man gasped above the hiss of burning sulfer and clutched the edges of the bar. Just as he lifted the match to the waiting Bronco, a new patron opened a door and the kick of wind snuffed out the match.

Annoyed, the man in the overcoat glared at the new guy for a second before turning his attention back to the cylinder of Americana dangling from his lips. The busboy looked at him again and shrugged before scampering into the kitchen. The second match fell to the ground with his sloppy strike. Finally, he held his third match in slightly trembling fingers and touched the small flame to the edge of the white paper. A crackle followed by a hiss and a small thread of white smoke snaked its way to the ceiling. Pulling deeply, the man tried to let himself drift into what images the feel, taste, and the draw of the Bronco would bring. To his disappointment, instead of cowboys and the Old West and John Wayne, it left only a legacy of burning brush and rotting driftwood. He looked up to see a man in a blue jacket with a polished, gold nameplate that said: Manager.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."