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Where There’s Smoke, There’s Ire

Casey worked in a stuffy office building.  She was slightly built and had no tolerance for the cold.  She so hated air conditioning that she preferred to swelter on the way home from work, even before her Chevy’s climate control stopped working.  After a tedious work day, Casey enjoyed the fresh air on the commute, finally able to shed the bulky sweater that was as much a part of her work costume as her tailored pants.  Free to enjoy sleeveless shirts and open windows, she inhaled deeply the fresh air lightly scented with lavender and lilies.  Her bliss was interrupted by the most putrid odor—cigarette smoke.  She loathed smokers.  How dare the chunky woman in the undersized car spread her stench to the unsuspecting?  So vile must it have been that the driver kept her pudgy hand out the window to avoid her own cancer cloud, flicking ashes without care.  Through narrowed eyes, Casey fantasized about slicing off the offender’s hand with a hatchet.  In her warped thinking, she would be doing the woman a favor.  It would be difficult to smoke one handed, reducing her health risks, and it would also address the woman’s weight issue.  One less hand to feed the pig, thought Casey.  Her daydream quickly ended when the driver flicked the butt into the street.  Fortunately for both parties, Casey turned at the next corner.  She resumed enjoying her fresh air while the smoker would continue to enjoy the use of both hands.

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