All Fagged Up

Tobacco drieth the brain, dimmeth the sight, vitiateth the smell, hurteth the stomach, destroyeth the concoction, disturbeth the humors and spirits, corrupteth the breath, induceth a trembling of the limbs, exsiccateth the windpipe, lungs, and liver, annoyeth the milt, scorcheth the heart, and causeth the blood to be adjusted. ~Tobias Venner

“Huff and puff! Come out now or I’ll blow down your house!” threatens the wolf. He may huff and he may puff but he couldn’t even shake the little pig’s sturdy brick house. “Huff and puff! I’ll smoke you out with tobacco smoke!” threatens the wolf again. He then lights a fat stub of fag and sends it down the chimney…

Hey, wait a minute… That’s not what mom told me when I was a kid!

Okay, that was just another version of the story in which, unfortunately, I am the pitiful little pig who will eventually end up in Mr Big Bad Wolf’s tummy or suffocating in nicotine, carbon monoxide, tar and a cocktail of other potent carcinogens. And that wolf is none other than my friendly neighbour, one of the greatest contributors to air pollution on earth.

Mr Puffer is an old man living on the groundfloor of the apartment. Having said that he is a heavy smoker, one may half-expect his house to stink with tobacco smell. But, no, it isn’t. Every time there is the need to satisfy his crave for filthy nicotine, Mr Puffer would leave the house to get a puff or two. My guess is, Mrs Puffer (a non-puffer) is the culprit who sends the chain smoker out of the house for his regular dosage of nicotine.

I shouldn’t have qualms about that. Air is free and Mr Puffer has his very right to burn tobacco with his share of air…

But, hey, wait a minute… That means I have my very right to fight for clean air, don’t I?

So begins the war between the puffer and the non-puffer…

You see, I live in the first floor, with my room directly above Mr Puffer‘s favourite spot. Every afternoon, when I am in the midst of completing my homework half-asleep, I will be aroused by the creaking sound of Mr Puff’s opening grille door. (Nope, he never oils it.) I’ve observed that his cravings for nicotine always comes at the exact time, never a minute too early or late. I suppose, after being a puffer for a couple of decades, his biological clock has somehow tuned itself so precisely to the daily routine.

Now, Mr Puffer comes out his abode. The shuffling sounds of his sandals and the irritating sound of him clearing his throat never fail to signal that. This is when I will immediately rush to shut the windows of my room forceful enough for Mr Puffer down there to notice.

Phew! Just in time!

Mr Puffer lights up a fag and gleefully puffs away, while I am held hostage in my sealed-up room upstairs. Luckily, a mere three minutes is all it takes for the fag to burn up and relieve Mr Puffer of his addiction. He would then return to his abode, leaving behind a new stub of fag in the clogged-up drain, and not to say, (eew!) some fresh phlegm. Digusting!

More often than not, drowsiness sets in during the afternoon. Struggling against it while doing homework nonetheless leaves me with the IQ level of that of a potato. But before taking a nap, I’ll have to shut the windows. Hey, sleeping amid the prospect of inhaling gene-altering carcinogens and sticky tar is not a pleasant feeling at all.

There have been instances where fag puffers file lawsuits against tobacco companies in the hope of getting a considerable sum of retirement fund; a fortiori, I can also demand Mr Puffer for a million-dollar compensation for robbing me of fresh air. But, I doubt that he can pay up after burning away his penchant together with a packet of fags a day. Then again, lying on the hospital bed with a million dollar in the bank account and a cancerous growth in the lungs isn’t such a good idea at all. One of these days, I’ve got to give Mr Puffer a piece of my mind.

In the meantime, I need to have the chimney sealed up.

And, Mr Puffer, expect a letter from my lawyer soon.