The die hard smoker’s yellowed hands curl to grip the filter, and with the confidence of years of defying statistical probability he has a long pull. The amines mixed in with the tobacco to allow the nicotine to enter his lungs with maximum efficiency crackle imperceptibly in the quiet of the net curtained living room. Thirty a day for the past seventy years. They have stopped telling him to give up now, realizing that they might as well try to tell him to give up breathing as smoking. To tell the truth the die hard smoker rather suspects that the doctors are impressed by how much he has smoked and how long he has lasted. They derive a certain obscure pleasure from the way his kevlar physiology has resisted the relentless assault of the Bensons and even joke that he should win some kind of award for heroic DNA repair in the face of unbelievable odds.

He knows he is ill though, he feels the tightness on one side of his chest as the diseased lung tissue pushes the healthy remainder out of place. The blood on his handkerchief too, is hard to ignore. No one has given a name to the lump- it has not been diagnosed and the die hard smoker wants to keep it that way. Diagnosis leads to treatment, treatment leads to hospital, hospital leads to death. Why not just take the escalator and skip to level four? Less trouble for everyone, and besides, you can’t smoke in hospital.

When the doctor comes to call the die hard smoker sees the concern on his face and he enjoys ignoring it. He is defiantly chipper, to admit defeat and cave in to medicine at this stage would really dent his pride. Much better to stick to his guns: he will grant him an audience and then light a fag as the door slams shut behind. That’s independence. When Charon himself comes to ferry him across the River Styx, the die hard smoker knows what he’s going to do: offer him B and H in lieu of a coin.