Mafia Boss' smoke

The first sunrays push through the curtains. A man sits on a sofa, in an elegant room, albeit a gloomy one. He rolls slowly a glass with some whiskey still left on the bottom in his hand and stares at a title in the newspaper. A pistol rests on the table as well.

Being a mafia boss is no easy job. You have to look around the corner every once in a while to make sure no one is out to get you. Except everyone is out to get you. The cops, rival gangs, your own wife. All that stress can really get to one’s head. He takes a drag off his cigar.

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's no smoking in the store." Tony almost chokes when he hears that. "What kind of cigar shop don't let a guy smoke his stogie right after buying it? I'd like to talk to the manager," he says. "I'm the manager," claims a silky, sultry voice behind him.

Tony saw the manager and completely forgot what he was angry about. She was a truly striking woman. “There’s a family with an asthmatic child living right upstairs, so we keep the shop smoke free”, she said. “But there’s a lovely park across the street?”

“Oh alright then,” Tony walked out the door and lit a cigarette. There is something to be said about how one smokes in a park, which is supposed to be a place for fresh air. This irony was lost on him, however. After taking a long drag he heard a voice. “Hey Tony, get over here!”

He didn't need to look, the voice was instantly recognisable. Casting the newly-lit cigarette to the ground Tony broke immediately into a full sprint in the opposite direction, chin up and chest out leaping over flowerbeds he ran through the park gates never to be heard of again.