Heading downstairs to make breakfast before work, you smell smoke coming from the kitchen. Panicking, you rush in to see if something is on fire, and stop dead in your tracks–there, sitting on the counter in nothing more than a jockstrap, is a hairy man smoking a cigar, belching massive amounts of smoke into the room. 

You try and ask him what he’s doing there, but the smoke is making you light headed, and you realize that his plumes are…seeking you out. Crossing the room and drilling themselves down into your lungs, and the smoke is so hot, it burns, and it’s only getting worse.

The stranger stands up and walks over to you, “Submit to the smoke dad, just give in, or it’ll kill you.”

Dad? This hairy, roughneck is your son? The heat is only getting worse, and you realize then that it’s because you’re refusing to exhale. If you keep it in, you know it’ll burn you alive, and so you breathe out, and too late realize that with the breath has gone your will, and maybe even your soul.

Eyes empty, your son places a second cigar in your mouth, and it lights up immediately. You suck in the smoke, eager for anything to fill the void you’ve exhaled, your body slowly changing as you grind your face into your son’s crotch, one more slave to the demonic humidor your son discovered at a curio shop the day before.

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