"Torch the place, or leave it, doesn't matter," Cutter said. The urge was more than he could stand and he started searching behind the bar for a pack of smokes. There was no way that there wasn't one. Lost and found maybe? No, just some cheap fake Oakleys, a busted cellphone, some horrid keychains, some outta gas lighters, the kind of debris that you would expect in a hick joint like this. He kept looking, peanuts check, pretzels check, there was even a repellent jar of pickled eggs. Guess that was for special occasions. He opened some of the drawers, his movements slowing becoming frantic, search and destroy baby. He opened a drawer near the cash register and heaved a sigh of relief. It was a sad bar that didnt sell smokes. His hand hovered over the pack of Cheap-O 100s, but then he picked up the familiar red and white pack. $6 according to the label. Frak em, he pulled one, tapped it twice against his arm and opened it.
Back in Iraq he had smoked, and when he came back, that was one of the things that the shrinks said had to go. But he had long since noticed that smoking was under attack, and smokers with it. to hell with all of them. He lit up and took the first drag he had had in 7, or was it 8 years.
"I don't want to die in a bar, my truck isn't going anywhere. So, I grab my spare magazines and phone charger and then we can get out of here," he said. Cutter headed out the door to his truck.
