The Lucky Strike Conspiracy
My cigarettes are out to get me. No joke. I can hear them whispering from deep inside the carton. Those little paper cylinders stuffed tight with dried flakes of tobacco have planned my demise. It's going to be slow. They have no intention of making this quick. No no no. Those little unfiltered bastards can't make it as simple as a bullet to the head. They plan on wasting me slowly. It's gonna take years.
Well, fuck 'em. Two can play that game. I'm gonna burn them all alive.