Flash Fiction: "Zeke"

They always said smoking would kill Zeke. They were right. Zeke and I were the only two guys at the office who did smoke, but Zeke, boy Zeke was hooked. 3 packs a day, rain or shine. He was the politest guy possible about it. Only smoked on his breaks, had this little alcove out around back. Kept him sheltered from the wind and sleet. I’d join him out there for my one or two a day, but Zeke was a machine. Every day, break times and lunch, he’d rush out there like a madman, and suck down as many as he could. Breaks were the worst. He had 10 minutes to get as much smoking done as possible before getting back. It was like watching a vacuum cleaner. Light and suck. His lips like a seal around the filter. I swear to God I once saw him go through an entire smoke in one long drag. Then, as fast as you could blink, another was in his mouth, and he was dragging it as hard as he could. It could be raining, snowing, or the end of times and the sky turned red. But as soon as it was break, he’d be out there sucking down the cancer sticks with all the might of his lungs. And so, like any other day, afternoon break came round, and he was off. He didn’t come back. We all figured he might have nipped round the corner to pick up another packet, but after half an hour something seemed wrong. The coroner found an almost complete cigarette lodged in his throat. I quit the next day.