Smoking cigarettes is the coward's way out of an oral fixation
It's a late night. I'm a private eye, packing a revolver and a second revolver, 'cause that's what you need in the rough-and-tumble streets of North Oakland. I wear a wire and a long coat, but there's one thing you'll never catch me with, and that's a cigarette drooping from my lip.
It may seem sexy, slinking around the city's underground with an orange-tipped cig and a mean look, but the health impacts are no joke. Throat cancer would put me out of more than one business, and I can't go hacking and coughing sitting behind a painting with eyes that seem to follow one man in particular. That's just not how I operate.
I can admit to having an oral fixation or two. Nothin' a little bourbon doesn't sort out on the cold nights when I'm on the prowl for a case. But when that doesn't cut it, you'll never catch me scrounging for a light. I get my fix like a real man. I'm quick and proper about it, and I swallow.