The little red cardboard box with its flip top cover dressed in plastic wrap and its silver lining that shields all the obsessions for satisfaction, is the perfect self indulgent treat the devil brings. Tap, tap, and tap it slaps as it raps on his wrist. “Oooo”, the tiny gold seal unravels smoothly off its oblong neck. An explosion of addictive aromatic sweetness rolls his eyes back as he sniffs in a deep breath. “Ahhh!” The psychological addiction caused by its high, lures his fingertips to reach inside. He pinches and pulls out a slender rolled stick; a calming medicinal need to heal his possessions of anxieties. The ignited gas danced on the match, usually successfully scoring its first contact. Puff, puff, just can’t have one. Two is a tease. Three, four is never enough. For thirty five years his wrinkled lips puckered and sucked the devils stick, the devil’s spew of nicotine beat him down to the core of the underground. Now my father is dead, resting in a big red box, a coincidence, I think not.