George Turget inhaled a long drag of smoke before letting it out in spasms. He enjoyed doing this, it allowed him to be young again. He could picture himself in high school, sneaking in with a pack of cigarettes, convincing his friends that smoking was the sure stamp of “cool”. George laughed, irony had a way of slapping you in the face. His eyes flitted towards the engraved wooden plaque at the edge of his desk. Should he change it? Was it too soon? George reckoned he should. He was, after all, the one who was knee dip in horse s**t now. He should have been ecstatic, charged even, but he could not bring himself to celebrate, no matter how many calls he received from both his mistress and his wife. Was it strange that both women shared the same name and the same screaming tendencies? A sma
