Never Ending Lighter of Diabetes

One negative externality of Australia's tobacco excise, particularly with today's cost of living, is increased smuggling of cheap overseas cigarettes. According to your uncle who spends too much time online, Australian cigarettes contain another chemical. This chemical snuffs out darts thrown from car window, an adaptation suited to Australia's proclivity for bushfires. Foreign cigarettes do not share this property.

So Yvette finds a butt bin, screwed into veranda pylon, smoking enthusiastically on its own. This is her shopping centre and Yvette its cleaner, so she gets to work. The butt bin is tough to open after years of the public's scabbing. Yvette grabs a wet floor sign and the closest 5L jug of water, which are stashed everywhere for mopping.

Yvette pours water down the cigarette sized holes. By doing so, she defeats the Zhǒngzú zhǔyì de, a stowaway Chinese fire demon. It drops the usual loot of unsalvageable tobacco and dully gross smell. This demon, however, was Legendary, had a star next to name above health bar, so it also drops a Zippo lighter.

Yvette dons, equips, gloves before picking up lighter. She uses an Identification Scroll or, rather, a single use Identification App on her phone. Turns out that the lighter is Never Ending, fluid and flint, but also inflicts diabetes on whoever uses it. Yvette drops the lighter into a sandwich bag, just to be sure.

Yvette has plenty of lighters and does not want diabetes, so she needs a buyer. A customer with that scarce resource known as disposable income. But magic lighters, cursed or not, cannot be sold for US or Singaporean dollars. Nor can anyone dispose CatScript (₵$), Yvette's crypto of choice, because it cannot be held.

Someone will need to barter. That first potential someone is Fika, smoking a joint in graffiti-free family toilet. Fika had not locked the door and, green letters saying 'vacant', Yvettes barges in.

'Wait. Hold on.' Fika is three quarters done. 'You don't get it. This. This weed. You smoke a joint of it, just one, you gain Plus Four Percent Mathematical Abilities, rest of your life.'

'Do I look fifteen?'

Fika drags down to roach: 'Uh. Late twenties?'

'Well played. I see you're a smoker.' Yvette pokes window open. 'Smokers need lighters and I have a really good one. It never runs out and gives you diabetes. Do you have another of those joints to trade?'

'Wait a sec.' Last puff on roach and Fika calculates odds with plus-four-percent mathematical ability: 'That's fucked.'

Yvette points at sink: 'How so?'

'If I'm smoking with other people. Who smoke. Also. Lighters always get exchanged, unintentional. Someone is certain to get diabetes.'

No Deal. And not in the sense where you get a fourth 'No Deal' on those 'Deal or No Deal' scratchies. Where you have three scratches to learn if you have won $10, $50 or $5000. Because that is fucking exhilarating.

Yvette goes to commiserate at 'Dirt', the underground bar for cleaners, with a BYO Red Knot Cabernet Shiraz Merlot. The wine is mid and so is the music but everyone is dancing and slipping on the grimy floor.  Encircled by cross-legged sanitation experts, the Cabernet Shiraz Merlot scatters its dregs when spun clockwise. Nobody gives a shit about polka-dot stains on their work pants.

The bottle slows before stopping to point neck at Luke. He is already leaning forward, right arm propping him up and left reaching for her shoulder. He is at least ten years younger than her and tastes deeply of regret, waste, cigarettes.

They are both exhausted when dawn is fully underway. They are both in bed but know that they will not fall asleep. No hangovers, both hydrating between fucks. Well, there is home shit to do and Yvette swings legs off bed.

'I need to poop.'

He throws on a dressing gown: 'I forgot to buy toilet paper.'

So he fetches a Mein Kampf from the his bookshelf. She follows him and stops the peruse the spines of Shakespeare, Thompson and Dahl. He stops to peruse her body. Not that he can get another boner without getting into some weird shit, but he landed that. Repeatedly. Lotus position is his fave so far.

Her fingers trail up bookshelf and find Gustav Odenkirk's Wine Journal (1993-1994). Luke places insulin pen on his belly and it clicks.

She asks: 'You looking to sell?'

Smirk: 'Did you sleep with me for stuff?’

'Maybe the third round. Or the fourth.' She pivots boobs towards him. 'I have a Lighter of Infinite Fuel and Diabetes. Figure you might want it - nobody will steal, lest they get what you already got.'

He is legitimately hurt and it is not just the needle's pinprick.  She sidles alongside him, a kiss on the cheek. They both recall where hands and thighs fell, last night. They both melt.

 

*And Luke will be able to transfer the curse onto something more valuable.