"Got a rolled-up cigarette hangin' out his mouth; he's a cowboy kid. Found a six-shooter gun in his dad's closet, in a box of fun things; I don't even know what, but he's comin' for you, yeah, he's comin' for you." ~Foster the People, "Pumped Up Kicks"
Fun Ghoul liked to smoke.
It was partly because he was addicted, yes, but he had allowed himself to be. With great effort, he probably could wean himself off his drug of choice, but he never saw any reason to do so. When the air was full of factory-made carcinogens already, and God-knows-what-else, a little more couldn't hurt.
He found it funny that BLI almost encouraged people to become addicts- if not to their pills, then to the overwhelming security provided by the ignorance they created- and here he was, observing the enemy's method of developing addiction even as he strengthened his own. While they looked far removed from one another- and as far as their ways of life were concerned, they were mostly exact opposites and thus, enemies- their lives were ultimately affected, to some extent, by dependence.
The Drac he was eyeing was aware of it, too, which was why he made no move to attack or otherwise disturb Fun Ghoul as the latter stood comfortably in his own little patch of desert, wearing his ridiculously flashy clothes, his discolored Frankenstein mask pulled in a decidedly cocky fashion to one side of his head, with a lit cigarette held loosely in his mouth.
Even with this similarity acknowledged to the point of a brief truce, Fun felt a marked distinction from his enemy, which lay in the reason for their addictions. The people of BLI fell or, more often, were pushed into certain habits, like taking an innocuous little pill every morning to make them feel good. They grew more accustomed to the things with each passing day, and soon enough, though they might not even realize it, it became nearly impossible to contemplate living without them, and such simple, barely noticeable routines became essential to their existence.
In contrast, Fun Ghoul had known exactly what he was getting into when he'd bought his first pack of smokes; he was fully aware, thanks to the media and all those long talks about peer pressure he'd received in school, of just how dangerous smoking was to your health and how getting addicted would ruin your life in any number of horrible ways, some of which included choking on tar in your lungs constantly before eventually dying of cancer alone (because no one liked to kiss smokers), and so on. He'd heard it all before, and was prepared to accept whatever consequences came of this choice. And he remained firm in his conviction that it was better to suffer from one thing willingly than to have someone else force something worse upon you. "Pick your poison," the saying went, and he had. It could hardly be called suffering, anyway.
Well, except for the whole "choking on tar" thing; that had turned out to be a pretty accurate description of the occasional, nasty coughing fits he experienced. But didn't everything in life involve some sort of sacrifice?
Fun had chosen this form of contamination for a number of reasons, chiefly individuality. He was no stranger to pop culture, and as such was familiar with the notion that smoking was "cool," the kind of thing a "rebellious" person would do. But he hadn't started because he was a wannabe, trying to act the part of what this new society thought a rebel should be: someone who was independent and utterly nonconformist, free from all manner of compulsions, brainwashed or otherwise. If anything, he was a smoker because such a dependency was the exact reason many people had conformed to BLI's regime, and to be an addict who was rebelling against a culture that promoted addiction really fucked with their heads.
Fun Ghoul faced his enemy as though taunting a bullet-less firing squad, surveying the Drac with tranquility streaked with a touch of irritation, as if to say, "What the hell are you doing, disturbing me while I'm trying to get things done? You're a pathetic idiot, and I'll put you in your place shortly, just as soon as my cigarette break's over."
While his opponent waited kindly for Fun Ghoul to finish feeding his addiction so they could do battle, Fun savored another reason he enjoyed smoking: the sensation. He loved the feeling of the smoke in his throat, the fact that something that looked like a harmless fog and smelled a little like mint could create that sharp burning, as though there was a stream of fire cutting into his lungs. He loved the familiar taste of tobacco, the way the cigarette fit into the curves in his lips, the delicate clicking of his lighter as it produced a small, fluttering flame. And the fact that he was accustomed to regularly inhaling toxins into his body was always thrilling. Smoking was an intoxicatingly confusing combination of comfort and risk, and Fun Ghoul relished it.
With a glance at the Drac, who was now adjusting his shirt collar, Fun registered the thought that, while a single opponent would be an easy kill as always, they were fond of calling for backup, and the arrival of six or seven Dracs out for his blood would put him in considerable peril. He took another drag on his cigarette, exhaling the acrid cloud through his nose this time. In a few moments he would toss the remnants of his delightfully dangerous addiction into the sand and use the myriad of weapons at his disposal to thoroughly kick the asses of all the Dracs who were stupid enough to try and stop him from being who he was.
But for now, Fun Ghoul was smoking, and that was all he cared about.