snakeskin boots on the fine red lacquer of that too-expensive coffee table  –  crossed at the ankle.  cigar smoke drifts lazily from both nostrils.  the room smells like burn.  vanilla.  aftershave.  he’s looking at his phone, like you’re  nothing  to him.

   “ excuse me – ”   the Crooked Man
    interrupts     –   “ shut the  fuck up
    for a second,  aight?  i’m watching
                 215 Hilarious Cat Fails. ”