There was once a magical lighter. It granted the user any wish that they asked but it always granted what they truly wanted. You just had to light a cigarette with the lighter and once the cigarette was finished just right, your wish would be granted. However, if you didn't manage to finish the cigarette, your granted wish would be equivalent to the amount that you have smoked. Smoke beyond the right amount, and you get more than you wish for.
Man and woman from far and wide came to try the magical lighter. Held in a tiny home in the middle of the dessert by an old man, the old man would look at each person with a disapproving face, as if to warn them that they are attempting the most futile of acts. His face was wrinkled like the creases on a shirt fresh from the dryer, with white hair that flow wildly at the sides of his face, as if there was constantly wind blowing at him, even when the air was still. His eyes were bright and clear, as if a young man was hidden within the body. He spoke with a low strong bellowing voice whenever someone new would appear.
"Heed my warning. Don't let your greed take over you. This lighter is beyond your comprehension and to understand it, you would be willing to lay your life down. Everything comes with a price, nothing is free and all who tried have suffered. Heed my warning and leave this place at once."
No one would listen to him as they were blinded by the promises of riches, of love, of material things that humanity most desire. They would look at the old man with a scoff and pick up the lighter. Tethered to the side of a wooden table covered with purple velvet cloth, they would pull out their cigarette and light it.
Because of the properties of the lighter, the cigarette industry was booming with merchants selling cigarettes that have explicitly marked the supposedly finishing mark of a completed cigarette. Some cigarettes would even come with instructions on how much breath one has to take in order to complete the cigarette. Dependent on the length and width of the cigarette, this number varied wildly. Yet this hasn't stopped anyone from trying. Even if I don't complete the cigarette, what's there to lose, they thought. Even if it is just 5%, I still gain most of it. And that's enough for me.
But no one thought about the fact that if these cigarettes do work, why would these merchant be selling them in the first place. And so, they bought the cigarettes in packs. After all, if the first cigarette didn't work, why not try again until you manage to get it right?
Once, a man took out a cigarette marked with multiple lines.
"Smoke slowly," advised the merchant selling it, "Each line is where your cigarette should be after you finish taking a breath. Buy a pack and practice. Soon, you will get the hang of it and all that you desire will be yours!"
The man, born with a scar on his face that drove away anyone that even looked at him, practiced day and night, smoking 2 packs a day. He wished to be accepted for all his flaws, for people to see beyond the scar that disfigured him. And it drove him to buy from the merchant once he finished his cigarettes. Practicing with the veracity of a hot-blooded man who discovered the touch of a woman for the first time, it took him a year before he managed to smoke the cigarette according to the precise lines. And here he was, in front of the legendary lighter, ready to fulfil his wish to be accepted.
"Heed my warning," the old man started, "Don't let gre--"
"Yes yes," the man interrupted, waving at him impatiently, "we all know what you are going to say. I don't understand why you bother when it doesn't work."
"Young man," the old man continued, sighing a thousand year sigh, "then you know the consequences."
"Yes, and yet I'm here," he replied, "So beat it old man."
The man lit the cigarette with the lighter and started to smoke his precisely marked cigarette. Each breath he took was short and sharp, as if he was gulping down a glass of water to quench his dry throat. The cigarette burned precisely at the line and with a few more breathe, the cigarette reach the final line and was no more.
The man stood there, waiting.
"Do I have to say anything old man?"
"It's already done," replied the old man sombrely.
As he finished, so did the changes start. The man could feel his face changing. It's working, he thought, my wish is coming true. The features of his face became fluid, as if it was a kids puzzle where you had to put the eyes, nose and mouth in the right place. As his face swirled, his scar disappeared beneath the twisting blend of skin, flesh and blood. He felt as if someone was rubbing his face furiously with a cloth, as if to erase his scar. The man waited patiently for the changes to be done and soon the sensation stopped.
"Old man," he shouted impatiently, "grab me a mirror."
The old man looked at the man in horror and spoke softly. "There is no need for one," he said, "just touch your face."
The man touched his face and felt something squishy where his mouth should be. He felt a hole where his nose should be and where his eyes should be, a sharp protrusion that blew air towards his left. He moved his hands over his face and fell to the ground in shock at his fate.
It turned out that the cigarette that he smoked was precise but ended far too late. The changes in his face swirled and stopped far too late, resulting in the wrong placement of his eyes, nose and mouth. But it was too late for him and he screamed at the old man in agony.
The old man stood there, pitying the man and said, "many have tried but all have failed. You are welcome to try."
The man lunged at the old man, aiming for the throat. Yet because his sight was placed wrongly, he misjudged the flight and crashed into a pile of porcelain vase, breaking them in the process. One sliced his throat and he bleed out before he even realised what had happened.
The old man looked at the mess, took out a cigarette and lit it with the lighter. As the cigarette smoked, the old man wondered if this will never end.
As his cigarette burned the last of its ambers, the man, with his mangled face and quickly whitening body disappeared into the floor. The old man felt a crack in his back, as if his spine suddenly shortened and he started to breathe harder. The wish had taken away more of his mobility. A mere mortal would have died on the spot with his spine suddenly shorter.
Yet the old man was fine, if wheezing a little more than usual. For he was the only one in the world who had smoked the perfect cigarette.
And he had wished that he would be immortal.
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