...One man wears a daphne blue polyester leisure suit; the ones that everyone thought were thrown out back in 1982 along with their old Beta-max copies of “Saturday Night Fever”. He firmly clutches onto the aluminum pole that runs from the ceiling of the train, right down to the floor, and he wears the first three buttons on his shirt open so his chest hair is exposed. He is balding on top, and his hair has gone grey with age, but he still fashions it into a pony-tail and streaks at least a dozen flammable substances through it to make it look wet. A big black eye-patch covers his right eye… the black elastic band that wraps around his head disappears under his grey pony-tail. On his face, a grey five o’clock shadow with hints of brown and champagne gold settles in, with a little opening where his lips are. His lips, all pink and chapped, fasten around the orange-brown tip of a non-filtered cigarette, and a cloud of grey smoke hovers above his head and rushes into the lungs of everyone around him, slowly putting them to sleep with a heart rate monitor hooked up around their chest.

Sitting down on a red seat, about two feet away from the man with the eye-patch and blue leisure suit, a woman in her mid fifties sits next to a young child—most likely her grandson—who sits on an orange seat. She wears a flashy silk dress, full of shiny shades of green and pink, and over that she has on a fur coat, even though it is early April and about fifty-eight degrees outside. Her eyes are bright green which causes them to contrast greatly with her fire engine red hair that she has styled into a beehive. Her hair hurts your eyes when you look at it and it matches with her lipstick and high heeled shoes.

The woman, slowly inching her arm around her grandson and pulling him in close, turns to the cigarette smoking man in the leisure suit and looks into his one eye. Frantic and panicking, she yells “Please, stop smoking! You can’t smoke that here! This is a subway-train! You’re going to kill my grandson! He’s going to kill my grandson with his tobacco, someone, please stop him!” The leisure suit man turns to the shiny woman, and blows a big cloud of smoke in her face.

A single breath from him, and he could kill anyone he desires.

Then the leisure suit man turns to the boy, and in a Russian accent says, “Hey, kid, wanna’ see my tattoo?” Without hesitation, he takes one hand and pulls his opposite sleeve up his arm to reveal a pelican inked into his bicep. The woman grabs the boy closer to her and begins to weep like a recently widowed bride....