About nine seconds later, a blond stewardess rushed over to our row and said, “Sir, you can’t smoke on this plane. Or any plane.” “I don’t smoke,” he explained, the cigarette dancing in his mouth as he spoke. “But – ” “It’s a metaphor,” I explained. “He puts the killing thing in his mouth but doesn’t give it the power to kill him.” The stewardess was flummoxed for only a moment. “Well, that metaphor is prohibited on today’s flight,” she said. Gus nodded and rejoined the cigarette to its pack.