Back in the seventies there was a woolen mill that some of us worked in. One day, this guy is loading rags on a conveyor that leads to these two big jaw-like gears, and as he leans over, his pack of Marlboros falls out of his pocket and is on its way into the gears. He grabs for the cigs...and the machine takes his arm all the way up to the shoulder. They had a hell of a time getting him out of there. He lost his arm for a pack of smokes. What a maroon.
Last time I saw him, he was with some old toothless gal. He sent me and a friend down to get some beer...and when we came back, the old gal had a smile on her face, and the guy was half-dressed...his wooden arm with the hook claw was resting on a chair across the room. They were both smoking Marlboros. He had enough money now to buy all the Marlboros he wanted until he died. It was quite obvious too, that he sent us for beer so he could screw that old gal on the sofa. We didn't care who he screwed or when. He had enough money now to buy enough beer to keep us all drunk for a long, long time.