No. Not smoky; foggy. Thick, like soup or dirty water, if there was ever such a thing as tobacco soup or if you used your bathtub as an ashtray. Jesus Christ, it's smoky here. Like someone set a goddamn arsonist loose in a cigarette factory. Do they make cigarettes in factories?

Heh. I'm dizzy.

My shoulders are stiff. I try and stretch my hands out upward, but this only makes them stiffer. Turns out my hands are tied underneath the chair. Kicking, or trying to, it seems my feet are as well. My nose hurts like a bitch and something got my fur in knots just below my nose; I guess blood. Oh God damn, this stuff is a bitch to get out. Could be worse: at least the chair is comfortable. Anyway, it's about now I notice my eyes are closed. So I open them. Naturally. In front of me is a desk, or, to the bulldog behind it and every other one of his goons in the room, in front of the boss's desk is a dirty-looking mouse with a torn shirt and no hat. Or coat. Damn it, where did they put those?

The boss guy takes a long drag from his cigar and folds his hands in front of me. He's fat, he has a fat jacket and fat hands and fat rings on his fat fingers, and it's a face only his mother could love. Funny. With all the rings, they look like cigars.