THE RIVERBANK
Down where the water turns dark and the reeds grow thick, a pack of fish drag themselves to the muddy edge every evening. They sit there with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, smoke curling up into the damp air. Nobody taught them. Nobody asked them to. They just do it.
The river stinks of tar and wet ash. The fish don't care. They've been doing this longer than anyone can remember — gathering in silence, flicking embers into the current, watching the sky go from gray to black. Some of them cough. None of them stop.
$SMOKFIH is for the ones who showed up at the riverbank and stayed. That's it. No pitch. No promise. Just a crowd of fish, a pile of cigarette butts, and the sound of water moving slow.