"He lurks in his lurkum cold under the roof"
Another true experience angry drunk for the collection. Once again, working late, I'd come down from the fourth floor of my prison to indulge in the worst of my petty vices when I was approached by this frightening youngster. He was tall and stooped in a baggy outfit, leering about stink-eyed like a hunching, oversized scarecrow wearing overlarge hessian sacks. He asked for a cigarette, I obliged him, and then he lingered, not able to say much due to being so shit-faced, occasionally giving the burning end of his dart a violent blow to keep it alight and generally being shifty.
He was...lurking; there was no better way to describe him. Any action he took had a sinister lurkality, a malefic lurkhood, an ominous lurkitude, a malevolent lurquation. Whilst lurking, he kept furtively looking at me, my pockets, and then to the sparse but ever present passers-by. He seemed to be waiting impatiently for a moment when no one else was about. This moment didn't come in the time it took me to finish my cancer stick, so I bid him good evening and went back upstairs.
To date, this has been my greatest motivation to quit smoking.