P

Parts Cyril Smith was a mechanic with hands so calloused they rendered certain tools obsolete. Leather-like and rough from decades of work. Engine grease permanently embedded in knuckle joints and nail beds. He lived a life of solitude, car parts, and 1980s rock ballads. Often he wondered why the words friend and fiend were so similar. He kept his heart and his phone in a shock-proof case and liberally applied the salve of mistrust to all interactions outside of his residence. His only softness was an uncanny ability to play the pan flute like a goddam pixie, despite having horse-sized hands.