by Chad Sullivan abhijeet gourav I traded my soul for a cigarette. I have a written receipt of the transaction: Here you go motherfucker, one soul, it reads. It’s signed and dated, with a witness’s initials — D.W. I was twenty. We were in the kitchenette of D.W.’s seventh-floor apartment. There were bare white walls and freezer waffles on the counter. Jibiddy, the first alcoholic I knew, stood by, red-faced, laughing. Everyone was laughing. I was laughing. * * * Topher took g