Run down shoplifter, contract emphysema

So apparently I am terribly, terribly sick, and only needed some rough exercise to find out. I chased a kid who stole a book from Weller's to the library today, and got my belt around his arm and tried to drag him back to the store.
This was not, in any way, happening.
After scuffling for a minute or two we stopped and stared at eachother, I heaving like a coke-addled rodent, he breathing a lil bit hard. There was no way I was manhandling this 6'3" kid back to the bookstore by myself. I had no cellphone to call the police. There were no pedestrians. I suppose had there been pedestrians, I would have looked like a crazyman out to procure fresh meat for my basement or somesuch, yanking the buckle of my belt into his wrist and pulling as if he were a donkey on a defile.
So we talked instead. His lip and my knuckle bled. After a few minutes of the pain in my chest intensifying from the half mile or so I'd sprinted , we agreed that he would give me the ten dollars for the book and I would stop pretending I was going to carry him to justice.
Now, three of four hours later, I have cancer of the lungs.
When I got back to the bookstore and talked to the cop, a strange metallic taste had expanded the cave of my mouth, making it big enough for a softball or so. It took another half an hour to recognize the taste: marijuana resin. Nasty, caked up tar on my pink lil lungs from my calmant of choice. My no-doc Ritalin cure for crazy.
I can make a noise like wind through plastic cutlery by breathing out. I am wheezing like your great aunt- you know, the one with diabetes and the gambling addiction in Tahoe who plays bridge and smokes Virginia Slims like little aristocratic cocks clutched in her stained talons. I sound like that.
Hopefully it'll leave my body and maybe, just maybe, I'll start jogging.
Not fucking likely.