MISERY LOVES COMPANY

It was a cold to remember, maybe even one of the worst he had suffered since childhood. The entire right-centre zone of his face above the philtrum felt bloated and sore, to a depth of at least an inch under the skin. Including, most especially, the maxillary, and also to a certain extent the frontal sinus above the eye. And it dripped and oozed. His one joy, above anything else, was picturing many (most) of the middle-aged cigar smoking dingoes he knew as a type of anteater (the tamandua), first harvesting musk from their anal glands to mark their territory, then suddenly clapping their paws to their face to deal with a sneezing fit. And consequently marking their faces, from their narrow foreheads all the way to tips of their long pointy noses. Repeatedly.

Throughout the day he had been aerosolizing the viral load.

He had also smoked two pipes; one a Charatan of great age, Dublin shape, très élégant & geshmack. The other a stodgy bent bulldog from Hardcastle very suitable to a badger. Both times Samuel Gawith's Saint James Flake, which tasted fine throughout the hacking and sneezing fits.

He envisioned one of the cigar smokers in particular coming down with a cold. Specifically the know-it-all who claimed he was a master meditationer and adept at yoga, and never got sick in consequence.

The old fart would probably try to self-medicate and soldier on.


Yes, he was somewhat off his food.


Seeing as he was at liberty the next two days, enjoying food was a very important concept. One seldom enjoys food in Marin County, people are very 'white' there.


The busdriver on the way across the bridge had been talking about food, with a passenger he had know since early youth. A coworker talked about food, incessantly, the entire day. The cigar smokers in the lounge talked about food, until the meditation-artist sucked the air out of the room.
Given the urge to sneeze right now, he couldn't even think of food.

But food was a fine thing.

On the whole, he enthusiastically supported the concept.


At this time it was exceedingly pleasant to think that he might have infected some very deserving people, in addition to innocent victims. Two bald gits. A callow dude from Southern California who's favourite subject was himself. A sour grumpus who acted too privileged by half.
A senior member of the judiciary who now supports the president.
And a magic zen-master.

For the rest, almost zilch. He ached and hacked, his nose felt like it belonged in a dumpster, his sinus cavities were producing sounds and liquids he did not like, and he was breathing through his mouth.


It would take an act of sheer grit and determination to force him out of the house after midnight to enjoy a last pipe smoke of the day. After the New Year's drunks had stumbled off to snarf pizza and become dehydrated and sick in the bushes.

He would warn any friends he saw not to come to near.

It would be a happy New Year.
An iron will demanded it.




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