The Lackey is Sick

Or so he's been told. Rather rude I thought, but the power of suggestion duly delivered a slightly sore throat. Being a man, this is self-diagnosed as severe influenza, possibly bird-flu. The Cute Nurse is not in today, which makes me think neither should I be. I hung up when Nurse Battleaxe answered the phone, and sat silently trembling for five minutes, recovering from the less than dulcet strains, like chainsaws scraping down a blackboard.

So obviously, I have to lie on the sign out sheet and run away. I'll be cruising the streets of red light areas, looking for a hooker I can afford to pay to rest my head in her lap and whisper soothing, healing words to me. That always works a treat. Then I'll get drunk and hopefully tomorrow I won't be able to remember I was sick.