I Swear I’m Not a Hypochondriac

A fly in my room, a stinking buzzing hypnotic, makes me feel disease (that’s dis-ease) crawling through my pores, two-winged little bastard fly. I can feel the horrific little creature, fecal smears on in its paws, carrion tendrils filled with e-coli, dysentery, gangrene, death. The room spins from the implications. Gagging as the microbes sift through it, my heart chokes on the clogging spurting putrescence, decaying me inside and out. All those tiny organisms ripping me apart for a candlelight banquet with fine wine and soft music. Feeling faint, I don’t know if I’ll make it. My telephone screams to the lobby until the clerk answers it with summery bluster and says: “Hello Mr. Nagel. We’ll have someone up there to take care of it for you shortly.”

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