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Stuffed
I was so stuffed up. Like a little pig, after having eaten a lot of food. Too much food. Probably because the little pig had sat down at the dinner table with a completely empty stomach and didn't really think about just how much food it could actually eat, and just took it all in and kept eating and eating until it was fit to burst.
I knew, I did it myself, sometimes.
I'd told most of my clients that morning, on the phone, that I'd been in a fight, and most of 'em just sort of nodded their heads at the other end of the line and thought things like you see in private eye movies and maybe one or two of the ladies thought that maybe it was for their own case I had been in a fight and the slightest twitches of sympathy were starting to bubble to the top of their effervescent little heads, upon which were probably perched the cutest little pillbox hats. Jeez, speaking of pills, I needed to hit some, and fast, otherwise my head was going to achieve such a level of mass that it might start collapsing in upon itself, and that was going to wreak havoc with the papers I had stacked all over my desk, pushed as far to the edges as I could get them, this morning, just out of the blast zone, should I sneeze or in the unlikely event that my head actually did implode like a white dwarf going supernova. Type I supernova, of course.
I dug around in the drawer for a little while, but you know what, I just had gin in each of the six drawers in my desk. I think it was largely for show. But there you go.
So anyway, right, back to the fight. So it was true, I had been in a fight, albeit not a very exciting one. With the cat, downstairs. Never got on with cats, really, Just too liable to leap on your from the edge of the staircase and claw your head for a bit when it realised that it had suddenly gotten from a nice solid wooden step to a round, hard-to-stay-upright-on head with some hair that didn't lend itself to traction at all. Which I never got, really, the way the cats seemed to always forget that after it had launched itself from the step... somewhere in between the step and my head they seemed to get diverted or something, only to land, scrabble a bit, then suddenly come to the realisation that they'd been transplanted by someone to this precarious perch!
Stupid cats.
This was why the sign on the door read "No cats," after all. That and I was allergic to them, which would stuff my head up like a balloon full of wax, should someone take the time to put a bunch of wax inside a balloon. I hadn't seen it yet, but no doubt I would, someday.
You see everything in this business, I tell ya.
disclaimer:
Oooooooooooh.
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