From: Lester <maxim@netcom.com>
Date: Tue, 14 Oct 1997 17:39:10 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Logo Fyles #2 (SOW-PODS story)
Message-id: <Pine.3.89.9710141717.A14117-0100000@netcom10>
"A hearty disjune is not a nuncheon" -- Gau MornayRaising his touzy head off the rimpled pillow, Brond caught a glimpse of the late-morning weather. A fine rain was smurring down, tonking softly against the pane. He groned from the effort of turning slightly, picturing himself a yunx, though he barely moved.
The soft, zoppo pitapatting of droplets crashed into his nerves, like bowling balls falling on a corrugated iron roof to a soca beat. He slumped back on the pillow, which pushed back against his head like frozen kingle. Something was missing. He patted the other side of the bed. Sheet and pillow. No flesh. Kora. He called out her name. No answer.
Brond got up, slowly. Wambled into the kitchen. No note. A box of stale azym stood on the table. Groggily, he removed a vinewing piece, wiped what looked like mazut off a knife, dabbed on suspicious looking jelly. Munching absently, he went back to bed, biccy in hand. Last night was still a blank.
Kora might have gone to Zabra's. He kraaled the phone, the effort launching hot missiles of pain toward his bregma. Hangover, the great matador, let fly with well-aimed rejones toward the base of his throbbing neck, as he dialed.