Yeah, it’s late, all right! I’m late.
I don’t know whether to call it a panic attack or a late-nite installment of Nightmare Playhouse. It featured doctors chasing me so they could perforate me. And other stuff too grisly to mention.
When it was time to get up, I had real trouble getting out of bed. Not that I consciously thought they were hiding in the bathroom, waiting to pounce and haul me back to the Not Restful rest home. I don’t know what I thought. (“We’ve been reviewing your X-rays, Mr. D., and guess what we found! Bubonic plague! Ain’t that a pisser?”)
Confound it, where’s my sword?