The lesions in his gut were forming into a gang of ulcers and moving on his duodenum – the discomfort translated into a burning sensation below the breastbone of Idiot B. He considered as antidote one of the main protagonists of his condition, a glass or perhaps two of a medium dry white wine with a point of origon somewhere in Austria. It would provide anasthesia by way of intoxication but he knew that the symptoms were likely to be multiplied by the time conciousness returned. Nevertheless he reached for the corkscrew, and filled that glass…..the glugg of alcohol passing from one vessel to an other itself providing panacea.

But the bottle was finished all too soon, and a woozy discontent pushed aside the stubborn taughtess in his chest, as he stretched his frame its full length on a sofa worn away by such situations. Idiot B was awash with lonliness as his eyes closed and he kept an appointment with slumber half way along along a tunnel of comatose.

Outside the London afternoon wound toward its conclusion although daylight would remain until even after he had dragged himself along to another night duties securty detail and caffeine induced sobriety…..