11
Back to Work
“Good Morning George,” Samuel said.
I opened my eyes and saw the chandelier and the vaulted ceiling of, well, not my favorite hotel, but a hotel, and a nice one. I guess Dr. Pong had forgot me, too, but at least the good doctor had found a nice place for me to wake up. I expected nothing less. “Good morning Samuel, what’s up?”
“It is time for you to go to work,” he said with the usual cheer. “How do you feel today?”
I’ve never understood why Ernest—now Samuel—used to ask that. I figure it’s some nag subroutine programmed to go off if you have too good a time the night before. “I feel fine,” and I did. If you kept it going, partied till it was time to go to work, they would just turn off your feeling. It’s not smart to waste your money buying drinks, smokes, coke, opium
