My skull a steadily expanding hydrocephalic sack of mucus, I’ve been swigging a lot of cough syrup lately. I’ve spent a hundred euros on the stuff over the last couple of days, which — roughly translated into America’s currency, the U.S. Cowboyo — is a hell of a lot of money. You empty your wallet on the counter of the local pharmacist, but even in your feverish daze, you know cough medicines don’t really work: it just makes you feel more proactive about your chances of fighting off your body’s alarmingly rapid decomposition into a jell-o monster made of phlegm.
