Raymond Chandler in Cuenca

I was reading everything Raymond Chandler ever wrote and I think it was affecting me. I had a jones for the cheap detective stories Chandler flogged at pennies a word back when Roosevelt was in his first term. The stories were packed into the memory of a cheap ebook. I was handling the ebook so much it had gotten itself fitted for a wedding outfit and was checking printers and flower shops. Meanwhile a virus had hung a shingle in my throat. Business was so good there that it expanded into my lungs. It encouraged me to cough as much as possible, viruses really think its a good idea and I couldn't seem to argue the point. So there we were, me the virus and Chandler, the best of pals when somebody suggested a doctor. "OK", I said between hacks, "if you think I should", They not only did, they set me up for later that day. In my country I explained, its thirty dollars for the car park next to the doctor's office. But you ain't at home pal, in fact you ain't even in the northern hemisphere anymore. It all started to make sense. Thirty clams to the sawbones, twenty to the pharmacia for tablets and an inhailer. The virus was starting to get nervous and I was halfway thru the pile of Dectective stories. Nothing lasts forever, not a good cold or a pile of pulp fiction.