Suffused with hubris,

he laughed in the faces of the influenza gods. Two days of snuffling, he decided, was more than enough. On the third day he rose from the bed, dressed himself as a harlequin, sang, danced, wrote poetry. He smoked again, metaphoric, meteoric.

But the gods were devious. Came to him as he slept, whispered in his ear, whispers in the air, closed his nostrils. The mind was willing but the body weak. Was bitten in the ass. This time the venom stronger than before.