One clove garlic (minced), two dragonfire chilis (juiced), a pinch of salt, a splash of vinegar, three fingers clear rum, and a raw egg — stir thoroughly, pinch nostrils, and chug.

I was out the door and puking up my guts before I knew what hit me. Holy fuck this one hurt. My vision blurred with tears, and still the molten lava gushed from my esophagus.

Behind me, I could hear the innkeeper — who’d given me his word of honor that this so-called ‘remedy’ would work — positively howling with laughter. His voice was like that of a demon. 

My head pounded. I’d expected the concoction to induce vomiting, but this? This was murder. I was certain my internal organs were dissolving. I was definitely dying. All good things had gone out of the world. Terror gripped me. Existential anguish. I tumbled through the vortex of infinite suffering, hit the bottom of the black pit of despair — and bounced.

That’s rule number one in my profession: Always bounce.

I found myself in blinding sunlight, lying in the cobbled street beside a spreading puddle of my own sick. Somewhere high above me, somebody was shouting.

  Out of the road, piss-brain!”

  “Huh?” I sat up. It was a carriage driver, purple-faced and furious. His team had stopped within a couple feet of trampling me into jelly.

The innkeeper hastened over and offered me a calloused hand. I took it and he hauled me to my feet, steadying me when I swayed. He helped me back inside and sat me on my barstool.

  “Better?” he asked.

No, I meant to say. Then, bemusedly, I realized I actually did feel better. Sort of. I was still hungover, and my gastrointestinal tract now felt as though it had been scoured out with bleach, but compared to the ordeal I had just survived? Well, that’s relativity for you.

My notebook lay on the bar where I had left it, open to the recipe I’d written down just prior to imbibing the evil stuff. My hand shook slightly as I dipped my goose feather quill.

  “What do you call that, um, invigorating, uh —” I gestured toward the glass, now empty but for pinkish viscous residue, groping for an inoffensive term.

  “Afterbirth of Idiot,” the innkeeper answered promptly. “Learned it from my mum, God rest her soul.”

Fitting, I thought, nodding wearily as I scribbled down the title. Further evidence that the governing principle of the universe is, as I have long suspected, irony.

Underneath the recipe, I wrote: Experimental Findings: never a-fucking-gain. I sketched a little barfing stick-guy in the margin for good measure. I was usually a bit more fastidious about my research notes, but this morning, well, fuck it — barfing stick-guy was the best my throbbing brain could manage.

  “What do you want for breakfast?” the innkeeper asked jovially. (As if I trusted him to cook for me after that vile concoction.)

  “I should really hit the road,” I said.

  “You sure? I could whip you up a plate of pickled kippers, best thing for a tender stomach.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

God’s Balls, I thought. The man was a complete menace.

  “No,” I said quickly. “I’m not hungry.” I stuffed my notebook, quill and ink into my rucksack before adding, “Thanks all the same, but I’ve got to get to Lankford in time to get drunk tonight.” I pushed my stool back from the bar.

The innkeeper gave me a pitying smile.

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” I explained.

His smile only grew more pitying.

  “I mean, well, all right, I am. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m on a quest,” I told him, “to discover a cure for the common crapulence.” I waited, knowing he would ask.

  “Is that like when you go to fart and accidentally shit yourself?”

  “Kind of,” I said, “but no. The word you’re looking for is shart, which is a portmanteau of shit and fart. Most people guess crapulence is a portmanteau of crap and flatulence. It isn’t.”

  “Port… man… tow…” the innkeeper said, nodding hesitantly.

  “Right. But crapulence isn’t a portmanteau. Crapulence means sickness occasioned by intemperance, as in: a hangover. Derived from the Latin, crapulentus, meaning very drunk.” I paused to let the information soak in.

  “So…” the innkeeper said. “You’re on a… quest… to find a… cure… for… hangovers?”

  “Correct,” I said. “A proper cure, mind. Not something that makes you yarf your guts out.”

I expected him to say what everyone says when they learn about my quest: “Impossible,” or “You should just quit drinking,” or “If you need someone to talk to…” etcetera.

But no. To my surprise, he offered me his meaty hand again, and this time, when I grasped it, he shook mine as heartily as if I were a long-lost brother.

  “Someone’s got to do it,” he said earnestly, meeting my eyes. “Someone’s got to blaze the trail. What you’re working on? That’s real important stuff, man. I’m just glad it’s you, and not me.”

  “W-e-l-l, c-o-o-l,” I replied, trying to extract my hand without completely souring the vibe. I was astonished at the wisdom of this lowly innkeeper. Out of all the drunks and bartenders I’d met over the years, it was a rare few who appreciated the self-sacrificial nature of my calling. Perhaps it would even earn me a discount on my bar tab…

Alas, no, that turned out to be wishful thinking. I was charged a whole entire penny, which was robbery. I forked it over feeling heartsick and betrayed.

  “Cheer up,” he said, “you’ll be a rich man once you discover that shart cure of yours.”

  “It’s crapulence,” I muttered bitterly as I shouldered my rucksack and headed for the door. But he was right. I would be rich when all was said and done. That, or I’d be dead.

My hand was on the latch when the innkeeper called after me, “Hang on, I never caught your name.”

  “It’s Otis,” I said, turning back to face him. “Otis Bolerjack.”

He nodded. “I’ll be praying for you, Otis.”

Touching. I gave him a theatrical salute, then shoved the door wide and stepped out into the brightness of the morning and whatever fate the universe had planned for me.

  — Splash —

I glanced down to discover I had trodden directly in my puke-puddle from earlier. The fumes wafting up from it were so caustic I had to choke back my gag reflex and with it, something deeper, the despair that always hovered at the edge of my awareness, threatening to plunge me down into that black abyss whenever my emotional defenses wavered.

Bounce, I told myself. What harm in a bit of vomit on the boots? I’d stepped in worse, hell, I had slept in worse. Transcend the bullshit. I’d be damned if was going to allow this day to suck. For all I knew, the cure I had been seeking these past thirteen years was waiting for me up in Lankford. And if not, well, at least I could count on beer.

I forced myself to focus on the surface of the liquid mess I stood in, picking out the spot where the reflected sunlight blazed the brightest. Nothing worthwhile is accomplished without suffering. My eyes immediately stung but I refused to blink. Endure.

I could feel the pressure building in my skull, along with that familiar prickling in my sinuses that meant a good hard sneeze was coming on. (Autosomal dominant compulsive helio-ophthalmic outbursts of sneezing syndrome — a.k.a. the photic sneeze reflex. One person out of four is born with it, and we’re the lucky ones if you ask me. Sneezes are the orgasms of the respiratory system; don’t trust anyone who tells you otherwise.)

My sneezes always come in threes.

The first sneeze dislodged half a gallon of coagulated snot.

The second bitch-slapped the self-pitying depression out of me.

And on the third sneeze, I was born again.