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Cheese Mirth Story

"There's no way I am going to get the virus, I've taken every last precaution, and I am going home to self-quarantine for a month," the banker on the subway says.


Several people around him look at him, because they're aren't sure who he is talking too. Then they realize that he is one of those people who uses a wireless headset to talk on the phone in public. A guy with long hair and a Metallica Ride the Lightning t-shirt scowls at the banker. Oblivious, the banker continues talking about the stock market.


He has a 95N mask on, goggles, and surgical gloves. The plague gear looks out of place on a man wearing a pinstripe suit that costs more than the monthly income of the five closest New Yorkers combined.


"Aw man," the guy with the Metallica t-shirt says. People move away in disgust. "Someone cut the cheese man."


The banker flinches away from the stench of rotten eggs. Two weeks later, he will have a respirator on his face. It stinks getting the coronavirus.

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Chapter 1

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©2019 by Michelle Halliwell