"What's with all the Mugwump jissom?"

Spent the previous night wracked in pain on accounta this damn virus I had gotten - most likely from some transient when I had eaten lunch. One hella hobo-virus - kicken my ass! On a lighter note, and this is kinda good - I have attained employment as a Reservations Agent at some company that does those things. I start tomorrow at 9:30am. It will be a relief to finally shred this poverty that I had put myself in and get on with the bigger more important shit in my life. But what person will I metamorphosis into?

"He has the mark of a certain trade or occupation that no longer exists. If junk were from the earth, there might still be junkies standing around in junk neighbourhoods feeling the lack, vague and persistent, a pale ghost of junk sickness...

So this man walks around in the places he once exercised his obsolete and unthinkable trade. But he is unperturbed. His eyes are black with an insect's unseeing calm. He looks as if he nourished himself on honey and Levantine syrups that he sucks up through a sort of proboscis. What is his lost trade? Definitely of a servant class and something to do with the dead, though he is not an embalmer. Perhaps he stores something in his body - a substance to prolong life - of which he is periodically milked by his masters. He is as specialised as an insect, for the performance of some inconceivably vile function."