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November 13, 2006

Jim: Night Fever

The soldier carefully verified my identification. “Go on in,” he grunted.

White-coated technicians scurried throughout the laboratory in meandering orbits around a steel-haired doctor. “You called the CDC?” I asked him.

He pumped my hand. “Thank God you’re here! We hope it’s isolated.”

“You’re sure it’s Strain BG-2?”

He nodded. “And even worse than the ‘70s pandemic. See for yourself.” He pointed to the quarantines beyond the glass.

I checked off the symptoms. Feathered hair, polyester blends, bell-bottoms… “But disco is dead,” I gasped.

Then I noticed the doctor’s platform shoes. He caught my eye and confided, “So are we.”

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