Gallegher Plus

Gallegher peered dimly through the window at the place where his back yard should have been and felt his stomach dropping queasily into that ridiculous, unlikely hole gaping there in the earth. It was big, that hole. And deep. Almost deep enough to hold Gallegher’s slightly colossal hangover.
But not quite. Gallegher wondered if he should look at the calendar, and then decided against it. He had a feeling that several thousand years had passed since the beginning of the bulge. Even for a man with his thirst and capacity, it had been one hell of a toot.
“Toot,” Gallegher mourned, crawling toward the couch and collapsing on it. “Binge is far more expressive. Toot makes me think of fire engines and boat whistles, and I’ve got those in my head, anyway—all sounding off at once.” He reached up weakly for the siphon of the liquor organ, hesitated, and communed briefly with his stomach.
GALLEGHER: Just a short one, maybe?
STOMACH: Careful, there!
GALLEGHER: A hair of the dog—
STOMACH: O-O-O-OH!
GALLEGHER: Don’t do that! I need a drink. My back yard’s disappeared.
STOMACH: I wish I could.
At this point the door opened and a robot entered, wheels, cogs, and gadgets moving rapidly under its transparent skin plate. Gallegher took one look and closed his eyes, sweating.
“Get out of here,” he snarled. “I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your revolving guts.”
“You have no appreciation of beauty,” said the robot in a hurt voice. “Here. I’ve brought you some beer.”