The Pearly King 4

Now all this is rather over the top, thought I to myself as I roamed along, reading, and no doubt this friend of mine, the author, had indulged a mite too heavily in the aforementioned substances.
But this friend of mine, this friend of a friend, this fictional narrator, a mythical figure of old wars (all confused now in my mind) had survived it seems, grown old, and committed his reminiscences to paper.
My friend had put it in fictional form, one of his mordant and peculiar stories, nearly printed out and circulated among friends. Concerning the Vision of the Pearly King, his or another man's experience. Whoever had seen the Pearly King (and of this there is no doubt) had been impressed down to his core, awed, stilted, blasted by the power of the sight.
I read on... The story, written out once more in the final text, neat and masterly, was presented by the author as a wedding gift to his great friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher. A bourgeois and complacent couple, soft and self-indulgent, in their thirties. Picture his idle hands around her slim waist, her graceful smile and soft eye, his head drooping. Like middleclass semi-bohemians, they got married.
On I plod, engrossed in the narrative, taking the odd swig from my flask. But for some reason when I saw that name, "Fisher", the milky tea chocked and glugged in my throat. Out it came in a spasming spray, from mouth and nostrils, onto the street. I coughed violently for a moment, my eyes streaming.
A pause to recover myself. A wee rest against a convenient garden wall. Drying the page of tea-spray and spit. "Fisher? What of it?... not to worry... no connection... Fisher, a commonly occurring name, little, middling, of no great import- Almost anonymous!"
Thus reassured, I commenced my stroll, my lungs feeling normal. And with a shrug, found my place in the script, shunted forward, knocking back another draught of tea. And now I was nearing the end. A sort of a postscript, further continuing the fate of the story.