P.I.E. Operation: PARASITIC

II: Badly Toasted

Gasp

Johnny Toast's eyes suddenly opened widely. He realized he was sprawled on the floor and on his back with his head turned to the bathroom wall.

For the moment, he had no memory whatsoever of what took place earlier.

"Wha... Why am I in here? Man, if I were really that exhausted, I could have at least gone to the living room!" Toast said, undoubtedly confused.

A moment of pain struck him. His chest area felt like it had been stabbed many times. He screeched when he realized there was a gaping hole in his stomach.

"Oh, no. No, no, no. My... skin. My whole body. Something bad went down." He felt like he was going to vomit. What happened?

Johnny Toast inspected the color of his hand. It was a lot whiter than it had been before. "W--Wait a minute... I remember having this weird psychopathic voice invading my thoughts... then static."

"Afterwards, i don't recall anything, besides that--that strange picture of a car accident burned in my head. What is the meaning...?"

Toast's expression grew grim when he stood up to notice his condition. He was staggering a bit and limping all the while having a slightly blurry vision.

He immediately looked to the mirror above the rest room's marble top sink only to find that he definitely wasn't imagining anything.

His skin was pale as the paper taped to the reflector and his lips were of a light grape purple. There were dry blood stains on his fingers and coming from his mouth.

His hair was singed at the tips and his eyebrows had a somewhat lighter tint of black, as if he'd been caught in fire.

Then, of course, there were the wounds; the literal pit in his gut and the injury on his leg were certainly real.

Toast attempted to piece together how he still happened to be alive. Did I manage to do what Johnny had talked about earlier, where we have the ability to become zombies or ghosts, even? Did I die? Even so, I'd think the number of times I can be brought back from the dead is limited... So I should try to be more careful when investigating.

Johnny searched around for a phone. His hands were quivering at the thought of his condition.

His cellphone was sneakily sliding along the edge of the bathtub, right next to the loo. Of course, Toast had barely caught it at the last second before it fell to its doom in the toilet.

"Gotcha!" He said in a self-congratulatory manner, despite how much less beautiful he felt now.

Johnny's immediate reaction to retrieving the handheld was to dial the other Johnny and explain in detail what was wrong with him; he especially wanted to discuss the strange voice from earlier that had recently disappeared mysteriously so and the hole--

Oh goodness, Toast thought, subconsciously putting his hand up to his forehead while hunched over. What could it be now?

His whole body started with a big pang and he gained a free headache with no medics included.

The gap in his abdomen had begun to close up into a deep cut.

While it was a good thing that Toast didn't have to put up with his newfound unnatural belly hole, he still had to deal with infection and still the rest of his depressing crippled physique.

The phone began ringing, waiting for someone else to pick it up at the other end. After thirty seconds or so of pure agony and patient waiting, Ghost's number had finally answered.

Johnny Toast was getting desperate for assistance. "Sir, sir! I need your help! I need you to come back here this moment, whether or not you're even three minutes from the house--I don't care where you are, just come back if you can! I--" He stopped himself when he realized something was definitely up.

The other line was not speaking a word. Instead, all Toast heard was the plastic crackling sound of fire and the high pitched scream of what he presumed to be Ghost.

"Sir, what's wrong?!" The call was still going, but not a word was heard from the other paranormal investigator.

Toast was getting uncomfortable. He was not going to ignore the silence, but his stomach wound was becoming impatient and it began throbbing along with his head. "S-sir? Are you still there? Are you okay, Johnny?"

"It's me." Instead of Ghost's regular voice, he spoke in a low growl.

"J-Johnny... Come back to the house, Johnny." Toast said quietly.

"Johnny's not here," Ghost said. "You're the only Johnny left, aren't you, sad little pup? He took the wrong path. He's lost, now, don't you understand?"

"I'll... call you back later, Ghost. Uh... when I get this issue solved first."

"I'm not a gho--!"

The voice on the phone was cut off as Johnny Toast quickly hung up and dialed 911 for an ambulance. He had been waiting for so long that he felt as if he were about to collapse again.

"I have never imagined feeling this old and frail before I became old and frail..." He took a deep breath and proceeded to open the bathroom door, which seemed to be in its own fragile state; it squeaked through rust, making it more difficult to open.

The call picked up quite quickly and before Toast could start with a hello, the operator recited "911, what's your emergency?"

"Medical help--I need an ambulance..." Johnny said calmly yet a bit shakily. He answered all of the questions asked efficiently, such as name, phone number, location, clothing description, physical features, and etcetera. He knew not to be the one to hang up, so he waited for the operative to say, "The Ghosttown Hospital ambulance will arrive at your location within an estimated 12 minutes. Thank you for your cooperation." The cellphone bleeped, indicating an end to the call.

"Oh," Toast spoke in disappointment as he realized his surroundings were of the top floor. "Of course I ended up on the second floor. Life just wants to be difficult." He wanted to throw his arms up but due to his problems, he just muttered to himself "Fine, then. I'll just show life how mobile I am."

Johnny slipped anyway. He eventually decided to crawl down the hall then down the stairs. His dizziness almost caused him to fall again. At least I can get medical help. All it takes is the push of three numbers...

Twelve minutes to go, then, Johnny Toast thought.

. . . .

Twelve minutes to go.