Pills

Paul sat in front of Doctor Victoria, who examined the dime-sized patch of dry skin on Paul’s elbow.

Victoria straightened. “You have Isotopiea Demogenius.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds made up.”

“I’ll prescribe you some pills for it. There’s two different sorts that work wonders against Isotopiea Demogenius.”

“Still sounds made up.”

Victoria ignored this. “We’ll start treatment with Cantovia. Twice daily.” She wrote him a prescription, which he took to the closest pharmacy.

About ten minutes later, Paul frowned at the long list of possible side effects, written in exceptionally small font, across his bottle of Cantovia.

He went home, swallowed one of the red, round pills with water, watched some TV, and went to sleep.

He awoke the next morning and felt a slight annoyance, as if an eyelash trapped itself within his right eye. He tried, with the tip of his finger, to coax the source of irritation from his eye. He couldn’t.

Paul went to work, sat at his desk, and tried to concentrate on his paperwork. He couldn’t escape the annoyance that persisted in his eye.

He decided, once his lunch break arrived, to return to Doctor Victoria’s office and ask her to look at his eye.

She used a small flashlight to peer into his eye. “As I suspected. A slight discomfort in one or both eyes serves as a possible side effect of Cantovia.”

“That still sounds made up,” Paul muttered.

“I’ll switch your prescription to Faxaphilium.”

“That sounds even more made up.”

She wrote him the prescription. He took it to the pharmacy, paid for another bottle of pills, and returned to work. He sat at his desk, swallowed one of the blue, octagon-shaped pills, and tried to focus on his paperwork.

The itch in his eye slowly vanished, much to his relief.

His nose began to run. A lot. He blew through an entire box of tissues before he decided to sneak out of the office and return to his doctor, where he explained his latest issue.

Victoria listened, nodded thoughtfully. “A runny nose serves as one of Faxaphilium’s side effects. It seems that either treatment for your dry skin will cause you to suffer a side effect.”

Paul shrugged. “I guess I’ll deal with a small patch of dry skin, then. Whatever.”

“Let’s not be hasty. Faxaphilium will heal your dry skin. Another pill ought to counteract the runny nose that Faxaphilium causes you.” She wrote another prescription. “I recommend you take Vodoodamnit once a day before bed.”

Paul didn’t bother to point out how ridiculous that name sounded. “What sort of side effects does Vodoodamnit cause?”

“When combined with Faxaphilium,” Victoria explained, “Vodoodamnit causes massive depression.”

“I’ll deal with the dry skin, thank you.”

“Nonsense. I’ll write you a third prescription for an antidepressant.”

“What sort of side effects does the antidepressant cause?”

Victoria wrote the prescription. “It can cause headaches, muscle aches, stomach aches, volcanic diarrhea, death, spontaneous combustion—” she shrugged “—other stuff.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “I feel better already.” 

“Only a few people suffer from these side effects,” Victoria said. “You ought to feel fine.”

Paul returned to the pharmacy, received his new prescriptions. He returned to work, swallowed a handful of colorful pills, and focused on his work.

He stayed an extra hour to catch up on his In Box before he headed home, warmed some leftovers from his fridge, and ate. He went to bed.

He awoke and realized that, overnight, a pair of horns sprouted from his forehead.

He stood in his bathroom, stared at the twisted, blue horns that spiraled from his head.

He showered, called in sick (much to his supervisor’s disapproval), and headed to Doctor Victoria’s office.

Victoria examined his horns with little interest. “This serves as an occasional side effect. It occurs in a small number of patients who mix Faxaphilium with an antidepressant. No big deal.”

Paul cocked an eyebrow. “No big deal, you say?”

She wrote a fourth prescription. “Two doses of Goatjellycheesejoke with every meal ought to shrink and eventually remove those horns.”

Paul hooked his hat over one of his horns and headed to the pharmacy. He received his new bottle of pills and paid with a credit card (as his bank account felt rather empty at this point).

He returned to work, explained the situation to his impatient supervisor. Paul set to work on his freshly replenished In Box.

He stood from his seat about thirty minutes before his lunch break, headed into the men’s room. He experienced, while he went to the bathroom, a fear that some terrible, new side effect would rear its ugly head.

Would he pee lemonade? Shit a live fish?

No such events occurred, much to his relief.

He washed his hands, inspected his horns in the mirror (yes, they retreated a few inches since this morning, thank modern medicine), and stepped through the bathroom door into a blue desert.

He stood dumbfounded, stared at the blue sand and the black castle constructed of golden gears. The clockworks turned and moaned. A wooden boat flew across the purple sky far above the castle.

Paul called his doctor.

“Yes, yes,” Victoria said over the cellphone. “Spontaneous teleportation between planes of existence serves as one of Goatjellycheesejoke’s rare side effects. Nothing worth concern.”

Something that looked like Mothra attacked the airborne boat.

“Victoria,” Paul said, “ . . . I’ll deal with the dry skin.”

(I plan to leave for an Army reserve unit in Cape Coral, Florida this weekend. I will not, consequently, publish any posts next week--aside for, perhaps, a movie review on Sunday. I will still publish a post at FictionFormula.blogspot.com tomorrow, and I will continue "Between a Grizzly and Her Cub" here, at martinwolt.blogspot.com, on the 22nd. See you then!)