Kwashon Blumenthal, 28

God, he hated being sick. Feverish, unable to swallow, wracked with chills and breaking out in unwelcome sweats. The bed suddenly was too soft; no position allowed him to lie in comfort. His sheets and pillow were perpetually damp, and he was too listless and miserable to focus on reading or even watching television. Just the endless hours passing him by, dragging slowly like codeine addicted mules through wading pools of peanut butter.

And on Memorial Day weekend no less! No justice in the world. He'd had to cancel the night out on Saturday with friends. The expected drinks, the pleasure of catching up with people he'd not seen in over a month. Had to then cancel his date on Sunday night, the third and supreme date where things were supposed to go to the next level with Rodnesha. Had to bow out of the bbq on Monday. 

Really, what was the point in living? He couldn't even swallow his own spit. Hurt to much, like a white hot nail had been driven into the left side of his throat. Instead, he had spit every fifteen minutes into a cup he kept by the bedside. Disgusting.

Through his open door he heard moans downstairs. Ha. His friends had shown up in sympathy. Kwashon wrestled with the petulant desire to remain sullen and the sudden upswing that their concern evinced. And, ontop of coming by, they were mimicking a zombie attack. Kwashon smiled, and closed his eyes. His friends were brilliant.

They made their way up the stairs, groaning, moaning, dragging their feet. "Oh God," said Kwashon sarcastically, "A zombie attack. What on earth am I going to do?"

The moans paused for a moment and then grew louder. Kwashon laughed, scooted up so that he was sitting against the headboard. His friends gained the landing. Shuffled over to his door.

"Man, you guys--" began Kwashon, and then stopped. The make up on the guy who came through his door was so good he couldn't tell which friend it was. Bulky, wearing some sort of blue mechanic's uniform, face all chewed up. "God," said Kwashon, recoiling. "That's nasty, yo. You guys went all out, eh?"

The man was followed by a skinny looking girl, but Kwashon didn't have time to look at her. With shufftling steps the man crossed the bedroom, stepping on his open laptop, knocking over a pile of magazines. 

"Hey," said Kwashon, suddenly annoyed. And then the man was on him, stinking of rotting meat, big, callused hands scrabbling at him as the simply fell onto him and buried his face into his neck. "Hey!" yelled Kwashon as more people in makeup entered the room. "Time out, yo, time out!"