The One Cure

Robert Whitman was a simple man. He woke up, ate breakfast, went to work, came home, ate dinner, and then went to bed. He lived alone. He had been living alone for the past thirty years. As a 55-year-old man, what he looked forward to the most each day was the slick and smooth pumpkin pies that rested comfortably in his fridge. At the end of each week he would visit the nearest Fry’s, and stock up on approximately seven and half pumpkin pies from the bakery section.

On March eighth of 1997, Robert’s uniform life was about to change. One day his alarm clock went off, and, he shut it off as he normally would. Tucked under the tight covers, he struggled to get out, but eventually, he succeeded. He stumbled to the restroom as he normally would after waking; and yet something was different.
His mind felt weightless and he felt a little taller. He reached the mirror and critically stared at himself. There were dark bags under his squinted eyes and he had a five o’ clock shadow. He gave himself nothing but a blank stare. The lights above the sink began to slowly dim, Robert worried and shook his head left and right to stop it. Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful. His mind suddenly felt weightless. He fought to keep his head above the sink. The lights began to dim as if it were the end of a play at a theatre. He felt a smooth thud on the side of his body. All he could hear was the sound of absolutely nothing.
He could feel his body against something comfortable. It was the comfort of his bed, or so he thought. The sound of a rhythmic beep slowly faded in. Robert opened his eyes to the sight of a doctor shining a light on to his face.
“What’s happening?” Robert asked in a confused tone.
“Hello Robert, I’m Doctor Patches,” he had very large eyes, a mustache and a balding head. “You passed out from a case of ‘Pie Overdose’. You were found on the floor of your apartment by the bakers from Fry’s who suspected something was wrong when you didn’t show up for your pumpkin pies.”
“Wow. I don’t really know what to say,” Robert said quietly
“It’s okay, Mr. Whitman, because lucky for you, we’ve been working on a cure. However in this stage, it is purely experimental. There are possibly risks and side effects, for the cure has not been perfected yet.”
“I don’t care, Doctor. Give it to me! I want to live!”
“Ok, ok,” Doctor Patches said with an intense look in his eyes.
“So why did the pie go to the doctor?”
“…uh excuse me?” Robert asked with a confused facial expression
“Because it was feeling crummy!” Doctor Patches said with a huge smile on his face.
Silence flooded the room, until suddenly Robert’s face began to light up and he began laughing uncontrollably. But then, abruptly, Robert’s face shifted to a blank stare. The heart monitor went flat.
“We got a code!”
The hospital staff rushed in attempt to save his life. Unfortunately, they were unsuccessful. On March ninth of 1997, Robert Whitman passed away. Something was also discovered on that same day, something crucial. Laughter is not the best medicine.