• Continued •
Over the course of a few months, our fat hero and his plans to get paid by doing nothing had become thwarted. Winston returned to the clinic twice a week with his sheet filled out with the words, "No improvement," written all over it.
The doctor's conducting the single blind study became increasingly interested in our dear Winston. They steadily increased the drug's dosage, in determined thoughts that his weight ultimately played the part of blocking the drug's effect.
By keeping him longer each time, he had no choice but to swallow the wretched pills and keep them down. By the end of the third month, Winston was choking down enough pills to treat an elephant.
Sitting at his desk, pen in hand he contemplated what to write on his drug assessment sheet.
"Bahhhh," he burped, and smacked his chest a couple of times as acid threatened its escape.
The constant stream of drugs had been disagreeing with his system. He found himself growing more sluggish and resorted to rolling around his room with his office chair. The wheels at this point had deeply abused the hardwood flooring. Giant circles of craved groves circled from his bed, to his desk, and looped to his bathroom, in a grotesque figure eight.
He burped again.
"Insufferable!" he bellowed. The putrid smell of stomach acid seeped through his mouth. "The Vampire doctors have had their last laughed! My quality of life has diminished!"
He rolled to the bathroom and refilled his water glass. He chugged it down like a hippo bathing its young.
"I don't even need the money!" he cried, and wheeled madly to his desk.
The frowny faces mocked him. He grabbed the pen and clutched it against his chest, "I'll show them."
Writing in bold words, Winston wrote, "Cardiac heart failure."