Bill felt so weak and nauseous that when an irate drawl suddenly erupted in his head with all the southern grace of Foghorn Leghorn, he was fairly certain his sanity had finally packed up its bags and set off on its own. Who the hell are you spose' to be?! What in blazes are you doin' in my body?" the voice bellowed, seething with irritation and disbelief.

Displayed on the cracked surface of the mirror was a distorted expression of sheer panic that Bill had seen far too frequently over the past month; jaw slack, hazel eyes wide as saucers, nostrils flared. Overall, not a good look. Only for a reason he was struggling to comprehend, his utter confusion was being displayed on physical features that weren't quite his own. The alterations were subtle enough that if it wasn't his own face in question he may not have even noticed the differences.

“That's it guys, I've finally gone insane.“

Unfortunately, it was impossible for the changes to be chalked up to a simple fun house illusion caused by the jagged lines that marred the glass. This baked and weathered face staring back at him had obviously seen far too much sunlight and not nearly enough soap.

A harsh blue light blazed from within the broken mirror. Bill squinted his eyes, his frazzled brain starting to wonder if there was a hidden room back there somewhere. Was this all a joke? Was Ashton Kutcher about to jump out and yell something about how bad he'd just 'punk'd' another unsuspecting idiot? Was this nothing more than another one of those off the wall pranks? Bill seriously doubted it, if it was, it was the best one yet, but he still planned to keep an eye out for that sneaky little fucker just in case.

While adequately bright, the world around him felt distant and hazy, as if he had woken up in the middle of a twisted dream of the past. The bare walls gleamed with a fresh coat of wood polish. Whoever was in charge of cleaning was obviously on top of their game because the large, empty room was wholly devoid of any sign of dust or cobwebs. There was a peculiar absence of electric lighting, the familiar harshness of fluorescent tubes had been replaced by the warm glow of six oil lanterns ensconced on the walls. Each one cast flickering shadows that danced across the floor.

The air felt charged with a strange veil of energy, he could feel an electric tingle against his skin. Bill tried to recall the events that led him to this moment, but his memories were disjointed and hard to pin down, slipping through his grasping fingers like fine sand.

One final, dazzling flash of light radiated from within the mirror before it finally began to fade away, allowing Bill to fully take in the wretched appearance of his reflection. The dim blue glow seeping through the cracks refracted off the small hole in the mirror's center, forming an eerie pattern across his face, illuminating the worn out features of a man who had obviously been roughing it in the woods for a good long while. Upon closer inspection, he looked deathly sick, his appearance gaunt and sunken like a freshly turned zombie.

A sudden and overwhelming wave of nausea made him weak at the knees. Bill hunched over and gagged out a mouthful of bile, accidentally splattering several expensive-looking dresses some unlucky noblewoman left hanging up next to the mirror. Clutching at his aching head, Bill tried to will himself to wake up, but his desire to vomit out his toenails reached all new heights when his fingernails scraped against a deep gash above his right ear.

He winced and flinched away. When he withdrew his hand, it was covered with blood. Without consciously making the decision to move, Bill's arm casually reached over wiped the crimson stain away, smearing it all over the hem of soft yellow blouse.

The voice in Bill's head didn't have the patience to wait for some unknown body snatcher to get his shit together. Dammit! Get yerself in order. Don't you ignore me boy! I'm talkin' to you! Bill pointed a finger at himself and immediately felt like a lunatic. Yes, you! The saphead wearin' my body like a Sunday suit. You gonna stand around admirin' my reflection all morning or tell me whut's goin' on?

"I... I don't know what I'm supposed to say," Bill stammered out over a mouth as dry as a desert, his absurdly raspy voice wavering. "I can't remember anything that could possibly explain this insanity.“ Although he was actively trying to search his memory for answers, everything in there was all fuzzy and out of place.

An image of an old store painted like outer space flashed by his eyes. Bill gasped, the grim reality beginning to sink in. His churning thoughts fell still, his heart dropping like a dense stone, plummeting into the pit of his stomach with a splash as he sank to his knees and started to remember. Only now, he wished the memories would stop.

“There was a store called the Cosmic… something or other. And an old mirror. I think it was a twin to this mirror right here… Shit. Look, fair warning, this is going to sound insane. Even more insane than this conversation,” he added in to emphasize his point, “but… I think this mirror eats people. Or maybe it only wanted to eat me... Man, I don't know anything. There's no way to tell for sure, it's hard to think straight when my brain feels like it's boiling. So now I'm here, trapped in... your body, talking to myself, ourself, like a deranged… homeless person. Are you, we, a vampire?“ He felt foolish for even uttering those words out loud, but with the way things were going, all options had to be considered.

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A vampyre? Them no-good bloodsuckers from the story books? Don't be daft now, the voice in his head snickered, but otherwise remained silent. Bill wasn't sure if that was a good or bad sign, but it gave him a chance to get a good look at himself in relative silence. It was hard to deny that his current hygiene standards resembled that of an especially unhygienic hobo. The rough-spun long-sleeved shirt and faded, blue jeans he wore were more haphazard patchwork than anything truly resembling modern clothing, and filthy enough to make his complexion seem fresh and supple as a new born baby.

Worst of all, he had a nagging suspicion that he had at some point very recently shit all over himself. For a moment he almost started laughing. It looked like poo was leaking out of a tear in his jeans. But a painful dab of a finger and a nervous sniff of said finger nearly made him soil himself all over again. It was worse than he'd imagined. His hip was sore to the touch, swollen and bleeding under these filthy rags, the rancid stench of rotting meat revealed it to be an old wound that was obviously festering.

Bill groaned, the horrific stench wafting off of his body making his previously sour stomach kick it up ten notches and start doing fast-paced somersaults. As far as he could tell, the only article of his pitiful get-up that wasn't fit for the nearest furnace was a leather belt that kept the holstered pistol on his left hip from clattering to the floor. “Why do I… we… have a gun?“ Having never even been in the same room as a firearm, Bill was understandably nervous about carrying around such a heavy responsibility.

The voice inside his head responded with sarcasm, but its displeasure was evident. Well, ain't this just dandy? Some goody-two shoes harmless varmint decides to hop in my skin without an invitation. Now he thinks he can judge me. This ain't right, boy. You better fix that attitude right now! Better yet, do us both a favor and get the hell outta Dodge!

Bill's confusion deepened, his mind racing to find answers, but try as he might, a fitting response eluded him. "I... I can't," he growled, his voice filled with frustration, not enjoying the off-putting process of arguing with himself even the slightest bit. "We're just going around in circles here man. I already told you, I seriously don't know how I ended up here, so how am I supposed to go anywhere? Where would I even go? The last thing I remember is being chewed up and swallowed by that mirror…. I think I'm supposed to be dead right now." His voice trailed off to a faint whisper.

A venomous chuckle reverberated within his thoughts. So, you're as lost as a hog in a thunderstorm, huh? Well, I'll let you in on a little secret, partner. This body yer' in—it's dyin', so just hold on to your britches. We're soon to be ten toes towards the sky pushin' up daisies! He cackled wildly. You picked the wrong body, hombre! I've been poisoned, and some fool deputy took a shot at my head, albeit a glancin' one. Learnt his lesson that one did… Won't be botherin' me no more. If I can last long enough to get the other one I'll tap-dance all the way to my grave with a smile on my face. So, what's your plan, Mr. Fancy pants?

Bill's overburdened mind threatened to shut down entirely as the weight of the situation pressed down upon his shoulders. He'd only just awoken, yet his own mortality already loomed over him once again. Even in a new body, death seemed to be as inescapable as ever. The last shred of Bill's hopes turned to ash, leaving a bitter taste in his already parched mouth.

Coping with the realization that of all the possibilities, he had somehow wound up trapped within a dying man's body was simply too much to ask of him. Panic thundered through his veins, but he knew he couldn't let his fear consume him, not if he was going to make it out of this. He knew it, but wishing the fear away wasn't helping to slow its spreading tendrils. Not at all.

He needed an idea, a plan, something to grasp onto to keep his mind from focusing on just how wrong this whole situation was. First on his list, how to handle the poison. Was there an antidote, or could he find somewhere nearby to get his hands on some antibiotics? “The poison! How bad is it? What kind? Who did it? Is there an antidote?,” He demanded, speaking quickly, unwilling to waste another moment. Everything else could be dealt with later. As it was, he already looked, and felt like the walking dead. Besides, if he died, none of the finer details would matter anyways.

Don't that sniffer of yers work? That banged-up hip of mine has seen better days, I'm afraid. You know of any lucky devils that been able to survive gettin' pricked with a Comanche brave's shit-smeared arrow? No? Thought so. We're goners, partner. Might as well just accept it and move on while you still can. Well, no reason to rush now. Yer a bit of a dandy, but I reckon I'd rather not go out alone.

Desperation filled Bills voice as he pleaded with himself, "Don't you dare tell me you’re giving up. I need your help. I don't even know where we are, or what year it is. I'm pretty sure antibiotics will help kill the infection, so where can we find a pharmacy? Get your head out of your ass. We need to figure a way out of this, together. I don't want to die, and I wouldn't feel right leaving you stuck either, all things considered."

A moment of silence hung in the air as Bill's inner redneck contemplated his next words. Only after several seconds that spanned a lifetime did it finally reply, though this time the voice was laced with begrudging acceptance. Well, ain't you about a pitiful mess. Fine, I reckon we're in this together for now, but you best not be leadin' me on some wild goose chase. We find a way to beat this poison eating away at my innards, or we both wind up in the devil's embrace. Guess I'll take the lead, give you a chance to catch a second wind.

Oh, almost forgot to ask! Whut's an ant-y-botic?