By: Icewoman

"Achooo!" Peter Venkman sneezed for what seemed to be the fortieth time that hour. He caught a nasty cold after being dunked in the river by a Class 6, which seemed to enjoy dunking the poor psychologist. Despite his protests, Egon marched him straight to bed and called the doctor. Later that day, Doctor Jaggen prescribed antibiotics and told the guys to keep an eye on Peter in case he started to run a fever.

Ray, who was usually the one most likely to be empathetic, felt sorry for Peter and was very willing to wait on him hand and foot, that is until Peter started driving him crazy. He was tempted to place the feather pillow over Peter's face to put him out his misery. The statement, a little bit of Peter went a long way, started to hold more truth to its words. "Look!" Ray said, throwing his magazine to the floor. "If you harass me one more time, I'll sic Slimer on you!"

Peter's green eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare! Here I am on my death bed, and you're threatening to sic that scuzball of goo on me!" He grabbed his blanket and pulled it under his chin, placing an innocent expression on his face.

"Don't even THINK that I wouldn't do it!" Ray yelled, stalking out the room and slamming the door loudly. Peter winced; the rattling hurt his head. He sighed and snuggled under his blanket. Between the antibiotics and the heavy doses of Nyquil that Egon shoved in him, his body didn't know whether to sleep or go play football. This time sleep won.

******

"Shouldn't we tell Peter we're leaving?" Ray asked, although Peter annoyed the hell out of him earlier, concern was still laced in the occultist's voice.

"No," Egon said, as he was zipping up the front of his dark blue jumpsuit. "Last time I checked on him, he was very asleep. He didn't get much sleep last night. Besides, he could use the rest.

"Amen to that," Winston commented. Peter had the pleasure of driving him crazy earlier. He had a problem with everything on his breakfast tray, and after Winston made sure everything was fine, Peter simply regurgitated everything he ate. "I swear if I have to spend five more minutes with that man, I'll kill him."

"Janine, before you leave can you make sure that Peter takes his medicine, after he eats some soup?" Egon asked before he climbed into Ecto-1.

"Sure," the red-haired secretary muttered as the ambulance peeled out of the garage. "Leave me with the bugger." She shirked out of her coat and headed for the bedroom. She grabbed the needed items from the kitchen and went into the bunkroom the four men shared.

Under a pile of blankets was the lumpy outline of Peter's body. She knew this task wouldn't be an easy one. First, she had to wake him, then force-feed him. "Dr. Venkman, wake up," she said, shaking him gently.

"Don't shake me!" he muttered. "Unless you want to clean the mess up that'll follow." His head peaked over the top of the blue blanket; his dark hair stood up in spikes. Janine knew then that this would be one of the toughest assignments ever. It took her a good fifteen minutes to force the psychologist to eat the pale broth that Winston had made. It then took fifteen minutes more to coax him to take his antibiotics.

"If that's all you need me for Dr. Venkman, I think I'll be going now," Janine said as she slowly headed for the doorway, hinting that she had to be going. It seemed that the antibiotics were acting quickly, because the psychologist's eyelids were already sliding shut. Janine hurried downstairs and threw her coat on. She put the trap she meant to empty on top of the file cabinet so that she would remember to do it tomorrow. She grabbed her purse and keys and exited the firehouse, making sure to lock the door behind her.

The little green ghost didn't hear Janine leave, nor did he see her put the trap on the cabinet. Slimer was too busy grooving to one of Winston's tapes that he managed to snag. His little green body jiggled back and forth to the beat as he flew through the air, making odd gestures with his slimy hands.

"I'm bad!" he burbled as he passed the file cabinet, knocking the trap to the floor. Luckily, the trap didn't open, releasing the trapped spirit, but it did crack the exterior, allowing a thin mist to escape. A cockroach walked by, investigating the trap, hoping it could find some food. It sneezed at the mist and walked on; maybe the spud left some pizza in Venkman's office.

******

Hours later, fully rested, Peter Venkman was able to stand up without falling over or throwing up. "I must be getting better," he said as he donned his checkered robe and headed for the bathroom. He looked at his pale reflection in the mirror, noting how faint the green of his eyes was. "When you get sick, Venk baby, you get sick." He went back into the bunkroom in search of company. Being sick was lonely, especially when everyone was gone. He was hoping he could find Egon in the lab and mess with him there. Finding nothing in there, he ambled downstairs into the kitchen. Nothing in there either. Where was everyone? He knew they went on a bust, but they shouldn't take this long. They had a sick man at home who needed attention.

"Damn," he cursed while looking in the fridge, not that anything looked tempting. Just the thought of trying to eat made his stomach turn. When he closed the door, something small and brown scuttled away. This caught his attention, for it went past his line of vision.

"Yaa!" he screamed, jumping onto the small table next to the fridge.

The small brown thing seemed to have grown the second he'd spotted it. He could even see that the roach had a face! Peter was sure it was the antibiotics talking, no way roaches had faces and no way roaches had muscles!

"Whatcha staring at?" the roach said with a heavy Brooklyn accent. It propped itself up against the leg of the table, staring up at the man perched on it.

"I know I'm dreaming, I know I'm dreaming--" Peter chanted to himself.

"What's with the chantin' here?" the roach asked again, this time shaking the leg of the table.

Peter released a deep scream and vaulted off the table, running back to the safety of the bedroom. He jumped under the covers of his bed and silently prayed. Suddenly, his covers took flight; the perusing roach quickly whipped them off. The roach hopped on the foot of the bed. Folding its arms, it spoke again. "Look man," it said, tapping one of its six feet. "I ain't got time for games. I asked you a question and I'm waiting for an answer!"

Peter's eyes grew large with fright as he opened his mouth and released another high pitch squeal. He raced into the bathroom, his robe flying about his body as he pitched into the room. Slamming the door, he leaned against it, hoping it would keep the monster at bay. "Of all the things and of all the times. It had to be a roach," Peter muttered, looking around for a weapon of choice.

Something knocked on the door.

Peter could feel another scream threatening to escape. He glanced around, first grabbing Egon's back brush. He decided against it, Egon would use him in an experiment if he knew his brush was used to demolish a roach. A canister of Glade air fresher caught his eye. Who cares if it was springtime fresh? It was aerosol and aerosol means alcohol, so that should destroy the bugger.

Cackling, Peter threw the door open. "Hi, Sunshine. Glad to see me?" he said, pressing the canister's button and dousing the unsuspecting roach with Glade.

"What da fuc-" the roach sputtered as it's mouth was filled with some kind of liquid. Now it was personal. "You'll pay for dat man!" it threatened, running out of the room.

"HAH!" Peter called behind it. "No, roach attacks Peter Venkman!"

******

Peter donned his dark brown jumpsuit and strapped on his proton pack. He prowled the upper floors of the firehouse, searching for their muscular guest. He was through searching the kitchen and headed down the hallway to the bunkroom. Peter felt something cinch around his ankle and forced him forward. With his arms failing madly, he pitched forward, kissing the hardwood floor. He looked up into the raging eyes of the roach.

"I told you, you were gonna pay man," the roach said with a menacing look on it's face. In one swift move it hefted Peter up and dragged him to the bathroom. Once trapped in the bathroom, it deposited Peter onto the floor before the toilet. "Time to take a drink, friend," the roach cackled, holding Peter's head under the water.

Peter pulled away and jumped to his feet, his damp hair clung to his face. "I got something for you, pal!" he yelled, pulling something from a pocket of his jumpsuit. "Have some Blackflag, spawn from hell!" He sprayed the roach liberally with Blackflag. The roach coughed and fell over, allowing him access to the door.

Peter ran into Egon's lab, placing a chair under the doorknob. "That should hold him, at least until I can think of something!" He set about the lab, looking for some gizmo that could zap the roach into the ninth dimension or something. He spotted something on the lab table. Walking over, he cackled and rubbed his hands together, the roach had a nice surprise waiting for him.

******

"The nerve of that bozo, dousing me with Blackflag!" the roach groused, wiping himself down with toilet tissue. From the way the frantic man left, the roach knew he was holed up in the lab across the hall. There was no way out.

It would be just him and the man.

One on one.

The roach slowly ambled its way across the hall, whistling loudly. "I know you're in there," it said, raising its voice.

"I know you're out there," Peter returned in the same cajoling tone.

The roach squeezed under the crack of the door, entering the dark lab. He gazed around the room, searching for the man. The light overhead flashed on. Whipping around, he spotted the man perched on top of the lab table. In one hand, he held the can of Blackflag, and in the other... a blowtorch.

"Oh no!" it yelled, trying to scurry away.

"Oh yes!" Peter exclaimed, spraying before the blowtorch, sending a roaring ball of flame towards the terrified roach. With a howl, it burned away, leaving a darkened spot on the floor. Still stationed on his perch, Peter began to cackle madly.

******

"Whew, that Class Six was no joke!" Winston exclaimed while he tried to remove the large glob of purple goo that was sitting on his head.

"I concur," Egon agreed, he was doused just as much as Winston and Ray. Even his curl was drooping with purple gunk.

"I should go check on Peter," Ray said, he was concerned for Peter during the bust.

"I believe that's good, Raymond," Egon said, cleaning his glasses with a tissue. The occultist bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached the bedroom, he was shocked not to see Peter there. He turned to leave, but the smoky smell emitting from the lab caught his attention.

He peeked inside and what he saw scared him. "Egon! Winston! Come quick!" The two men thundered up the stairs, fearing the worst. They were shocked to see Ray peeking into the lab and not the bedroom. "Did my experiment blow up?" Egon asked, peering over the shorter man's shoulder.

"No," Ray said. The occultist swallowed noisily and pointed into the lab.

Winston took a closer look. Inside still sitting on the table armed with a blowtorch and a can of Blackflag was Peter. A twisted grin covered his face as he slowly rocked back and forth.

"I don't like the look on his face," the occultist stated, slowly walking into the lab. He made sure to keep his distance; he didn't want to risk getting barbecued.

"Peter," Egon started. "Drop the torch, now," he ordered, slowly inching closer to his friend.

"Egon?" Peter asked wearily, he glanced at his surroundings as if he was confused. Egon dashed forward and snatched the torch and can from Peter's trembling hands. "Tried to kill me, I killed him!" he cackled, as he jumped into Egon's arms.

"I think his medication is working overtime," Egon stated, carting Peter off to the bedroom.

******

"Come on now, a roach?" Ray asked dubiously. He couldn't believe the crazy story Peter was telling him.

"Yes, a roach," Peter spat back, hitching his covers up defensively. "I am not making this up!"

"Considering the odd things that occur in this place, I am tempted to believe you," Egon said, he was sitting at the foot of Peter's bed. "You are running a low grade fever, what you saw could have been a figment of your imagination.

Peter snorted. "Whatever, Spengs, but I tell you this, what I saw was true!"

Winston chuckled. "Next thing you know, you'll be defending yourself against rats."

Peter was about to reply when something out the corner of his eye caught his attention. Something small, brown, and with antennas stopped and looked at the psychologist. With what could be a wink, it scuttled away, in search of a meal.

Peter simply pulled his head under his covers and started to whimper.

Oshimai. (The End)