And so it was complete. Harry Potter—The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One—had completed the prophecy and had vanquished the Dark Lord Voldemort. It was a time for celebration. He spent the last week as a constant party, embracing the friends who had managed to stay alive. After nonstop festivities, sleep came easy to Mr. Potter. Once this peaceful sleep was over, however, shocking and disturbing news awaited Harry.
"My oh my, last night was crazy," thought Harry as he slowly opened his eyes. "What do I remember, anything? I can only recall three bottles of wine coolers…and an orgy. Ah yes, that orgy. With two old men, a creepy Turkish man who kept asking me if I wanted barbecue sauce, and a woman with a tattoo of a 17th century lamppost. Well, at least Voldemort is gone. Nothing else in my life can ever go wrong. Ever."
Bad thought, Harry. For just as he climbed out of bed, a strong pain came from his big toenail.
"No! It can't be! Not a fungus!" screamed Harry.
This was terrible. Harry saw the symptoms: the yellowness, the nastyness, and those ridiculously creepy bugs from the commercial. This was a powerful foot funk, not something to be cured with magic.
Harry panicked. He was supposed to get married today. To Ginny, who had become pregnant with quadruplets after some late-night duck hunting and cow tipping.
Without knowing what to do, Harry sped off to his physical therapist, a man often called Howard the Duck.