Random idea that's easily better. You eat the bad whatever. Suddenly you have two things going on.
A) An insane healing factor (more on why later)
B) Stomach problems. Throwing up, sickness, cramps, just the fucking works, and when the doctors look...nope, nothing we can do, it's in your head, stop being a baby.
But then, one month into the problem, as you're trying to cope with a life as someone whose very guts are traitors, who sometimes can't hold in food and which makes your days a misery, even as you find that you broke your leg and within three days it was healed and yet nobody believes it, "It was probably just a sprain" or whatever. There might be magic going on here.
Then you throw up some sort of something. A monstrosity. A horrible, veiny, fleshy thing that growls and one of two options
1) You're made to somehow love it despite its ugliness and then John was the progenitor or whatever.
2) It crawls down the toilet screaming, somehow digs its way (magic, again) into the sewer system and starts growing, murdering people, that sort of shit.
And then every week, there's another one vomited out. One after another, each growing up into horrible monsters. But if you try to kill yourself, unless you really just blow your brains out, it doesn't go well. And you don't want to die, but you don't want to keep doing this. Being sick and making monsters, and you're desperate and afraid and why WON'T PEOPLE BELIEVE YOU! The doctors think you're crazy, or some sort of fucking addict seeking drugs, now get out of here so we can treat the real people.
And the pain keeps on getting worse, but the worse the pain the faster you heal, and eventually even if you tried to blow your brains out, guess what?
You can't anymore.
And so you're sick and making monsters forever unless PC/etc comes along and saves you.
...I literally made that up as it went along, and so it may have, like, 50 different problems.
But it's not Dick Eggs.
Hmm. Let me try.
Let's say... You meet a stranger in a bar, and they offer you a drink. You start talking, chatting, and eventually you're not paying attention and there's something extra in the drink. You black out.
The next thing you know, you're in your room, but something is wrong. You're not sure what it is, but your balance is off, and it feels like you're bumping into things and stumbling all over a house that you should know like the back of your hand.
The next day, you look in the mirror and notice you look... Thinner. Long, drawn out. You can't focus. There's something wrong with your head, a buzzing in your ears, as if they were full of flies. You find yourself blanking out, blocks of time just disappearing from your day.
The third day, you can feel the thoughts crawling in your skull, moving you, but it's like you're watching a movie constructed of cut scenes and outtakes. Things don't make sense. Your friends are yelling at you. Did you do something wrong? Everything hurts. You look in a mirror and a skull stares back. You scream.
By the fourth day, you don't see anything, but you can hear them in your head, talking, singing. It's your language, but you can't understand the words. You should feel something, but you don't.
On the fifth day, your flesh unfolds, and your c̠̺̬ͩh̡͓͓͓̳͇̏̎ͬͩ̿͑͑̏͆i̷͚̹͍͙̮̐ͯ̅̉̌̇l̲̩̙̹ͥͩͦ͡ͅḓ̡͎̘̄̅̄̾ͣͭ̅̄́͠ͅr̸͕̺͙͈̃ͤ͂͒̆ͭ͝ē͓̘͖̟̾̆ͪͯͣ̄͠n̂͒͊ͤ҉͍͞͝ begin to fly. You can hear them, the gentle thrum of their wings, their faint giggling song, but you can't see them. You can feel them moving through the tunnels and folds of your body, but you can't move to touch them. You have become immobile, a hive for your c̠̺̬ͩh̡͓͓͓̳͇̏̎ͬͩ̿͑͑̏͆i̷͚̹͍͙̮̐ͯ̅̉̌̇l̲̩̙̹ͥͩͦ͡ͅḓ̡͎̘̄̅̄̾ͣͭ̅̄́͠ͅr̸͕̺͙͈̃ͤ͂͒̆ͭ͝ē͓̘͖̟̾̆ͪͯͣ̄͠n̂͒͊ͤ҉͍̻̲͞͝ to spawn from.
It's okay. Your c̠̺̬ͩh̡͓͓͓̳͇̏̎ͬͩ̿͑͑̏͆i̷͚̹͍͙̮̐ͯ̅̉̌̇l̲̩̙̹ͥͩͦ͡ͅḓ̡͎̘̄̅̄̾ͣͭ̅̄́͠ͅr̸͕̺͙͈̃ͤ͂͒̆ͭ͝ē͓̘͖̟̾̆ͪͯͣ̄͠n̂͒͊ͤ҉͍̻̲͞͝ will take care of you. They'll feed you. They'll stay with you, when they're not busy- Tell you stories, even if you can't understand them.
You love your c̠̺̬ͩh̡͓͓͓̳͇̏̎ͬͩ̿͑͑̏͆i̷͚̹͍͙̮̐ͯ̅̉̌̇l̲̩̙̹ͥͩͦ͡ͅḓ̡͎̘̄̅̄̾ͣͭ̅̄́͠ͅr̸͕̺͙͈̃ͤ͂͒̆ͭ͝ē͓̘͖̟̾̆ͪͯͣ̄͠n̂͒͊ͤ҉͍̻̲͞͝.
