MST: Chase's Bloody Sheets: 3/11
The return of the MST of the horrible "Dark Fic" where Chase gets AIDS from being raped by his brothers. Author-person has added another chapter, so now it's out of 11 chapters rather than 10. The ending is...equally bizarre.
The fic features: Possibly the sickest Chase family dyanamic ever recorded in fanfiction (and that's saying something). Rape, torture, etc. MST features: Cameron searching for an MST-ing job (since Foreman won't let her help with grammar), Chase being upset, Foreman being protective, and Wilson reaching his wits' end.
*****
House and Wilson: **emerge from House’s office**
Wilson: **has swollen lips**
House: **smirks** Okay, kids, lets get back to the story. To recap: Chase’s long-lost brothers turned up at the hospital, for no apparent reason. Well, except that one of them is sick. He got in a fistfight with the non-sick brother--
Foreman: **interrupts** They’re both pretty sick, if you ask me. **Puts protective arm around Chase**
House: Okay, the one who isn’t physically unwell. And he broke my leg, somehow. Brother perved on Cameron, and Chase quit his job to pursue his “real dreams.” The title to this chapter is “Chase gives himself a paper cut.”
Chase: That doesn’t sound very interesting.
House: Just you wait, my pretty.
Wilson and Foreman: **jealous, but for different reasons** Hey!
House: **clears throat and begins reading**
Sheets Of Blood Stained Cotton
Chapter 3
Robert Chase entered his house.
Chase: Huh? But I’m never a top in these things.
House: Don’t go there. Not even in the privacy of your own mind. **shudders**
His house had been particularly messy lately, with all the Cameron drama and the House drama he hadn't had much time to clean up. In truth he spent alot of his time drinking lately.
Chase: Oh dear. I hate the ones where I’m an alcoholic.
Foreman: It’s okay, baby. After this chapter, I’ll give you another spanking.
Chase: **brightens** Okay!He turned on the light in his living room and noticed the window open. Wilson: His creepy brothers are in town, and there’s a mysterious open window. I think I know where this is going.
Although Robert would usually close it before he left the house, dear Robbie was simply too damn tired and too damn distracted to think anything of it.
House: Notice here we have an example of the “creepy narrative voice,” rarely seen on FF.net. Apparently the author-person is channeling Chase’s brother.
He shut the window, wandered to the kitchen, got a bottle of Smirnoff from the fridge, went back to the living room and crashed on the couch.
Foreman: You know how sometimes these stories have sentences that go on, and on, and on, and on with no sign of a verb? We should save some of the ones from that sentence.
Chase: Even if I was an alcoholic, I’d keep my vodka in the freezer, like a civilized person.
Cameron was a mad woman. He was almost glad to be away from her, and almost sighed of relief at the thought of never having to deal with her emotional atrocities again.
Wilson: Emotional atrocities? Isn’t that a bit of an overstatement? Hitler committed atrocities. Milosevic. Stalin. Cameron may have, you know, used Chase’s body for sex, but “atrocities” is pushing it.
Let House have her, he was who she really wanted all along anyway.
House: Earth to fic!Chase: House doesn’t want her! If he did, you wouldn’t have had a shot.
But at that thought, his stomach knotted, and his heart sank for a moment. For a moment he wondered if she really had just been using him all this time.
Chase: Didn’t I just conclude that she had? I’m very indecisive in this.
He shook it off. Not like it matters now. What did he need to be a doctor for?
Wilson: Holy non sequeiter, Batman!
House: Admit it--when you were a kid, you wanted to be Adam West’s Robin.
Wilson: I have a weakness for utility belts.
Being a doctor was so -- routine.
All: **laugh**
Cameron: Yeah, it’s just the same thing day in, day out, around here.
Everyday doctors heal all kinds of people from all walks of life. People who are saints and people who go out and murder and rape and rob. The doctors never know, they just heal and treat everyone equally, murderer, stripper, policeman, or hero.
Chase: Except we usually do know. It’s called taking a history.
Its like fucking communism, Chase thought bitterly.
House: Yes. Yes, it is. Providing medical care to everyone, regardless of their moral worth, is exactly like having the workers control the means of production. I’m surprised I’ve never thought of it that way before.
Foreman: That explains why Cuba’s health care system is so good.
House: Yet not why China’s is so…not.
After all, he could probably get another job easy with all the years he had spent in med school.
Wilson: Yes. Almost a decade of medical training is exactly what they look for in a night manager at the Burger Barn.
House: Have you ever eaten there? Wouldn’t be a bad idea.
He thought for a moment about possibly being someone who worked with kids.
He loved children.
House: **opens mouth**
Chase: Don’t even start.
House: I was just going to say, maybe you could try getting a job in the PICU, if you’re so keen to work with kids.
Cameron: To get a decent job working with kids--even something like a licensed daycare job--you almost have to have some college credits in child development.
Chase: Well, fic!me could always run an unlicensed home daycare and child pornography ring. I bet my fic!brothers would want to work there, too.
Maybe he could find a job with less hours, then he'd be able to actually find a girlfriend that he actually has time to date. Then maybe he'd have some kids of his own. With that consoling thought in mind, and one last sip of Smirnoff,
House: Awww! Chase wants to grow up to be a neglectful alcoholic parent too!
Robert drifted off to sleep on his couch, never hearing the soft thump of footsteps that came down the hallway.
House: And there’s the anvilicious foreshadowing again. Scene change!
Wilson: Does this one signal the scene changes by saying our names over and over again?
House: Sadly, no. There’s just a carriage return and then the new scene starts. And it begins thusly: **reads**
Cameron and Foreman creeped into Charles' Chase's home. And clicked on the light.
Foreman: I think we “crept,” actually.
Cameron: That second part is a sentence fragment.
All: **look surprise**
Cameron: I can be a grammar Nazi too! **pouts**
It was a very neat and orderly home from what it looked like.
Chase: Unlike the filthy alcoholic sty that fic!me lives in.
They had stepped into what seemed to be a mix between a living room and a library. Each side of the room had a large book shelf on the wall, books stacked in them side by side,
Wilson: What an unusual use for bookshelves.
all of them leather bound and thick, titles often printed in gold lettering.
Wilson: Something tells me the author-person thinks that makes Charles Chase sound intellectual, when in reality it sounds like he got books by the yard at an estate sale.
On the hardwood floor were 3 tables and 3 chairs at each one.
Chase: So…nine chairs? Is that going to be important later, somehow?
House: If this was a good story, I’d say we’re supposed to try to figure out what calls for three sets of three people. Not a bridge tournament, obviously. But since it’s a bad!fic, I think someone just told the author-person that she should have some specific details about the setting, and that’s what she picked.
Wilson: All of her previous attempts at foreshadowing were pretty ham-handed. But I’m going to vote for it being important.
House: **slaps $50 bill on the table**
Wilson: No, let’s bet something more…interesting.
House: What do you have in mind?
Wilson: Winner gets to top next time.
House: Deal.
And in one side of the room that wast covered with bookshelf, wasa television.
House: It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a wasa television.
Foreman: Since “wast” is an archaic past tense form of “to be,” the author-person is saying that the television is on the side that was covered in bookshelves.
Cameron: **throws up her hands** Okay, you’re a better grammar-Nazi than I am. Happy?
Foreman: Ecstatic.
Cameron and Foreman looked under the tables for anything weird, eventually finding the room to be clean.
Cameron: Note that we didn’t consider the tables themselves to be weird.
Foreman: Why did we think there would be weird stuff under the tables? I don’t think we’ve ever found anything weird under a table.
House: I’m starting to think Wilson might be right about the tables being important.
They walked further into the house.
The rooms after that were nothing short of what looked like the home of a potato couch.
House: A potato couch? Is that like the butter cow at the state fair?
Wilson: You mean a couch carved out of a potato? It would rot pretty fast.
House: And how big do potatoes get? I bet even the world’s largest potato wasn’t much over 20 pounds, which wouldn’t make much of a couch.
Wilson: Maybe it’s a doll couch.
House: We’re going to bracket the idea of you playing with dolls, and come back to it.
Wilson: My parents were very enlightened about gender roles.
Cameron: Guys, I think it’s just a typo for “couch potato.”
House: You couldn’t really call it a typo, could you? Typo is short for “typographical error.” That would be more of a brain-o.
Potato chip bags were everywhere on the floor (even a few potato chips), clothes scattered everywhere.
Chase: So the front room was very clean, but the rest of the house is an alcoholic sty. That makes me feel better.
Cameron: It’s symbolic of how Charles Chase outwardly seems like a nice normal person, but is secretly a brother-raping weirdo.
Foreman: You don’t get to be Literary Devices Nazi, either.
Foreman and Cameron split up to find anything worth investigating. Foreman went into the bathroom and held his nose. It stank. The bathroom wasn't too messy however, some bottles of shampoo on the ground and thats about it.
Chase: And my brother apparently has a dirt-floored bathroom? That’s Klassy.
House: Did you just say “Klassy” with a K?
Chase: Yes.
The bathtub was hidden by a veil that hung from a pole in the ceiling.
Foreman: You mean like a…shower curtain?
Cameron: The author-person must not have English as a first language. We should be more tolerant.
House: **checks author profile** There’s nothing here to suggest she doesn’t speak English as a first language. Also, you can’t be Tolerance Nazi, either.
Wilson: Speaking of tolerance, I’d rather we didn’t throw the word “Nazi” around quite so much. Speaking as a Jew, I mean. Can we say that Cameron can’t be the Literary Devices Bitch or the Tolerance Bitch?
House: Normally I would scoff at your request for cultural sensitivity, but I like “Tolerance Bitch.” Motion approved.
Foreman pushed the viel aside.
Foreman: Now we’re not only calling the shower curtain a veil, we’re misspelling it. Great.
"Woah." He said. There was an enormous pile of broken glass in the tub.
House: Okay, that’s a little unexpected.
Peicing them together, Foreman deduced that they had been from shattered beer bottles.
House: You had to reassemble the broken beer bottles to figure out what they were? Oh, fic!Foreman, you so stupid.
But what the hell were they doing in the bathtub? Foreman went off to go find Cameron.
He went into a bedroom where he found Cameron sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at the tv screen, her hand over her mouth. He went over to go look at whatever she was watching.
Chase: Cameron! You’re not supposed to watch the patient’s porno!
House: No, you’re supposed to bring it back to work so that I can watch it. But I think you’re gonna regret that joke when you find out what she was watching. But not yet, because--scene change!
Wilson: I hate to say it, but the author-person does have a knack for putting scene changes in the right places to create dramatic tension.
House: You know what they say--even a blind pig can find a couple of acorns once in a while.
Robert woke up without opening his eyes. What the hell happened?, he thought to himself.
Chase: As opposed to thinking to nearby telepaths, as I usually do.
His head hurt. He tried to recall where he was when he fell asleep, and remembered the couch and the Smirnoff. He sighed and tried to move his arm to reach for the watch on the floor. He realized he was stuck on something. Opening his eyes, he realized his hands seemed to be caught on something behind his back. Great. He thought. Then he looked around and realized he was no longer on his couch. He was on his bed in his bedroom. Shirtless. He sat up, and the room started to spin. But how the hell -- ?
And as though to awnser his question, a familiar hand grabbed his shoulders from behind him. Robbie flinched.
Chase: No shit. I wake up shirtless and tied up in my bedroom, I think I’m gonna do more than flinch.
House: You’re trying to say you aren’t used to be tied up in your bedroom?
Chase: I’m not used to waking up tied up. It’s not safe to leave someone tied up while they’re sleeping. I don’t want to wake up and have my hands drop off.
House: That would be kind of gross. Okay, Foreman, make sure you never leave Chase tied up while he’s sleeping.
Foreman: Noted.
"'Ello Robbie." James whispered into his ear, that familiar warm breath creeping across his cheek.
Robert began to nearly hyperventilate, but he controlled his breathing so that his breaths came out slow but rockily as if he was struggling to breathe.
Cameron: I hope I’m allowed to point out that that’s the clumsiest description of breathing I’ve ever seen.
House: Okay, your clichéd MST job can be “Breathing Bitch."
James..." he said slowly and quietly, but in a voice dripping with panic, "Just...let...me...go..."
Chase: Slow, quiet, and panicky. What exactly would that sound like?
Cameron: I have no idea.
"No."
And fear envloped Robets heart,
Chase: I feel sorry for that Robet guy, whoever he is.
House: Yeah, way to introduce a new character right in the middle of a scene.
Foreman: Also an interesting choice of how to spell “enveloped.”
projected in his eyes,
Chase: Robet can project fear out of his eyes. That would be a cool superpower.
as he suddenly felt the cold side of a sharp knife rubbing against his side.
"You've been a bad boy Robbie." James said and with a slick flick of his wrist, he gave Robert a small cut in his side. Robbie gritted his teeth.
Chase: Okay, now it’s fic!me again. Robet is gone. I woke up tied up on my bed, and my brother is cutting me with a knife and calling me “Robbie.” This is really gross. **shudders** If I actually had a brother, I don’t think I’d be able to look him in the face for a long time after reading this.
Foreman: It’s okay, Chase. It’s just a story.
"Let me go James!" Robbie said much sterner this time.
House: I’ve found that sadistic sociopaths respond well to a firm tone of voice. Sort of like puppies.
He started trying wriggle his way out of the ropes James had tied around his wrists. James lifted the knife, and gave Robbie an even bigger cut right above the first one.
"Agh!" Robert yelped in pain, nearly feeling the blood as it ran down his side
Chase: I’m glad I only nearly felt it.
and he tensed when James stooped down and licked the blood off himself.
Cameron: Oh. My. Gawd. Whoever wrote this is really messed up. Ew. Just…ew.
House: Funny you should say that…we’ve got another scene change, and back at Casa del Charles Chase….
"Oh...my...god..." Cameron muttered out as she watched, on the tv screen, her now ex co worker being pinned to the wall by James Chase. It was more a teenage version of Robert.
Foreman: More a teenage version than what?
House: Than the version we work with. Duh.
Foreman: I know what the author-person meant, but grammatically, a comparison has to have at least two elements.
It was clearly old. She had found this video in one of the drawer's of Charles' bedroom.
Foreman: Two apostrophes in one sentence, and neither one is used correctly. That takes a special kind of stupid.
It had been entitled "Robbie." Cameron felt regretful, horrified, but now understanding.
Cameron: What a fascinating progression of emotions. It might be a little more effective if the author-person explained what I saw as I felt each of those different feelings.
Foreman: I don’t see anything about breathing in that sentence, Breathing Bitch.
On the screen, James held Chase in place while Charles' used a pair of--
House: **pauses reading** Okay, the next word is-- **spells out**
siccors
House: Any guesses that that might be?
Chase: Suckers?
Cameron: Stickers?
Wilson: Why don’t you say what he was doing with the--whatever they are--and then maybe we can figure it out.
House: Okay, he used the…sicker-thingies…
to undress Robbie in strips.
Chase: Got it. Either “scissors” or maybe “secateurs.”
House: We’ll go with scissors. Good job, Wilson.
Chase: **brightens, then wilts** Hey! I was the one who figured it out.
House: Yeah, but it was Wilson’s idea to use context clues.
Robbie was struggling and kicking to get out of James grip, screaming a high pitched "No! Get off me!" since puberty apperantley hadn't even come yet.
House: Don’t worry, Chase, I’m sure your brothers will stop molesting you when the puberty fairy comes.
Chase: Isn’t one of my brothers still molesting me--I mean, fic!me--at my apartment?
House: Your point is?
Once Charles was done and Robbie was completely nude, he ran his hands messily all over Robbie's body, feeling him up. Whoever was video taping all this zoomed in as Charles began sucking on Robbie's left nipple.
Foreman flinched.
Wilson: Note that the author-person still hasn’t come up with a better way to show that characters are experiencing distress than flinching.
Foreman: Which is weird, cause I can think of a bunch. How about, “fell on his knees and vomited”?
Cameron: Or “Called the police”?
House: Or even, “Shouted, ‘Holy fuck, that explains a lot about the wombat!’”? Anyway, now we rejoin the rape-in-progress back at Chase’s apartment.
Robbie was helpless. James had him pinned to the bed, and was currently sitting right on top of Robert's abdomen Robert couldn't throw him off, James was 2 times his size.
Foreman: Nice example of a run-on sentence, there.
House: I know our Robbie isn’t exactly a linebacker, but twice his size would be pretty damn big. Like, circus-freak big.
James was licking at Robbie's pale skin, inflicting small cuts on Robbie's body every now and then. "Mmm...you taste so good." James would mutter mockingly every once in a while. Robert held back sobs as James slowly slid down his pants down to his angles,
House: I must’ve missed that one in anatomy class. Where exactly on the body are the “angles”?
James hand then reaching out to stroke Robbie's non erected cock.
Chase: You mean I’m not getting hard from this? Shocking.
Foreman: Not only that, but here’s a sentence where we can use one of those verbs we put aside earlier.
Robert was almost sure he was going to die. He felt sick enough, and James had begun to cut up his legs. Though the cuts were small, they were plentiful and blood was dripping everywhere.
Slowly, as life would flash before ones eyes before the moment of death, Robbie began reliving his own nightmares.
-Flashback-
House: I want to point out that this section is in italics, so that’s three, count ‘em, three, signals that this is a flashback. Author-person really wants to make sure we don’t miss that.
A teenage 15 year old Robert Chase ran home to his mother and father. He ran in tears, feeling humiliated, and sick. His brothers had ravaged him. His own damn brothers. They even fucking video taped it for their sick amusement. He tripped over various times before he reached his destination because of the throbbing pain in his left torso.
Chase: I have two torsos? Neat!
House: You could even have three--a left torso, a right torso, and a middle torso.
Chase: There’s never been a viable set of conjoined triplets, though.
House: Biology is no barrier to anything in these fics--remember the one where you knocked up my daughter with identical septuplets?
He bursted into his home to find his mother lying on the couch in the entryway, her face buried in its cushion.
Foreman: Do rich white people keep couches in their entryways?
Chase: Not as a rule, no. Maybe we put it there so my alcoholic mom wouldn’t have to stagger the whole way to the sitting room.
Robbie knew very well to leave his mother alot during her hangover hours,
Foreman: What’s interesting about that, is not only is “alot” a weird typo--or brain-o--for “alone,” but “alot” itself is misspelled, since it’s supposed to be two words.
House: Yeah, that’s…interesting, all right.
so he ran to his father's study. It was a large room that resembled a library.
Chase: The study resembled a library. That…almost doesn’t even need to be said, does it?
He found his father there, studying as always.
Foreman: Studying in his study! Does this author-person realize that grown adults generally don’t have homework to do?
Chase: Isn’t it generally well known by the freaks who write these things that my essential tragedy was that my father was never around?
It took Rowan a few moments to notice his son was even there, let alone that he was crying.
Wilson: Must be a big study.
"What is it Robbie, I'm busy!" He nearly yelled at his sons tear streaked face.
"James---James and Charles----they---they..." Robert sobbed out, nearly incoherantly.
Wilson: It sounds like he’s actually incoherent, no “nearly” about it.
House: But was he “incoherant”?
"Well? What is it??" Rowan said, impatient.
Chase: We’d never have guessed he was impatient if the author-person hadn’t clarified that for us.
"They held me down and they made me ---- they fucking raped me!" Robert yelled out, bursting into even more agonized sobs.
Rowan looked stunned.
"Stop making up stories boy. They would never." Rowan said in a low voice, and then turned back to his study, but Robert grabbed his arm.
"You have to believe me!!" Robert screamed, "Here!! Look at what they did to me!!!
Robert pulled down his sweatpants to reveal his legs, which were drenched in streams of dark red blood.
Chase: Not only do I have at least two torsos, I’m also a hemophiliac. That’s less cool.
House: Notice that Chase’s Dad’s reaction to this is really bizarre. I don’t think even my Dad would be quite that cold if I told him I was getting’ raped. It gets even worse:
Rowan stared again and said, "You cut yourself. Nothing more. Get out of my study and go clean up."
"Father, please!!"
"GO ROBBIE!"
Chase: Actually, that sounds…pretty accurate. Well, except for the blood thing. If there was physical evidence, maybe…
Foreman: **cuddles Chase**
Robert couldn't believe his father. But he was at a loss for words, he redressed himself, left, waddled
Wilson: **laughs** **stops abruptly** **looks guilty** Sorry. But, um…waddled?
House: Maybe Chase is a platypus, not a wombat.
to his bedroom, plopped on the bed, buried his face into his pillow and cried for many, many hours.
-End Flashback-
Wilson: House--stop reading for a second. Is there any chance, any at all, that this is a parody? Because….
House: If it is, there’s no sign of it. And the author-person’s other stories are just as bad.
Chase: **looks up from Foreman’s chest, where he is cowering** There’s more?
House: Not about us. Her other stuff is all based on TV shows. Not real people like us.
Wilson: Do you ever wonder why there are so many people writing stories about us?
House: Duh. ‘Cause we’re awesome. **keeps reading**
Robert didn't even feel James turn him over, but what interrupted his reminising was the unbearable, blinding pain when Jame's shoved his cock into him, and Robert screamed in agony and found himself vomiting all over the pillow.
House: That’s gonna stain.
Chase: Between the blood and the vomit, I think maybe fic!me should just throw away everything on that bed.
James ignored it and pummeled into him repeatedly, moaning in pleasure while Robbie screamed in pain.
Wilson: “Pummel” isn’t really a way you can have sex. “Pounded,” maybe.
Chase: That’s what disturbs you about that passage?
Wilson: That’s the part that I can comment on without throwing up, yeah.
House: Another scene change--now we’re back at Big Brother’s house.
It had almost been an hour, and Cameron and Foreman were still watching, horrified at the pictures on the screen.
Cameron: For fuck’s sake, fic!me, CALL THE POLICE.
House: Ugh, yeah. Voyeur much? Also, we are, for some reason, trying to save this sick fuck’s life, so maybe stop looking at his wank material, however disturbing it is, and try to find some actual evidence of what’s wrong with him.
All: **stare at House**
House: **shrugs** He is a patient. We treated death-row guy.
Foreman: Death row guy didn’t repeatedly rape and torture Chase.
House: Hey, the Hippocratic Oath doesn’t end, “Unless he’s a bad guy.”
On it, they tied Robert to a table. James was on one end, ramming into Robbie, while on the other end, Charles rammed himself right into Robbie's mouth. Whoever was video taping this was laughing at Robert and mocking him, calling him "the typical blonde slut".
"Someone get out the whip!" Charles yelled out with a sadistic grin on face.
House: Another absolutely essential bit of description. I’d never have guess that the grin was sadistic, without the author-person saying so. The situation gives no clues whatsoever.
Cameron let out a small whimper for Robbie.
Cameron: Yeah, yeah. Foreman flinches, and I whimper. We’re really effective in this. **glances around** That’s breathing-related, right?
House: I’ll let it pass, this time.
He was in too much pain to fight anymore. It was not long till James left the screen and reentered it with a whip in his hand, which he began lashing across Robbies back, who let out what looked like near-spasms.
Wilson: I’ve about had it with this author-person saying, “nearly” this and “almost” that. **yells** Figure out what happened and say so--how hard can it be?
"So..." Foreman finally spoke, "Think we should take this back to House?"
House: Duh….
Foreman: So glad we had to watch the entire thing before we decided perhaps we should take some kind of action.
James pummeled into Robert for the last time. Robert let out a long, agonized scream, sobs now eminating freely.
Chase: I hate it when my sobs eminate. Or even emanate.
James leaned closer to Robbie's ear and whispered, "Thats for killing my mother." He dettached himself.
Cameron: Detached himself from wh--oh. Ick. Just…ick.
James then got up, grabbed Roberts navy blue bathrobe from his closet and wrapped it around himself, and then he walked out of the room without another word, leaving a ravaged Robbie lying on his bed in a puddle of vomit, blood, sweat, and tears.Robbie noticed that the force and physical trauma had lossened the clumsly put ropes around his wrists.
Chase: Well, that’s one good thing. Thank God those ropes have lossened.
James walked down the dark hallway with a blank expression on his face. He did not hear Robert so closley behind him.
Wilson: Who is seeing that blank expression, if “Robert” is behind him?
But he felt the blade of the knife, as Robbie stabbed it through his his head and pulled it out.
House: His head? How, exactly?
Chase: I have two--or more--torsos and fear-projecting eyes. I guess my brother has no cranium.
House: Okay, I’ll go with that. But you’d think you’d have been able to fight him off more effectively, in that case. You wouldn’t even really need the knife. Just, you know, a heavy vase or something.
James fell face down to the floor, Robert turned him over and said "Thats for killing me."
And with that line he cut his right wrist.
Chase: Wait--am I cutting my wrist, or his?
House: I honestly have no idea. Maybe it’ll make sense if we keep going.
"One slice for raping me."
Then he cut his left.
"One slice for beating me."
Then he gashed himself in the chest.
"One slice for making my father think I'm crazy."
James looked in horror up at Robert who had an insane gleam in his eye. His expression was near demented.
Wilson: **inarticulate howl**
House: Don’t you mean, “near-inarticulate howl,” MSTer-person? **pats Wilson, with a worried look** I'll pour some black coffee into him as soon as we're done here. He'll be fine.
"One slice, for never letting me forget."
Chase: It’s like a sick little nursery rhyme.
Robert slit his throat, and as though in slow motion, fell on top of his brother, drawing what he believed to be his last, final breaths.
Foreman: Last and final. Glad we cleared that up.
Chase: **clears throat** I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of…don’t feel very sexy right now.
Foreman: Yeah. No problem there, little buddy.
Chase: I think I’d like to take a shower…and then maybe wrap myself up in a blanket and rock in the corner for a while. If that’s okay with you.
Foreman: I’ll get you a teddy bear and a hot drink.
House: Okay, but nobody go yet--there’s a special bonus feature.
Chase: **moans** Oh god.
House: It’s not too bad. The site where these people post their sick little stories have a feature where people can review the sick little stories. Most of the reviews for this one are things like “OMG, I can’t wait to see what happens next!” This was the only one that was at all critical:
There's something a tad off characterwise about this fic.
Chase: **splutters** A tad off? Just a tad? A smidgen? Maybe a soupcon?
House: I’m not done. **reads on**
And I don't really love sudden AU characters such as the brothers... BUT am loving how dark this is. You're totally pushing the boundaries which makes for great original fanfiction. There's no way anyone could find this boring - you're really going somewhere with this, can't wait to see where you take it!
Wilson: Well…I guess she has a point…it’s not exactly boring….
Cameron: It’s disgusting, is what it is. Dark is one thing. This is just…I mean, unless Chase’s brother is a vampire, or something….that would actually make this more realistic. And it’s within my job description to say that, because if Chase’s brother was a vampire, he wouldn’t be breathing. **defiant look**
House: Okay, I’ll take it. Break time, everybody. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. We’ll begin again in an hour.