It's War!
House vs. Tritter : aka 'When Bad Cops Go Worse'
One little mistake.
Sure, he'd done it on purpose, because a well practiced physician does not leave a thermometer up a patient's ass on accident, unless he's really just an idiot. He'd done it on purpose. He knew it. Tritter knew it. And Tritter wasn't going to let him get away with it.
Because Tritter had a problem with him. Not because he was an asshole, but because he needed to humiliate people to win. He was a bully.
Sitting in that cell, on the concrete floor, House knew one thing. His one little mistake was going to cost him.
Now he's sitting at his desk, last remaining Vicodin in his pocket of his suit jacket. He can feel it, against his chest, even though it barely weighs anything at all. He wants it. He doesn't need it, not yet, but to fight the pain (and fight Tritter in some weird metaphorically way, he supposes) he wants to prove he can handle it. It's not that he's an addict (even though he is) but that he's in pain.
Tritter is a bigger pain.
Turning his friends against him.
Turning his ducklings into pawns in his little evil chess game.
House can only imagine the cop in his lonely, yet well furnished (fucking bastard) apartment, with a little map of the hospital, blue spaces marked by the territories he has yet to conquer, and a looming black ooze of his evil domain of up-to-no-goodness. With that insolent smirk on his face, chewing away at his damn gum.
But what Tritter didn't realize, was that House isn't one to go down without a fight. That's why he's ready to go to court. Ready to pull punches. Ready to take this thing to the floor.
It's the Good Doctor House vs. Detective Asswipe, in the showdown of the century.
Let the games begin.
Dr. Greg House
House
Words: 300
One little mistake.
Sure, he'd done it on purpose, because a well practiced physician does not leave a thermometer up a patient's ass on accident, unless he's really just an idiot. He'd done it on purpose. He knew it. Tritter knew it. And Tritter wasn't going to let him get away with it.
Because Tritter had a problem with him. Not because he was an asshole, but because he needed to humiliate people to win. He was a bully.
Sitting in that cell, on the concrete floor, House knew one thing. His one little mistake was going to cost him.
Now he's sitting at his desk, last remaining Vicodin in his pocket of his suit jacket. He can feel it, against his chest, even though it barely weighs anything at all. He wants it. He doesn't need it, not yet, but to fight the pain (and fight Tritter in some weird metaphorically way, he supposes) he wants to prove he can handle it. It's not that he's an addict (even though he is) but that he's in pain.
Tritter is a bigger pain.
Turning his friends against him.
Turning his ducklings into pawns in his little evil chess game.
House can only imagine the cop in his lonely, yet well furnished (fucking bastard) apartment, with a little map of the hospital, blue spaces marked by the territories he has yet to conquer, and a looming black ooze of his evil domain of up-to-no-goodness. With that insolent smirk on his face, chewing away at his damn gum.
But what Tritter didn't realize, was that House isn't one to go down without a fight. That's why he's ready to go to court. Ready to pull punches. Ready to take this thing to the floor.
It's the Good Doctor House vs. Detective Asswipe, in the showdown of the century.
Let the games begin.
Dr. Greg House
House
Words: 300