NEVER SAY DIE, UNCLE HANK!
Walt Jr. has some things to say about his uncle's physical and mental strength. This is a dark and twisted spin on a brief conversation during a Season 3 episode. Please comment nicely!
"Come on, sweetie, it's time to visit your Uncle Hank."
"C-coming, mom." Walter White Jr. turned off the TV, wishing there was more time to watch the end of KEY LARGO. Only when he was watching classic black and white movies did the brave handicapped boy forget the sadness and pain of his life. It wasn't just being on crutches . . . it was being useless. Not wanted by his father, or in on any of dad's inner feelings or the business he never talked about.
"Now, sweetie, I'm going to leave you alone with Uncle Hank today. Mommy has business with Uncle Ted. Be back in an hour, sweetie!"
"S-s-sure, mom. Go on and t-take care of business, like the B-B-Bachman Turner Overdrive." Walter Jr. put a smile on his face. Dad never seemed to notice when Mom had business with Uncle Ted. Dad was quiet lately, real quiet. But sometimes when Walter White Sr. was in a good mood he played old Seventies songs in the car. Dad had secrets, feelings he didn't share. Maybe he secretly wanted to be a bad-ass. Sometimes Walt Jr. thought maybe his dad really was a bad-ass.
Maybe that was why he had no time for a crippled son.
As he made his way slowly and painfully down the hall to his uncle's hospital room, Walt Jr. felt like killing someone. Anyone! But he didn't have the strength to kill a fly. All he had was his mind. Could he kill a man with his mind? That was the way Dad did things. If he could just make Dad notice him one time . . . just make him laugh . . .
"What do you want, you little shit?" Uncle Hank tried to sound like his old self, cocky and mean. But he was looking pretty bad. He had been shot three or maybe four times by these Mexican Cartel guys. Uncle Hank killed them both though. He was a bad-ass.
"Hello, Uncle H-Hank." Walt Jr. smiled. Uncle Hank didn't mean anything by calling him a little shit. There was no reason to get mad about it. So Walt Jr. just smiled.
"Where's your old lady, kid? Didn't she want to be here? Spend some quality time with a hopeless cripple?" Uncle Hank's eyes were mean, mean and crazy. He looked like an animal trapped in a hole. He hadn't shaved in days. And he smelled like lately he'd been going to the bathroom in his pants. A lot.
"M-m-mom has business," Walt Jr. forced himself to say. It was like the angry feelings were voices, getting louder and louder in his head. They were like the voices of the guys in the old movies. The ones he watched when he was alone, the classics like LITTLE CAESAR, KEY LARGO, and EIGHT MEN OUT.
"Yeah, I'll bet she does," Uncle Hank smirked. "Bet your old man doesn't know about it though. Hey, just kidding!"
"You're n-n-not that funny, Uncle Hank." Walt Jr. got scared the moment he opened his mouth. He never, ever stood up to Uncle Hank. Never told him what he was feeling. Walt Jr. was afraid of his uncle, even when he was lying in bed crippled and smelling like diapers.
"Well, you little smart-ass, let's see how funny you are after you get shot."
"You got shot because you asked for it, Uncle Hank. You make it - you make it - you make it easy for people to hate you. You just put them down all the time. You put them down for being weak, or Mexican, or cr-cr-crippled!"
"Hey, kid, wait a minute! I shot those two punks for breaking the law!"
"Yeah, but - but they shot you first. And it hurts, doesn't it? It hurts being a cripple. Knowing that your body won't work any more. Because without your body you're nothing. You can dish it out, Uncle Hank. But you just can't take it!"
"Listen to me, you little shit. If you think for one minute I'm going to be like this forever . . ."
"You're n-never getting out of that bed, Uncle Hank. You don't have the guts. I can see it in your eyes. You like fighting when you've got - got a gun, or the other guy's a cripple. B-b-but you don't like fighting when you're the one who's crippled. No guts!"
"I'll show you who's got guts!" All the wires and machines went crazy as Uncle Hank tore himself loose and tried to grab Walt Jr. But the crippled boy had more practice at moving with a crippled body. He hopped backwards just in time, laughing at the look of agony on his uncle's face.
"Come on, Uncle Hank!"
"Stand your ground, you little punk!"
"Stand your ground, Uncle Hank!" Walt Jr. echoed. "Stand your ground, y-you're killing me!"
"God . . . damned . . . punk . . ." Something was really wrong with Uncle Hank. He'd fallen off the bed and was lying on the floor, trying to clutch his back.
"That's it, Uncle Hank. Never say die!"
Aunt Marie didn't come to the funeral. It wasn't that she was grief-stricken. She was in jail. At the funeral home she'd stolen the diamond watch off a rich lady who was lying out in the main room about to be buried.
Walt Jr. laughed his ass off when he heard that story. He laughed even more when he told what he did to Uncle Hank.
And his father laughed too.