OK, this probably sucks, but I wanted to write it. So I did.

Disclaimer - I cannot possibly own M*A*S*H. Whoever told you I do is a liar.

It had been five hours since Hawkeye and Potter had left the cruddy approximation of safety of the 4077th for the Korean hospital. There had been no word since.

Frank hadn't really noticed; as soon as the CO had vacated the premises he'd realised he was now in charge and set to whitewashing the perimeter stones. Margaret was vaguely aware of an aura of concern in the back of her mind, but with Pierce gone, McIntyre strangely frigid, Hunnicutt flying the fidelity flag, and Frank busy with the whitewash, there was no-one making passes at her - a rare situation,and one she relished. BJ was growing worried after reports of unrest in the area. Trapper was worse. He hadn't stopped pacing since.

King Zoltan, leader of the Lebanese Gypsy Tribe of Toledo - formerly known as Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger, corpsman and lackey of the United States Army - refused to be tempted out of character. Despite knowing very little about gypsy culture and even less about fortune telling, he'd begun charging people for his services as a clairvoyant as he waited for the discharge that, no doubt, would be bestowed upon him just as soon as the good Colonel returned.

"Hold out your palm." He instructed Igor, who was there only because it was something to do besides be cursed over the state of the food. "I'm seeing...glory. Honour. National recognition!" That comprised most of Klinger's 'fortunes'.

"What for?"

"An attempt will be made on your life in the near future." He said, as his client llistened. "Bravely, you will fight your assailants off with only a soup ladle-"

"Wait, why do they try to kill me?"

Klinger hadn't thought of that. "They...didn't like the food!" He ad-libbed, hoping for the best.

His client left in disgust.

"Next!" 'Zoltan' hollered to the imaginary queue outside his tent. He didn't actually expect anyone to enter, he just liked saying it.

Captain Trapper John McIntyre ducked into the flimsy-looking dwelling, sidestepping an inconveniently-placed bust modelling the necklace its inhabitant had traded for the previous month. What he'd traded was unclear, but it was widely believed that the other party had gotten the better end of the deal.

"Hold out yo-"

"I know the drill." Trap sat down heavily on the upturned crate Klinger had set there for just such a purpose and stuck out a hand, which the Gypsy King began examining as though it contained the secrets of the universe - or, more probably, the fashions of the next month.

"Hmmm..." mused Klinger. What sort of future would Captain McIntyre enjoy? "I see...divorce." There. McIntyre's not all that happily married - he can't be if what Radar's said is true... "Your wife files for divorce in...two year's time- the war's over by then- but you still have visiting rights for the kids." He does have kids, right?

Trapper John didn't appear too convinced by this prophecy.

If I can't impress him, he won't pay! "Then, a year later, you remarry-"

"Who?" His new visitor was eyeing the door out of the corner of his eye.

You're losing him! Think, Maxie, think! And don't say- "Captain Pierce?" Damn! You've just lost another customer.

Trapper laughed a little then, but it died down quickly. "And then I woke up."

"Hey, how do you know what'll happen in three years? You're not Radar!"

"True." he shrugged. "I'm not, but I know what won't be happening." He sighed, paid Corporal Zoltan, and stood up to leave.

"Sir?"

"What? I got a date with a martini."

"If they call, you'll be the first to know."