House stood proudly within his kitchen in his house, AKA the House-House. It was shaped like a gigantic image of his head, correct in every proportion, hair shape and spittle drop. It was paid by the gratitude of nations, and the fears of the weak. Each night, House would climb in through the rope in the left ear, and every morning would exit during the mouth. But that's not the important part. The important part is within the mouth, the garage. Here House sat upon the butterfly-leather seat of the Harmony Dodger, slowly stroking its sensual curves and planning his next medical escapade.

It was clear that he and conventional medicine had done all that they could do for Albert, they had stabilised his condition and promised him a miserable life within the walls of Princeton hospital. House wanted to do more. He was a doctor, damnit, he must doct! With uncharacteristic rage he head-butted the dashboard of his motorbike.

In a magic-like moment the engine roared into life and the radio blared with CHOICES: ONE DIRECTION'S GREATEST HITS, the last CD that House had left in the second-hand motorbike's tape-deck. A needling, bell-like voice spoke through the speakers. 'We can fix Albert!'

'Who's that?' House answered.

'It's me, honey, the Harmony Dodger.' The motorbike purred. 'I can shrink you down to the size of a pinhead, and you can go inside Albert Poppins for a closer look.'

'Are you magic?'

'Of course.'

House considered this major change in his worldview and this opportunity with typical alacrity. 'Sounds like a plan Afghanistan!'

House felt himself tilt forward as the motorbike nodded its agreement.

'Shouldn't we get Whammo?' asked House. 'He's always been my number two.'

'I've always been here for you, House.' The grumpy doctor heard the voice of best friend reverberate within the confines of his garage. House's friend stepped out of the darkness clutching a blood-soaked furby to his emaciated ribcage.

'Whammo? I didn't know you lived in my garage?'

'Remember season twenty? When my house was stolen by a nymphomaniac trilobites?'

'Oh yeah!' House chuckled as he folded his arms behind his head and laughed. 'Typical Whammo Wilson! So you've just been living here for the last eight years! What do you eat man?'

'Sponges and bits of old tire, with paint for flavour.' Wilson smiled bravely. 'It's not such a bad life, once you get used to it.'

'Jump in my sidebob, Whambaby, and let's roll!' commiserated the Harmony Dodger.

Whammo did, and soon the doctorly double were whizzing down the highway of life, but with one important difference. The further they got from the House-house the smaller they became, until even ants seemed like humongous modern art installations.

'Now for hyperspace!' denied the sentient motorbike.

'Woweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!' screamed the men of medicine as the Harmony Dodger hole punched space time and catapulted them directly into nervous system of Albert Poppins.

House opened his seeing eyes and saw that he was now situated within an unlikely way-out, psychedelic dreamscape. In the distance he could see stars merge into greater stars, rainbows devour each other, eyeballs rain from the heavens and dogs wearing tuxedos.

'Wilson,' he said out of the side of the head. 'Don't look now, but I think we've both attained Total Consciousness.'

'Groovy dude.' Explained Whammo Wilson.

After they dismounted the Harmony Dodger, House tied his magical motorbike to a Mr. Saturn. In front of them was a red line, probably formed of blood.

'To find the answer to Albert's problem it.' House chewed. 'we must follow the red road.'

'Indeed.'

What was House looking for? What you'd expect, clowns, balloons, that sort of thing. Balloonists. I don't actually know, I'm not a genius doctor, but a bog-standard omniscient narrator.

Under a pulsating arch of bone stood the silhouette a woman wearing a long skirt, holding an umbrella and wearing a bowler hat.

In her other hand she held a machine gun. 'Eat lead, doctor man!' screamed the woman.

One bullet hit House's feathered walking stick, and House collapsed. Another bullet hit him in the torso. It took about a second for Doctor Gregory House to die of excessive bleeding.

Whammo Wilson lived up to his name. 'Why aren't you shooting me?'

'You?' Mary Poppins snorted. 'You are but a mere oncologist. I see no pigs here – what damage can you do?'

The doctorly duo had predicted such a situation would occur sooner or later, and had a contingency plan just for such an occasion. Whammo leaned forward and vomited on the spinning ground. Fishing between the sponge chunks his finger found a teaspoon. He kneeled over House's corpse and dug into his chest with the tiny utensil, until he found what looked like a single, wizened sultana – the heart of House. The child psychiatrist threw it into his mouth like a peanut, and swallowed.

Mary Poppins collapsed to the ground, her eyes burnt by the singing of an angelic choir. Do do do do do do do do do do, House is such a grump, An ugly little mean lump, I don't see why anyone puts up with him, Do do ad od od de do doa dod de do doe do.

Whammo, or the body he once occupied, rose five feet above the ground and glowed like the sun. The left leg bent at an unnatural angle, the hair lightened, grizzle grew on the chin and two huge dents formed new cheekbones. With a voice deeper than the Marianas Trench, he spake: 'I AM BECOME HOUSE!'

'I confess!' Mary Poppins eluded. 'I am the cause of the inflation! I was put into the Albert's tea by Mary Poppins, so that his levity would form a moral lesson for Jane and Michael on the importance of excess.'

'I expected as much, you weird little nannite.' Said the new House. 'Luckily you've run out of bullets, or you'd get me. But what to do with you?'

House was lying, of course, (everyone does it, did you hear?) He had no idea who Mary Poppins was, but he assumed that was an arc for another episode.

Mary Poppins threw a bean on the ground and disappeared, cackling 'I'm outta here, like Richard Gear!'

'Bloody typical,' muttered House as he walked back to the Harmony Dodger.

'Watch out!' screamed Wilson's consciousness, still locked within the body he willingly shared with House. 'It's the motherflippin walrus from Pingu.'

House spun around on his axis like an incontinent planet to learn what Wilson spake was true. The Walrus was here, and there, and there, a little bit over there, and there as well, but we can't see that because the Walrus is in the way. The portrait vision of the dreaded sea-beast dominated House's eyescape. Brown leather like the most satanic leather jacket, black eyes as dead as a realtor, breath as foul as a unwashed henhouse, whiskers as subtly blasphemous as a misspelt hymn and teeth as yellow as the grave of golden gods. These descriptions are but mere signposts pointing you to something like a true comprehension of how completely and unutterably EVIL this walrus was.

House pivoted again, but in front of him was a bed with red and white cheques. It was walking towards him, without knees, but with wooden legs stretching and contracting like Hade's accordion. There was more than one, and the soiled beds corralled him towards the sea monster.

'Not so easy!' House muttered under his breath. 'I promised!'

Man makes promises. Seals laugh at them. Laugh like clowns with guns, like jackals with the flesh of the innocent bleeding on their tongues. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

House stumbled forward, pressed on the back of his knees by the beds. The Walrus, who shall remained unnamed due to my respect for the sanctity of the very concept of names, trapped House within an igloo as white as a BNP wet dream.

'I may be trapped out there.' House indicated the walls of the igloo and the worn, slightly familiar looking furniture within them. 'But with Asclepius as my witness, I am not trapped here!' House pointed at his head and heart.

Something big and red slopped through the door of the igloo, the tongue of the walrus. House clung to the furthest wall, strong in heart and bladder control.

'Here come's old smooth-head.' Wilson's voice echoed in his mind. 'he jives up pretty quick.'

A cloudy vision of Cameron's head swam infront of House's delirious eyes. 'He got vicodene addiction, only one leg.'

Now Chase's head danced around like a migraine, mocking House's very own sensory perceptions. 'They said they loved each other.'

The foyer of Eric Foreman's body, his face, joined in. 'Hanging out… down the street… same old thing… you did last weeeek.'

'What's going on?' House sang.

'We're your friends.' Chanted the voices. 'We've come in your time of need. Need you our power?'

House nodded harder than he'd ever nodded in his medical life. 'Yes!' leaked his eyeholes. 'Friends! I needst thou POWER!'

The doctor medical could feel the power justice engulf his being, looking at his hand he could feel his skin turn transparent to reveal the unheimlich muscle flowing beneath. His lower intestines were visible to the world, and the architectural ivory of his skull was displayed in total. The strength of his hands and brain were multiplied by ten, perpuled, and House suddenly had a plan.

He had forgotten what the mysterious old firewoman who'd sold him the Harmony Dodger had told him to remember. It was possible to summon the bike by clicking your tongue ten times before farting out the secret, hundredth name of God.

'GODBERT!' farted House, the little red thingy at the back of his mouth wiggling as though his mouth were a red car.

With a crash as primal as a third ocean the Harmony Dodger whizzed within the evil igloo. House leapt aboard, and road his motorbike up around the walls in circle, gritting his teeth and working up enough momentum to break the walls. Eventually he did; he arrived at the roof and saw the vision of the devil walrus rising up from the horizon like a carnivorous sun.

It lunged at him with its flippers, likely for dinner. House groaned as though stuck in the most terrible of traffic jams. From the back wheel cover of the Harmony Dodger sprouted nine beautiful peacock tails, representations of the souls of House's underlings, Cameron, Chase and Eric Foreman. Above the middle, upmost tail was a star in which burned Wilson's face. 'Get'm House!' screamed the star.

House dimly noted a choir of drunken lymphocytes, with tomato sauce bottles wedged up the most unlikeliest of orifices, singing manic Christmas carols. They split and intermingled with orgiastic decorum.

'DAEMON!' House roared at the seal, into his tunnel-like pupils. 'ABORT THYSELF!'

The doctor rode the motorbike into the air. Before gracefully backflipping onto the soft ground. He headbutted the steering wheel, thus activating the air cushion. The pillow filled the area, smothering the walrus until he died. And so did Doctor Gregory House kill mankind's oldest foe with the most doctorly of weapons; a single pillow.

The body of the Walrus turned red and disintegrated. In a penguin bar in another world a penguin felt a lot better, and ran out to post some letters. Forty years earlier two seals lying naked on a beach decided to sleep in separate beds, due to a snoring problem.

House landed on the ground in a three-point position, did a forward roll and caught what remained of the Harmony Dodger in his strong arms.

'House, I always-' purred the bike.

'Shhhhh.' House shushed. 'I know. I always knew, from the moment I met you.' He gently kissed the Harmony Dodger on the left handlebar. 'A little fall of rain can hardly hurt you now.'

After he buried the motorbike in Albert's appendix, House used his teaspoon to gouge out his left eye, which he threw onto the ground. It expanded until it took on the attitude and appearance of Whammo Wilson. A new eye rolled into place to replace the old one, like a vending machine.

'Gee, thanks House!' said the child psychiatrist.

'Anytime, Li'l buddy!' grinned House. 'Now let's go home!'