L*E*A*P 4077 Chapter 4: Bigfoot and the Poker Game, a m*a*s*h fanfic

For all readers unfamiliar with the several cast changes over the show's eleven season run: Captain "Trapper" John McIntyre was Hawkeye's best friend and bunkmate before he was sent stateside and replaced by Captain B.J. Hunnicutt. Colonel Henry Blake was C.O. of the 4077th until receiving his ticket home. (Unfortunately, "… the plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan … there were no survivors.") His job was taken over by Colonel Sherman Potter. Major Frank Burns was the bunkmate and the nemesis of Hawkeye and Trapper (and later, Hawkeye and B.J.) and the not-so-secret lover of Major Margaret Houlihan. When he suffered a breakdown, he was shipped home and replaced by Major Charles Winchester.

You may be wondering, then, why this author would have the audacity to write Trapper, Henry, and Frank into the story. Fear not, my friends – they are simply a part of Hawkeye's delirium. Speaking of which, if the scene in Hawkeye's point-of-view fails to make sense – it's not supposed to.

Of course, these men do not belong to me, but to Larry Gelbart (or whoever owns them). Sam and Al belong to Don Bellisario. If I try to claim otherwise, Radar won't let me hold his teddy bear.

Project Quantum Leap

Stallions Gate, New Mexico

February 12, 2002

"I'll raise you five peanut M&Ms," Erin announced.

Al bit down on his unlit cigar and shoved some of his candy into the pile. "Make that six peanut M&Ms and two bite-size Snickers."

"Six peanut M&Ms and three bite-size Snickers," Verbena said as she used a well-manicured hand to push some of her chocolate loot into the pot.

Radar studied his cards and snorted. "I raise you seven M&Ms, four bite-size Snickers, and one York Peppermint Patty." Ten of Spades, Jack of Spades, King of Spades, Ace of Spades, and Two of Hearts. All I need is a lousy Queen of Spades and I'll have a royal flush.

"Ever hear of something called 'Poker Face', kid?" Al asked.

"Well, sure," he answered. "Captain Pierce says I don't have one."

"I'll say," Al muttered.

Erin pointed to the York Patty. "You … you're giving that up?"

Radar shrugged. "I don't like peppermints," he explained. "They make me nauseous."

Erin turned to Al, an expression of mock horror on her face. "He doesn't like York Patties," she gasped. "What kind of person is he?" She leaned over Radar, and met his gaze eye-to-eye. "Any dolt who hates York Patties is un-American and should be shot."

"I'll keep it if you want, but I don't wanna get vomit on your nice clean floor." Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! … Sorry, Father Mulcahy … These people are 'bout as crazy as the folks at the 4077th. He'd never seen anyone, much less a U.S. Navy Admiral, dressed like Admiral Calavicci before. With his plum suit, matching fedora, and silver satin shirt with the holographic circles, you'd never know that Al was an admiral. I wonder how he'd get along with Klinger. He wasn't used to seeing female psychiatrists, especially black female psychiatrists, but Dr. Beeks seemed nice enough. She's got this calm way about her, he decided. I don't know what to make of Colonel Hunnicutt, but if she's related to B.J., she must be all right.

Erin broke out into a grin. "Relax, Radar," she said. "I'm just teasing. Two cards, please," she told the dealer.

Al, the temporary dealer for this hand, exchanged her cards. Radar thought he saw a flicker of disappointment pass over the colonel's face, but she managed to squash it.

"Three, thank you," Verbena said.

"And for you, my good man?" Al asked.

"One for me." He handed over the Two of Hearts and took its replacement.

The dealer exchanged his cards. "Lay 'em out on the table," he ordered.

Erin placed her cards facedown. "I fold."

"Full house," Verbena announced.

Radar displayed his hand for the others to see. "Royal flush."

"Jeez Louise!" Al exclaimed. He laid out his own cards. "Three Kings."

"Do you play poker much?" Erin asked.

"It's the best way to earn money," Radar answered. "Our camp chaplain plays to raise money for his orphanage."

"Admiral Calavicci?" Ziggy's voice wafted throughout the Waiting Room.

Al glanced up at the ceiling. "What do you want, Ziggy?" he grumbled.

"You're presence is needed in the Control Room," she answered.

"By who?" The older man appeared to be annoyed at the interruption. "I was in the middle of a poker game, you bucket of bolts!"

"Hey, now wait a minute here!" Radar shouted, jumping to Ziggy's defense. "Company clerks do a lot of hard work to keep the camp organized," he informed the admiral. "You shouldn't talk to that lady like that. You could hurt her feelings."

"I'm not a company clerk," Ziggy responded haughtily. "I'm a parallel hybrid computer."

Radar wrinkled his forehead. "A para- who?" he asked. Maybe she's trying to get a Section 8 like Klinger.

"You ever meet someone with a large ego?" Al wanted to know. He nodded. "Take the size of their ego … and triple it." He waved his cigar toward the ceiling. "You get Her Royal Highness." He stood up. "Congratulations, kid," he said, and patted Radar on the back before exiting the room.

Dr. Beeks looked at her watch. "It's almost one in the morning. We probably should get going, too," she told Colonel Hunnicutt.

"Will I be able to go back to my unit tomorrow?" Radar inquired. As much as he enjoyed playing poker with these people, it wasn't the same as being with the gang back at the MASH.

"Verbena yawned. "We'll get you back to the MASH 4077th as soon as possible," she assured him.

* * *

MASH 4077th

Ouijongbu, Korea

June 5, 1952

The rocks felt slippery beneath Hawkeye's bare feet. Any other time, he would have found the ocean to be peaceful, but now the waves crashing against the Maine shoreline were increasing an already severe headache. In the distance, an Army-issued cot and the Still were floating over the water. He rubbed his neck to get rid of the stiffness, but he could only raise his arm for a fraction of a second before dropping it to his side. He stumbled toward the edge of the cliff and allowed the waves to rise up and cradle his exhausted body. A door slammed, and the Maine seashore melted into the drab Swamp.

"Stick a pin in it!" Captain "Trapper" John McIntyre shouted to his lipless companion as they entered the Swamp.

"Hi, Frank," Hawkeye slurred.

"Goodbye, Frank," Trapper said as he waved.

Major Frank Burns grunted. "Don't you wish!"

Trapper knelt down next to his friend. "The ground comfortable enough for you, Hawk?"

Hawkeye sighed. "Feels like I'm sleeping in white satin sheets at a five star hotel."

"Got a girl with you?"

Hawkeye grinned at the image of Trapper's image merging with the water. "Of course," he told him. "Big eyes, big lips, big hands, big breasts …"

Frank stomped his foot on the floor. "Pierce, you disgust me," he sneered. "Get up off the floor, you good-for-nothing coot!"

Hawkeye glared at his nemesis. "Frank, if I wasn't as opposed to violence as I am, I'd wrap my hands around your neck and strangle you."

Burns folded his arms across his chest. "Well, phooey to you!" he responded.

"Get the hell out of my sight before I shoot you," Pierce warned.

Trapper cleared his throat. "Violence doesn't solve problems," he reminded his tent-mates. "Haven't we learned that little lesson by now?"

"I'm gonna kill you, Frank," Hawkeye screamed. "If you don't get the fuck out of here, you're dead!"

* * *

Captain B.J. Hunnicutt planted a size thirteen shoe into the dirt. "What do you mean, you can 'beat me at anything'?" he said firmly. "I can play chess just as well as anyone."

The balding Major snickered. "As well as Pierce?" He shook his head. "Hunnicutt, Hunnicutt, Hunnicutt," he sighed. "You and Pierce just don't have what it takes. A person needs skill. Precision. Strategy."

B.J. cocked his head and caught Charles' eyes. "Wanna bet?" After six hours in the O.R. (fifteen minutes spent assuring Radar and Klinger that Hawkeye's headache would go away faster if they didn't worry so much), even the stuffy Bostonian's opera music sounded inviting.

Charles raised himself up to his full height. "Best two out of three wins," he said. They approached the Swamp. "If I win, you have to …" He stopped short in the doorway.

"Do you mind not blocking traffic?" B.J. asked as he collided into his bunkmate. "You could cause an accident." His voice trailed off when he saw what the major was staring at. "Hawkeye!" he shouted to the crumpled form laying facedown on the floor. "Someone get a litter!" he called out.

The two surgeons knelt beside their fellow bunkmate. He was mumbling in incoherent sentences, but B.J. could make out the words kill and Frank.

Charles checked Hawkeye's pulse. "Pierce, I'm surprised at you," he quipped. "For an avowed man of peace, you most certainly have a violent streak."

"Go ahead, Frank!" Hawkeye growled. "Complain to Henry. See if I care – see if he even cares." His thrashing made it difficult for the doctors to turn him onto his side.

"He's not unconscious," Charles stated. "But he seems a bit delirious."

B.J. rolled his eyes. "What gave it away?"

Hawkeye waved his arm and hit B.J. in the leg. "Aw, come on, Henry!" he pleaded to an invisible person. "It's not my fault if Ferret Face here can't take a death threat."

"Who's 'Ferret Face'?" Charles inquired.

"Frank Burns – the idiot you replaced," B.J. said. He noticed the rash on his best friend's hand and did a closer inspection.

"Trap, look!" Hawkeye suddenly yelled. He pointed to B.J.

"What are we looking at, Pierce?" Charles asked dryly. "I don't see anything exciting around here."

"It's Bigfoot!" he exclaimed. He struggled to sit up, but his tall friend pushed him back down.

Great, I'm Bigfoot now, B.J. said to himself. "Relax, buddy," he instructed the delirious man. Hawk, you're scaring me. He'd seen his friend go out of his head before, but never as bad as right now.

"Henry, I don't feel so good," Hawk moaned. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

B.J. repositioned the captain's head to prevent him from choking on his vomit. "Too late for that," he informed him. "You're already sick."

* * *

Except for three or four patients conversing amongst themselves and Major Houlihan doing the routine checkups, Post-Op was fairly quiet. Charles directed the corpsmen to an empty cot in the corner, and B.J. walked over to Houlihan.

"I've got an offer you can't refuse," he said. He leaned over her shoulder and skimmed over the chart she was holding. "Private Dawson … swallowed a hardware store."

"Captain, in case you haven't noticed, I'm very busy," Margaret said.

He folded his arms across his chest and attempted to sound cheerful. "How would you like the honor of taking Hawkeye's temperature?"

She looked up. "What are you talking about?"

He nodded his head in the direction of their friend, who was being placed onto the cot. Margaret covered her mouth and let out a gasp.

"Is he all right?" she asked.

"We don't know," B.J. replied. "Winchester and I found him on the floor of the Swamp." He began to pace in front of the private's cot. "He's burning up with a fever, has a rash all over his hands and his neck, and he's already vomited twice." He rubbed a hand over his mustache. "Plus, he's completely delirious." His conversation with Radar and Klinger in the O.R. came rushing back to him. He's got the classic symptoms of meningitis – someone should take a look at him. …Relax, Radar. He's probably got a bad hangover – it'll pass.

Margaret saw his worry and patted his arm. "I'm sure he's going to be just fine," she assured him. She was trying to sound confident, but she wasn't fooling B.J. "Maybe Radar was wrong. Maybe he's just got a fever."

He watched silently as his ashen-faced buddy thrashed around and called out for the deceased colonel he never had the honor of meeting. Just this once, he hoped old "Hot Lips" Houlihan was right.