Disclaimer: The basic plot for this story is my idea, however The Fairly OddParents and all characters involved belong to Butch Hartman.

Chapter One-- "Rainy Days And Mondays"

The gray interior, the lack of sunlight, the musty smell, the restraints, the silence--he'd been there before. One would think he might have gotten used to it after a while, but he could never feel safe and contented in a place with that description because it fit one place and one place alone--the mental institution.

Yes, Denzel Crocker had pushed the envelope a little too far--again. A violent clash of opinions involving himself and his boss, Geraldine Waxelplax, and--of course-- revolving around fairies had landed him there, same as last time. His life was and always would be a broken record, destined to skip and repeat itself for all time. It seemed he would never learn that himself, Waxelplax, and fairies didn't go well together.

He winced and gritted his teeth in annoyance as he could hear his next door neighbor--Adam West a.k.a. "Catman"--sharpening his claws on the padded walls of his cell. In the oppressive silence, that sound didn't take long to grate on Crocker's raw nerves.

"Will you shut up?!" he shouted, kicking the wall as his arms were bound in a straitjacket. Otherwise, he would have pounded his fists on it.

"Never!" Catman replied, "Catman shuts up when Catman pleases!"

"Shut up, crazies!" an orderly barked the warning from somewhere in the corridors.

Crocker obeyed as did Catman, their argument dying on the spot as neither one of them favored the idea of going "night-night". Crocker still continued to nurse his grudge against the demented celebrity. How fair was it that he had to sit in a straitjacket while his neighbor was free to shred the walls to his heart's content?

Distraught in more ways than one, Crocker sat there on the shabby bed and looked up to stare out the small window at the black night sky. No stars...nothing to lighten the mood or lift his spirit even a fraction. It reminded him of a day of long ago--one of those days he had no desire to consciously remember.

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How he hated summer camp. The woods, the poison ivy, the mosquitoes, the camp counselor--especially the camp counselor--who was none other than his babysitter, Vic. Twelve years old and every bit as miserable as he'd been two years ago, Denzel Crocker sat out in the humid night air alone--in an eight-foot deep pit, no less.

He was left down there as a form of punishment concocted by Vic himself. Punishment for what, he hadn't the faintest idea. He suspected it was just Vic's way of giving him his daily dose of humiliation.

He wasn't afraid. Being around people actually scared Denzel more than being alone. He knew what to expect from himself, but he could never be ready for what might come from other people.

It was pitch black in the pit due to the fact that an overcast sky blocked out the light of the moon and stars. Sleep was not an option as the mosquitoes were merciless and he was constantly swatting something.

"Joy comes in the morning," Denzel kept telling himself, even though he found that hard to believe--perhaps even wishful thinking. Truth be known, he dreaded the morning as much as he loathed his present predicament. That child couldn't win for losing.

When morning finally came, he was as miserable as a twelve-year-old kid could be. He was covered with mosquito bites, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was filthy. Naturally, just when he thought things couldn't possibly get worse, Vic's sinister face appeared over the lip of the pit.

"Did you have fun down there, twerp?" he inquired sarcastically.

"He's still alive?" asked the Turner kid--no one knew his first name.

"Pity, huh?" Vic chuckled, throwing a rope down to Denzel, who hesitantly took hold of it.

He knew Vic's pulling him up was too good to be true. Just when he was about to grab the edge of the pit and haul himself out, the red-haired bully let the rope slide through his hands until Denzel was right back where he started--lying in the dirt. That went on for several hours before Vic became bored and actually let the poor kid out.

Exhausted, bruised, itchy, and dirtier than before, Denzel pulled himself out of the hole and collapsed where he was, exhausted and gasping for breath. His arms felt like cooked spaghetti and his hands were so raw with rope burns that he had oozing blisters on every inch of his palms.

Of course, it was not in Vic's nature to give him a break. He put his foot on Denzel's kyphosis-afflicted back, applying an unwanted amount of pressure and uttering a cruel laugh of satisfaction as the boy stifled a whimper of pain, biting his lower lip to keep from screaming in agony.

"So who's ready for a hike through the woods? Are you ready, twerp?"

---------------

Crocker remembered that hike as vividly as everything else. It was a five-miler and he'd been forced to be Vic's pack mule and carry the many unnecessary supplies--a lounge chair, a mini-fridge, a television--all that could be expected from Vic. As if that hadn't been bad enough, Crocker also clearly remembered being tripped in a huge patch of poison ivy. His reaction was so bad, it almost put him in the hospital. Of course, when he came home, his mother didn't have time for him when he tried to tell her what had happened. She probably wouldn't have believed him anyway. What he wouldn't give to regain whatever it was he'd lost so long ago...

"The changing in this world could use some change," he muttered, finally breaking his gaze from the black sky beyond the barred window above his head, "No change has ever been to my benefit. Not a single one. Someday that itself will change though--I'll make it change! Once I succeed in capturing Timmy Turner's...FAIRY GODPARENTS!!!"

Yes, he could even have a violent spasm while restrained in a straitjacket--talk about talent. Of course, he ended up flinging himself to the floor and getting up without the use of his arms proved to be a chore, but it didn't matter. He had all the time in the world in that place. He never even knew what time it was there. He remained on the floor for some time, thinking...plotting...entertaining himself with megalomaniac thoughts. However, it wasn't long before those thoughts were interrupted by his obnoxious neighbor again. This time it sounded like he was digging in a litter box.

"Hey! What're you doing in there?!" Crocker demanded from his place on the floor beside the bed.

"I'm building a sandcastle!" Catman shouted back.

"Shut up, crazies!" the same orderly snapped.

"It's official," Crocker grumbled to himself, "The sooner I get out of here, the better."

---------------

The days that followed were so monotonous and mundane that Crocker could no longer tell when one day ended and another began. They all just seemed to run together as he'd lost all sense of time. The only thing that gave him hope was the thought that maybe someone would show up to bail him out of there and put a stop to the madness of the vicious cycle.

"And maybe Turner doesn't have...FAIRY GODPARENTS!!!" he snarled, twitching impulsively as he made the sarcastic, fairy-related remark to emphasize the fact that the chances of someone bailing him out were next to nothing.

"Denzel!"

The familiar high-pitched, sing-song voice floated down the hall and came muffled through the walls. It could be no one but his mother. He had mixed emotions about that particular visitor. On the one hand, she may take pity on him--and embarrass him with it--yet sign him out. On the other hand, she might see that it was for the best that he be left in the insane asylum, in the care of psychiatrists and the like.

His door opened and an orderly escorted his mother into the room. She stood in silence for a few moments, saddened by the current state her son was in. She hated having him taken away from her and it pained her to see him bound up and even more miserable than he was at home.

"Oh, Denzel," she sighed, shaking her head, "Where did I go wrong?"

Crocker bit his tongue as he already had a well-thought-out answer to that particular question--that particularly stupid question.

"They said you might be able to get out on good behavior," she continued, "Have you been behaving yourself, Denzel?"

Again, Crocker remained silent. He knew if he even started to answer her silly questions, he would fly into a tantrum and most likely wind up getting an injection of sedatives for his trouble. It wasn't worth it to him. He hated needles and he was determined to go to any lengths to avoid them--even if it meant biting his tongue and deliberately giving his mother the silent treatment.

"You be a good boy, Denzel," his mother spoke up once again as she turned to leave, seeing as how her son was obviously in no mood to talk, "Be good like you were when you were little. I wish I knew what became of my perky little ball of sunshine..."

So do I, Mother, Crocker thought, So do I...