Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind
a tale spun by Mayor Tokey
Rating: R
Summary: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.
Disclaimer: Whoever pops up in this episode we probably don't own either.
Author's Notes: Wicked sorry about the long wait. Computer problems, other fic problems, life problems, and so forth. Don't worry, we'll get back on board soon enough. Right now, in fact. Honor Roll at the end.
When It Couldn't Get Any Worse
"Tom, what the fuck were you thinking?"
Tom gave Sands a sidelong glance as he drove along I-95 heading towards the Police Station to talk to the sheriff. "What? What are you talking about?" He asked hesitantly, knowing exactly what he was asking about, but stalling nonetheless.
"You let my catch get away. I reiterate. What the fuck were you thinking? Or is it that you were thinking about fucking?"
"Sands...It was an accident, ok? I know you don't take too kindly to mistakes, especially made by yourself…" He gave Sands another sidelong glance. "But I screwed up ok? I let him get away."
"Who said anything about me?" Sands hissed. Tom opened his mouth to give a thorough explanation, but Sands waved him off. "Where the fuck is he heading?"
"I don't know...he took off in a cab."
"What. Way. Was. The. Cab. Heading?"
"Uh, south I think?" Tom shrugged his shoulders.
"Thinking isn't good enough, Tom! Remember!"
He took one hand off the steering wheel to rub the back of his neck. "Yeah, he was going south. Or no! North, he was heading north. I remember now."
"Where was he going?"
Tom slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. "I don't know!"
"Where do you think he was going?"
"How the hell should I know? You're the one he made the 'connection' with! Now stop asking me all these fucking questions! You're giving me a fucking migraine!"
Sands reached across the seat and gripped Tom roughly by the collar. "Listen to me close. Now is not the time to freak out, Tom. You've got to bag me my criminal since you lost him in the first place. You're going to do as I say, Tom, because I'm an American," he emphasized the 'can,' "You don't fuck with Americans."
Tom lifted his shoulder, pinning Sands' hand between his shoulder and his head in an effort to get Sands to release his death grip. "How should I know where the hell he went? You know him better than I do! It's your goddamn case anyways!" He tried to pull away from Sands' grip, but to no avail. "If you don't let go of me we're gonna get into another accident and you'll have to go back to the hospital and more than likely have another visit with Dr. House," he threatened. Sands lost his patience.
"Fuck House, and fuck his incompetence! Tom, if you were a pissed off alter ego, where the fuck would you GO!"
Tom thought only a second before he spoke. When he did he looked Sands directly in the eyes. "To the source," he said simply.
Sands let go of Tom's shirt, but his eyes were still sparking in anger. "Right. And how would you get there?"
Tom felt a bit more confident since Sands had released him, despite his headache. "Well gee, I dunno, genius! How would you get to the source?"
"I'm asking you, Einstein. This was your screw up, you're fixing it."
Tom blew out his breath in annoyance and raked a hand through his short hair. "He's probably catching a plane," h shrugged. "That's my guess: attempting to get as far away from us as he can, as quickly as possible, but his curiosity is getting the best of him so he's making a pit stop on his way out of the country. Fleeing as it were."
"Where is this pit stop?"
"D.C. of course. He knows you're-we're-CIA, so he's no doubt heading to HQ to find out what he can. The only question is, 'Is he smart enough to infiltrate the CIA?'" He smirked at his question. "Being around you for a few days, he's probably assumed that it would be no problem." He snorted in attempt to cover his amusement.
"Maybe I didn't make it clear how serious this is. If we don't catch this guy, someone's going to come after me! I'm going to get a desk job and I'm going to be pissed. One more jab like that, I'll find my own fucking way to Bangor, capiche?"
"Bangor?"
"Bangor, fuckmook. He's catching a plane in Bangor to Washington to find out why he's wanted. The CIA will capture him, and he'll be up Shit's Creek."
Tom frowned. "Isn't that what your objective was? To capture him and turn him in?"
"Tell me, Tom, what kind of an idiot would I look like if I lost him in Maine only to have him wander into the Company's clutches?"
Tom grimaced, having no answer for that. "So, what are you going to do now?"
"Tell you to drive faster."
"We're going to Bangor? But there's no way we can catch him; he's got a good hour head start."
"Don't worry, Tom." Sands seemed calm. Eerily so. "Everything will be taken care of."
The truck gained a little more speed as it hurtled towards Bangor.
XXX
Mort stood outside Bangor International Airport staring at the glass doors, vaguely aware of how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the coffee shop. One minute he was sipping espresso, and the next he was at Bangor International with a yellow cab roaring off like a bat out of hell.
He stood outside for a few minutes before going in. Once amidst the hustle and bustle of the airport, he froze, rooted to the spot and unsure of where to go or what to do next.
His appearance warranted the stares of many, as if he were some sort of tourist attraction. His eyebrows furrowed as he glanced down at his rumpled clothes. Not only were his clothes wrinkled, but they reeked of a mixture of sweat, urine, and lake water. His own nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench that was emanating from him.
First things first…Even though Mort was anything but the epitome of good personal hygiene, something had to be done. He spotted a gift shop off to his left and headed towards it. He tried-to no avail-to ignore the looks. He turned and met one stare, a well dressed businessman who looked at Mort scornfully. Mort averted his eyes and met those of a young woman who quickly looked away almost fearfully.
Mort scowled. Why do these people despise me so? he wondered to himself.
'Might'n have somethin' ter do with the fact you smell like cow piss.'
"Just shut up!" Mort said, which sent more curious glances his way. He ducked his head and spoke softer. "If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," he gritted his teeth.
As he entered the gift shop, he spotted a rack of tourist shirts with 'Bangor' emblazoned across the front. He quickly chose the least conspicuous one: a dull gray one with the airport's logo on it. Finding pants was another issue. All the store had were swimming trunks and pajama pants. Mort didn't particularly want to walk around Bangor International Airport in bright yellow swim trunks, so he browsed the pajamas. He finally settled on a comfortable pair of navy and green plaid flannel pants.
He grabbed a few other necessities such as a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a comb, and several packets of extra-strength Pain-Aid. Both his shoulder and his thigh were throbbing something awful. After paying, he took his purchases to the nearest restroom. He locked himself in and proceeded to remove his shirt. As a toilet flushed behind him, he whipped around, clutching his smelly shirt to his chest in an attempt to cover himself. As a man emerged from one of the cubicles, Mort's face turned bright red, and the other man's eyes bugged out of his head in surprise. The man quickly washed his hands and mumbled an apology before running out of the bathroom. It took him a moment of fumbling with the lock before he was able to burst out as if he were suffocating. After the man left, Mort locked the door once again and then approached each cubicle, cautiously pushing open each of the doors.
Satisfied that he was alone, he let out a huge sigh of relief and took off the remainder of his clothing and bathed himself as best as possible in an airport public restroom. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and slid into his new clothing feeling refreshed and renewed, despite the acute pain in his left shoulder.
He rummaged through his shopping bag until he found what he was hunting for, and then he popped four of the extra-strength Pain-Aids. He stared at his visibly strained face in the mirror, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. Mort sighed, tossing his meager belongings into the bag and slipped out of the bathroom, a new man in more ways than one.
Shooter limped up to the ticket counter and gave the airline representative a toothy grin. "Hi there missus."
The girl smiled pleasantly. "Good day sir, where are you flying today?"
"I need the soonest flight out to D.C." Shooter spoke confidently, but his face wore a look of confusion. Mort spoke up, contradicting Shooter. "Now wait just a minute!"
"What's the problem, sir?"
He stared straight at her, yet he wasn't seeing her and neither was he talking to her. "Just why do I need to go to D.C.?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know, sir." The ticket lady looked politely befuddled.
He continued to converse with himself, not having heard the lady. "Because Morty! That's where CIA headquarters are! Dontcha wanna find out why that psycho's after you?" Shooter rolled his eyes in annoyance in Mort's confused face. "They don got to have a good nough reason for the CIA to be on your tail. Face it Morty-yer a fugitive. Aintcha just a lil bit curious?" Mort's face twisted into a sick smile.
"F-fugitive?" she whispered. Oh God. This wasn't good. Not good at all. She discreetly pressed the security button under the desk and continued to smile weakly.
Mort sighed. "Fine! A uh...one way ticket to D.C." Mort turned his attention to the girl, and watched as her hand snaked under the counter. "Shit! Look at the mess you caused now! Goddammit! Why can't you discuss things with me before you act?" He saw several security guards moving in subtly. "Great! Now we're really fucked!" Mort moaned, and turned to face the security guards coming towards him.
"You jest let me handle this Morty." Shooter said calmly, reaching for the pen that lay on the counter. He stuck it out in front of him as a weapon, aimed at the guards that now surrounded him. "Anyone of youns move and I'll shove this so hard through your ear that it'll come out the other!" he threatened, his eyes flashing wildly between the three guards surrounding him.
The ticket lady paled. Oh Goh oh God oh God...
XXX
"Son of a bitch," Sands hissed. The truck had screeched to a halt in front of the airport and screams were filtering out of the glass doors. And Sands couldn't go running towards it like he used to.
Cripple.
"There's shit going down. Tom, go get a fucking baggage cart! You're taking me with you," Sands growled.
Tom would've laughed had it not been for the terror on several people's faces as they ran out of the airport. He heard one person shout about a holdup or something. That could only mean one thing-their man was causing all kinds of hell to break loose.
He leapt out of his truck and ran inside the glass doors to grab a baggage cart. What he saw at the airline ticket counter, made him freeze. There must've been about half a dozen security guards, guns trained at one focal point. Tom shook himself from his stupor and rushed back out to his truck where Sands was waiting. Sands all but fell out of the cab and onto the waiting cart, cocking his gun and waving it in the air.
"Go, go, go, go charge, you stupid fuckmook!"
"I'm going as fast as I fucking can!" Tom shouted, pushing the cart with Sands on it as fast as he could through the people that were rushing out of Bangor International. Tom pushed Sands all the way to the half dozen guards-which had by then grown to twice as many-then bent over to catch his breath. He'd let Sands take it over from there.
Sands got to his knees and fired the gun in the air. People screamed and ducked, security guards whirled wildly in search of the cause of the blast. It didn't take them long to notice the crazy man kneeling on a baggage cart. They were torn between covering the man with the pen or the infinitely more dangerous man with the gun.
"Everybody calm the fuck down! There's no need to fear." Sands grinned. "I'm going to take my captive and leave, that sound okay to you?" he nodded at a pissed off cop.
"Oh dear Lord..." Tom muttered, closing his eyes in a silent prayer that the security guards didn't fire at them. When attention had been averted from him, Shooter-or possibly Mort-shimmied away from the crowd and attempted to blend into horde of terrified travelers.
Tom had opened his eyes at that point. He was taller than most of the security, allowing him to see over them to the void where Mort had seconds before been standing. Oh shit...His eyes scanned the crowds frantically, finally settling on the mop of dirty blonde hair. He began pushing the baggage cart again quickly in the opposite direction, almost causing Sands to lose his balance on his knees. He followed Mort's head, unbeknownst to Sands.
The security guards just stared after them a bit baffled and annoyed.
"Fuck, Tom, warn me next time you do that!" Sands yelled.
"I'm not going to be the one to blame this time!" he hissed. "You see that bit of blonde over there?" He pointed in front of him. "That's our-your-man. That you can't seem to keep tabs on." He muttered the last part to himself. But he didn't count on Sands' superior hearing.
"Now who the fuck keeps putting me in institutions to 'cure' me only to distract the hell out of me?" he snarled.
"Who's the one fucking up their feet worse than they already are?"
Mort heard the two's banter, and continued to dodge between the crowd. He had to get out of there, get away to D.C. and answers. He stopped abruptly, and turned around just as the baggage cart came hurtling through the crowd. Mort had enough time for his eyes to widen in shock before the cart collided with his wounded leg. He saw red as he pitched forward toward the man he was trying to escape.
"Aw, he's tired," Sands grunted as the blonde man collapsed on him. He grabbed Mort tightly around the shoulders and hit him with the butt of his trusty pistol to make sure Mort wouldn't be going anywhere. He dragged Mort aboard and signaled for Tom to turn around. Tom had gotten got lucky, but Sands wasn't going to let the issue go again. He could remember another time, not involving feet, when Tom had persuaded him to check into a hospital. Sands wasn't going to let Tom get away with it again.
"Dammit Sands! He's already in enough fucking pain! Did you not see his face when I ran into him?" Tom shook his head as he turned around whilst the crowd of people stood staring. "Christ man! We're gonna have to go back to the fucking hospital again if you keep this up!"
"Turn him over to House. See how he likes it," Sands replied without emotion.
As they reached his truck, Tom frowned in thought. "Maybe later, I'm fucking worn out!"
"Yeah, losing my captive when I trust him with you is hard work."
"Just-just shut up and get in the fucking truck!" He opened the door for Sands. He glared at Tom petulantly.
"Oh come off it, man! It's been over 2 fucking hours since we were at the hospital; they said the numbness would wear off by then! If nothing else use your fucking arms!" He was getting tired of babying the rookie agent.
"Are you really that dense?"
Tom glared at him. "Fine," was all he said, then reached under Sands' arms and hefted him quite roughly into the truck. "Take him too." He hefted the lighter man up and shoved him onto Sands' lap, slamming the door shut.
He shoved the baggage cart towards the glass doors-not hard enough to break them, but it did make a rather loud 'clank' as it hit. Tom watched it and shrugged his shoulders as he went around to the drivers' side of his truck and opened the door. Sands wasn't giving up. He shoved Mort roughly to the floor and twisted to face Tom.
"I guess you really are stupid, Tom. Let me congratulate you for putting up this front of ingeniousness for as long as you have. You fooled me, but now I've got your number. Come clean, Tom."
Tom sighed as he slid in his seat and started the engine, "I'm not in the mood for yet another argument, just please get him off the fucking floor!"
"Why don't you marry him, if you care about him so damn much?"
"Goddamit Sands! I just-Argh!" The thought died with a sound of irritation. "You need to get a fucking heart," he said while pulling out into the traffic to leave the airport.
Sands' mouth twitched. "That's rich."
"Just shut up while I try to think here!" He'd reached the gate where he had to pay for "parking" at the airport. After he'd paid, he drove past the booth at a slow pace. Although he wanted anything but to hear Sands' voice, he didn't know where they were going. "Where are we taking him now?"
"Pull over."
"What? Why?" Tom glanced over at Sands confused, but he didn't pull over.
"Pull the fuck over!" Sands yelled.
Tom jerked across 3 lanes of traffic to the shoulder of the road. He turned wide eyed to look at Sands. "Just what the hell are we doing on the side of the fucking road?"
"You and I are going to talk and you're not going to wheedle out of it."
Tom closed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face before smacking the steering wheel with it. "Shit.You made me pull off the road to have a little 'chat' with you?" He shook his head wearily, "Christ Sands, you're gonna get us all killed!"
"Well, if I tried to talk to you on the road, you would have killed us anyway. I'd rather take the chance that will pay off better in the long run, thank you. You're avoiding the issue."
"Which is?"
Yeah, Sheldon, my boy. What is the issue?
"You wouldn't happen to remember a Doctor Adams, would you?"
Tom's brows furrowed. "I don't believe so..."
"That's odd. Because I do. You hired him for me. Claimed he was the best."
"Oh," Tom managed before swallowing hard. He had no idea what Sands was getting to, but he had the feeling that it wasn't good.
"Am I jogging any memories, Tommy Boy?"
Tom just shook his head. He didn't know the full details of Sands' experience with said doctor. Nor did he want to know.
"Dr. Adams…Shortish guy, thinning hair. Horsey teeth. Ugly bastard. Optometrist."
Way to drop the bomb...
At that word, Tom's "memory" returned. "wh-what did he exactly do to you-your eyes?" Oh Lord, he didn't want to know!
"He fixed them, somewhat."
Tom clamped his mouth shut, and just nodded, "C-can we go now?" His forehead began to break out in a sweat.
"Hm…no. Why would I bring this up, Tom? Any ideas?"
Tom shook his head, "Where are we going?"
"Tom. Put the clues together. Being a suthun gentleman like yerself, I know you're a bit slow, but you were never this fucking slow. Much as I hate the fuckmook, what did Dr. House say?"
Tom frowned and turned to face Sands. "Huh? What does Dr. House have to do with Dr. Adams?"
Sands sighed. "If I weren't so sure you'd turn tail and fucking run, I'd say fuck it and let you ask the questions. Do you have any idea why I hate doctors?"
"Bad experience?" Tom smirked a little, but it faltered as he saw the seriousness in which Sands was staring at him.
"Put two and two together."
"So...what exactly happened with Dr. Adams that's got you so petrified?"
"He fucking lied to me."
Tom looked utterly confused. "You don't like hospitals and doctors because one lied to you?" He was trying to make sense of it all.
"I asked him quite plainly if the meds he had to give me would react with anything I was taking. I didn't mention what I was taking, but I made mention of the kind of drug. He lied. He said it'd be fine. He gave me the anesthetics. The procedure got shot to hell."
Tom looked at him still confused. "What were you taking? What happened, how did the procedure get 'shot to hell'?"
"No need for you to know about my private drug existence. Long story short, the meds reacted. Stopped my heart. I died."
Tom just stared out him for a moment, his mouth gaping open. "You-they revived you?" His eyes blinked rapidly several times in shock.
"No, I was buried and am still rotting in the ground," Sands rolled his eyes. "Of course they fucking revived me! You're not listening to me. I died!"
What's the point of this?
"Because of you, Tom!"
And... what's that point?
"Me?" Tom looked angry for a moment. "They wouldn't have given you the fucking chance to become an active agent if you couldn't fucking see!"
"I could have worn contacts! You're always sending me to a fucking doctor and Christ, I can't handle it! It nearly cost me Mort!" That hurt. That hurt a lot. Not capable? No...Sands was capable. He could handle it.
When there aren't visions of knives and blood dancing in your subconscious.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He clutched his head in agony.
Tom was in shock. He just watched as Sands grabbed at his head. Then very cautiously, Tom reached out a hand to touch Sands on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. "Sands, it's ok. You're ok. We've got Mort..."
Sands tore away from Tom. He had to sort this out. Not good, not good, not good, notgoodnotgoodnotgood...
Nope, it's not good, is it? The voice was cheerful. The Company would probably nail you for multiple personalities before they skewered you for bad eyes. Life's a bitch, innit?
Sands shuddered. He remembered having something prowling at the back of his head for a long time, but he never really expected it to be...something. Now it was talking to him and beating him in the skull with things he wanted no part of. He couldn't break down now. Not now, not ever.
Good luck with that, the voice offered.
"Sands!" Tom shouted. When Sands had began to shudder, Tom's hand whipped out and slapped him across the face. Not the smartest thing to do, but it did warrant his attention. When Sands fixed a hard stare on him, Tom swallowed before speaking. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked weakly-almost fearfully-not exactly wanting to know the answer, but needing to nonetheless.
Sands opened his mouth. "I-"
What is wrong with you, Sheldon?
"-don't know."
Tom slumped against the drivers' door and rubbed his face. "Christ. What do we do now?" He spoke his thoughts aloud.
"I don't know."
Doesn't that feel good.
"I don't know."
You get to relinquish all responsibility-
"I don't know."
-and not being the one to blame-
"I don't know."
-dumping everything onto the shoulders of the only friend-
"I don't know."
-who gives a damn about you?
"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"
While Sands was having his internal debates, Tom was really starting to freak right out. He'd gotten out of his truck, unknown to Sands, and made his way to the passenger side of the truck. When he'd yelled, Tom wrenched open the door and Sands tumbled out. Tom held him up as best as he could, and stumbled with him to the grass off the highway.
"Just...take...a...deep...breath..." Tom said, panting from the exertion. He plopped down by Sands, breathing heavily.
"Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tfuckingKNOW! Are you happy? Are you fucking happy?"
Not really. I'm a figment of your imagination. You're not all that happy right now, so I don't see why I should be.
"Then why the fuck are you talking?"
Because I never had the opportunity before. You're just freaking out, man. Tearing your mind wide open and giving me the chance to...monologue.
"Go...away...
How?
Sands' eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed onto the grass, unconscious.
"Sands?" Tom shook him a little. "Sands! Goddammit wake the fuck up you stupid motherfucker!" Tom said near hysterics. Shit! What the hell am I supposed to do? I've got 2 psychos on my hands now-both of which are unconscious.
Tom heard the drone of a motorcycle come ever closer and stop. He looked up at a beefy biker and nearly shit his pants. Oh shit. He gave the biker what he hoped was a friendly smile, then, while keeping his eyes trained on the biker, shook Sands harder. Wake up! Oh please wake up! he mentally pleaded.
"What're you doin' on the side a th'road, boy?" the biker rasped.
"Um...nothing! Nothing at all. My friend here just was feeling…uh…sick." He smiled bravely again, and stood up, trying to pull Sands' dead weight with him.
The biker didn't waver. "Looks like your friend's a bit more'n sick, boy."
"Yeah...he's pretty tired. Had a long night last night." He gave the biker a knowing look and an exaggerated wink.
"Did 'e puke his guts out 'n pass out in the process or are you tryin' tuh hide somethin'?"
"Uh..." Tom looked around, but the road was for the most part deserted. "Yeah. He had one too many tequilas. Heh..." The chuckled died on his lips.
"Where's the puke?"
"Well...uh...you see...he has this little problem..." Tom looked at the biker, a bit queasy himself. "He-he sorta swallows it."
The biker blinked. "What?"
"Yeah!" Tom was feeling a bit more confident. "He kinda chokes it back down because he's so wasted."
"You should tell him tell 'im tuh get that checked out."
Tom gave the man a grin and a wave, "Thanks! Will do!" Then he hefted Sands up emitting a groan under his weight.
"Need help?"
"Nope! Nope, I'm good!" He gave a cheerful smile and stumbled forward toward the truck.
"You sound awful suspicious-like."
"Nope! Not suspicious at all! Thanks for the concern!" Tom waved him off, shuffling closer to the truck.
"You sound like you just offed your friend and you don't want me poking around."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Does he look dead to you?"
"As a matter a fact, he does."
Tom looked at Sands who was over his shoulder and dropped him hard. "Oh shit!" Sands was deathly pale. Tom winced as the body hit the ground with a thud. He leaned down and put his ear to Sands' chest and breathed a sigh of relief. "Nope! He's breathing!" he grinned broadly.
"Lemme see 'im."
"No need! He's breathing!"
Just then there was a loud moan and both men turned towards the truck.
"You get yourself another victim in there, you sick bastard?" the biker hissed.
Tom's eyes widened. "No, no just another uh friend!"
"Do you always kill your friends?"
"He's not fucking dead! You hear him?"
"I'd say you were gettin' sloppy 's all."
Tom rolled his eyes and, against his better judgment, told the biker his thoughts. "Why'nt you just fuck off?"
The biker's eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. Before Tom could come up with a witty comeback, the biker had unbuckled his belt: a modified bike chain, useful for whipping the hell out of his enemies. "I don't like murderers."
Tom's eyes widened as he took a step back.
Mort moaned again, satting up in the truck and looking around. "Whassa matter?" He blinked, seeing Tom backing away from something. He realized he was on the floor of Tom's truck and shifted to get out of the truck, groaning from the pain. It seemed that the pain was everywhere.
He stumbled from the truck and had to grab onto Tom so that he wouldn't fall over. His eyes took in the scene around him. First, Sands, who sprawled on the ground, his limbs twisted oddly. Then he saw the biker with his belt held out in front of him threateningly. He nearly whimpered and hopped behind Tom.
"Did this man try tuh kill you, sir?" The biker asked it of Mort, ignoring Tom.
Mort didn't know what to say, so he just nodded his head, watching fearfully as the man came closer.
Tom cursed. "No one tried to fucking kill you! If we wanted you dead, you would've been a long time ago!"
"Step away from him, sir, I'll make sure he don't kill nobody no more," the biker growled. Mort obliged, thinking this an actual chance of escape. He sidestepped- rather side limped- around Tom, to stand beside the biker.
Tom just stared at Mort, puzzled, then he shook his head, his hand going to his hip.
The biker flicked the chain at Tom, catching him in the hand. "Get your hand away from your pants, boy!"
Tom merely winced as the chain bit into his flesh, but didn't move his hand. Instead he pulled out Sands' glock. He aimed it squarely at the man's head. "I recommend you leaving now and not mentioning this to anyone, comprende?" He released the safety emphasizing his point.
"I ain't afraid uh your toy. You're gonna have to dispose uh my body somehow. And if you don't, they'll find your blood on my chain and they'll catch you, boy. I'll have put you behind bars anyway."
"I'm serious man, get lost! I don't like doin' this, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do..."
Mort's face grew a little pale. "I think you should be goin now..." he told the biker.
"You won't be hurtin' nobody no more," the biker hissed.
Tom was about to pull the trigger when his legs were swiped out from under him. Sands was sitting up, holding his woozy head in his hand. "Tom, you dumb fuck. Don't kill the people who are going to get you put away. Who are you, Sunshine?" he squinted at the biker.
"Weren't you dead?" he asked, baffled.
"Sure feels that way, but I'm pretty sure I'm not. Am I?" Sands cocked his head. Tom had landed on his ass dazed, still holding the gun. His eyes narrowed at Sands.
"What the fuck was that?"
Mort watched as Sands came to and slowly began to grow nervous. His chances of getting away now were growing slimmer. He turned to the biker and quickly told his story.
"They kidnapped me! And then they tortured me!" He pointed to his shoulder where there were specks of blood on his shirt from the would being opened, and then his thigh-the reason he'd limped. "Now they're no doubt planning on killing me! You can't let them do that!" he wailed.
"They? Wasn't he actin' alone?" the biker frowned.
Mort shook his head fervently. "Nuh-uh. It was him," He pointed to Sands. "Who kidnapped me and shot me twice and brained me who knows how many times!"
"So...was he tryin to save you or somethin'?" He waved at Tom.
"Um..." Mort looked at Tom who was watching him waiting for his response. "Not exactly..."
"Then what the hell was wrong with you," he nodded at Sands who was still trying to orient himself.
"Go fuck a turtle," Sands groaned.
Tom was tired, both physically and mentally. He wanted nothing more than for this dirty, greasy biker to fuck off, but he was just gonna hang around exchanging insults. "Sands, shut the fuck up!" Tom hissed.
"Oh fuck you, you inconsiderate bastard," Sands snarled and whipped out a little gun from the crotch of his pants. Not a figurative one, but a real one, and blew the biker's face off.
"Holy shit Sands!" Tom gasped.
Mort just stared at the biker who'd fallen face first. He'd never seen a dead man before.
Sure ya have Morty! Remember yer lil friend Tom Greenleaf?
"No." Mort whispered. "No! I didn't kill him!" He crouched down, not minding the pain that shot through his thigh. He began wringing his hands and rocking, staring dazed at the corpse of the biker. "I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him." He repeated it over and over again like a mantra in his head. He wasn't seeing the biker's dead body, but the decaying one of his good friend, Tom Greenleaf. "I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him."
"Christ! Now look what you've done gone and done!" Tom muttered, standing up.
"I didn't do it," Sands nodded seriously.
"Oh right, the gun pulled the trigger itself. That's original," Tom rolled his eyes.
"Well, you were doing quite grandly. The biker was going to whip you to death, and Mort was going to get away again. You'll forgive me if I couldn't let you do that."
"It wasn't going to happen! I was going to take care of everything. The situation was under control until you decided to pull the fucking trigger."
"Bull shit!"
"Well it doesn't matter now! I'm gonna have to get this all cleaned up now! Jesus!" He looked over at the dead body. "Just get in the truck and shut up!"
"So you can fuck up again? No, Tommy Boy, not this fucking time!" Sands staggered to his feet, trying to get his balance by holding his arms out. He still didn't have a whole lot of feeling in his feet. It was like the beginnings of a major foot awakening with the twanging of pins and needles. He was going to have a hell of a time moving, but it had to be done. To save his skin, or something like it.
Tom just sighed irritably and stalked over to Sands. He half dragged him, half helped him stumble to the truck, where he was able to unceremoniously dump him in. "Let me take care of this, you've done enough as it is."
"No, dammit, get me to your fucking biker!" Sands struggled against Tom's grip.
"No," Tom said firmly. "You stay right here and I'll take care of 'my fucking biker,' or we can all just leave right now and leave the highway patrol one heyday of a crime scene."
"You let Mort get away! If I can't trust you with precious fucking cargo, what the hell am I going to say now?" he snapped.
"How bout you just not worry about it, ok? I'll get you your 'precious fucking cargo' and get on with cleaning up the mess you made, although, from the looks of things, there's going to be a bit of blood left over..."
Sands jammed his crotch gun into Tom's solar plexus. "You know what I'm capable of. Take me with you."
Tom gasped. "No. You can fucking shoot me, but I'm not taking you near him," he rasped out.
"And why the fuck not?"
"Because, I don't need any more of your fucking help."
"And just what have you been able to do successfully all by yourself since I've gotten here? Drink a case of beer? Good show, Tom. Well done."
Tom's eyes narrowed, and he hauled off and punched Sands in the nose. "Shut your goddamn fucking mouth!"
Sands blinked. Well...that hurt a bit. He felt something leak down his face, like a cold in overdrive. He exhaled slowly and stared Tom in the eye with a slightly dazed expression before cracking a grin.
"Bet you're having fun beating me up like this. You've always wanted to I bet."
Tom threw up his hands and spun around slamming the door in Sands' face. He proceeded to make speedy work of cleaning up the mess before him. Luckily, he carried all sorts of odds and ends in the bed of his truck; one such thing was a shovel. Yet, he feared he wouldn't have time to dig a grave for the man here, so he grabbed a tarp he had in the truck and wrapped the stocky biker up. After doing so, he stood for a minute studying the bright blue corpse, contemplating as to how he would get him into his truck. The man must've weighed at least 250 pounds, minimum.
"Hurry the fuck up, Tom, I haven't got all day," Sands' hoarse voice floated from the cab, sounding as pissed off as can be.
Tom just rolled his eyes, ignoring Sands. He went over to stand by Mort, whose cries had ceased once Tom had wrapped up the body, but he was still crouched and staring off into space. "Hey! Mort!" Tom waved his hand in front of Mort's face. He did little but look up at him, confused. "I need you to help me carry this…um…package." Tom didn't want to startle him any further. He doubted Mort had seen what he'd done. Mort did nothing but stand, waiting for further instruction.
"That a boy." Tom murmured. He pulled down his tailgate and went back to the body and Mort. "I need you to pick up that end of it." Mort did as he was directed, and, with much difficulty, they made it to the bed of his truck. They were lifting the body up when suddenly, Mort let out a cry.
"Nooooo! No! No! No! nonononono! Get it away!" He dropped his side of the body, causing Tom to strain at the added weight. Mort turned his back to the truck and began to pace.
Come on, Morty, let me do it! You know you're a coward and can't do it. Thas what I'm here fore. To do what you caint do. It's lyin there in the truck, the shovel. Very similar to the one that-
"NO!" Mort said firmly blocking off the voice.
"Jesus! You two make the perfect couple!"
Sands was rubbing the bridge of his nose, watching the two stumble about like chickens with their heads cut off. Tom was too fucking easy to bait. And while Sands normally would have tore…flopped…out of the cab to exact revenge, he figured it'd be better if Tom learned this lesson by himself. Besides, Sands' shirt was getting bloody.
"Mort, snap out of it!" Tom said sternly. "I need your fucking help!"
Mort turned at the harshness in the usually gentle man's voice. He ducked his head, but picked up his side of the "package," and without looking into the bed of the truck, helped Tom heft it in. Then, he quickly scurried away.
"Hey! Where are you going?" Tom, said his gentleness returning.
Mort just mumbled, not going past the edge of the field of grass. Tom sighed. What was it with these two? He pushed out thoughts of his two mentally disturbed mates and turned his attention to the bike.
"Hey! Sands! Any ideas as to what to do with the bike?"
A hand drifted out of the window, the middle finger raised in silent salute.
"You don't want my help, I'm not giving it," he muttered.
"Fine then! You're the one who fucking shot him!" He turned to where Mort stood staring. "Come on Mort. Let's get the hell outta here."
Sands said nothing; he barely scooted over when Mort was shoved into the seat beside him. Tom wasn't the compassionate fuck he used to be.
Probably hasn't gotten fucked in a quite awhile, either.
Sands ignored the voice for now. He was too tired to care anymore.
Tom slid into the drivers' seat and sighed. "So what? We just leave the bike in the middle of the fucking road?" He turned to glare at Sands. He didn't meet Tom's gaze.
"Hey dumbass! What the fuck do we do with the bike?"
"Leave me the fuck alone."
Tom put his hands up, and then started the truck. Let the dumbfuck get his ass chewed for it! "I can't leave you the fuck alone yet, I don't know where the hell we're going!"
"Where do you think we're going?"
"I don't know, smartass! That's why I'm asking! We're not going back to my place, that's for fucking sure!"
"Why not?"
"Because!" Tom said indignantly.
"Why?"
"Goddammit! Do I have to explain every fucking choice I make?"
"No. I forgot. You know everything. You are obviously superior to me because you don't break protocol, and you mince trough life like someone's about to leap out from behind a corner and castrate you. You are ten years my senior, you've lived in this world longer, and you'll die ten years before I will if I shape up and live in a plastic bubble," Sands murmured tonelessly.
"What the fuck was all that?"
Before Sands could answer, the truck made a kind of chugging sound and then died. Tom stared at the dashboard in confusion.
Sands sighed. He didn't want to be here anymore. He wanted to be alone.
With me?
Just alone, with nobody at all. He'd smoke a hundred…a thousand cigarettes. A whole bottle of tequila. Anything to get his mind off this God awful day. Why…if he didn't know any better, he'd say he was suffering from depression.
Tom tapped the dashboard where his speedometer and such were. He started the truck only to have it die yet again.
"Shit," he muttered, punching the horn on the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"
"What is it, Tom."
"Gas! No fucking gas!" He smacked the steering wheel again.
"Well, aren't you out of luck."
Tom once again turned to glare at Sands. "Well, considering I'm your ride too, that would make you out of luck as well."
Sands looked at Mort.
"C'mon, you. We're going back to my place. And before you protest, I assure you that I don't swing that way. We're getting a taxi."
Mort said nothing, but shied away from Sands, giving him a sidelong glance.
Tom gave an unbelieving laugh. "Ha! Where are you gonna find a cab out here? And how are you going to contact one?"
Sands sneered at Tom and proceeded to yank Mort out of the truck. He kicked the door closed, pulled out a slim cell phone and dialed a number. The conversation didn't last long, just enough to satisfy Sands. "15 minutes," he nodded at Mort.
"What about me?" Tom almost pouted. "Was it not possible for you to ask them to bring along a couple cans of gas as well?"
"Who said anything about you coming?" Sands asked lazily. "I'm taking him to my cabin. You're not needed at my cabin."
"Fuck you, Sands! You're gonna leave me with a fucking body in my truck with no fucking gas? You're a low son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Guess what, Tom. So are you. You just haven't realized it yet."
Honor Roll: Merrie: I'm glad you had fun with House. Then again, who wouldn't have fun with him? He's twisted and snarky and has all the best toys…you lucky person, you! NeonDaisies: Well, your Morty tried to escape again. Are you proud of him? Because he's being annoying. Tell him to cooperate, eh? Please? Sandswich: You know TJ's? Golly, you've gotta fill us in where it is! Depplove: ALL of HANSA? Wow...well, if Merrie will share, who knows? Cornfreak: Plagued us with your jabber? I dunno, I thought it was rather amusing. Feel free to review anytime. ;D We'll try and keep up with the Mort action. obscured-enigma: Well, we're a bit late, but we hope it was at least kinda worth the wait. Sandsy and Mort goodness abounds.