Thanks everyone for the reviews! It's nice to know people are reading and enjoying the story. : ) Also: There's a new character in this chapter... Hopefully, you've seen all of season two in order to understand who he is. Or you could just read some spoilers.
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The crocodiles in Australia actually come in two types: Estuarine and Johnson, saltwater and freshwater types respectively. They spend their time basking their thick scales beneath the hot, tropical sun in the Northern part of the country. They grow anywhere from three to seven meters long.
(House knew all this, because if he was an unofficial expert on snake venom, well, who knows what other random animal facts he has floating around his head?)
He knew one more thing about Australian crocodiles: They did not resemble cute, stuffed animals from the hospital gift shop.
The one Chase was pointing to wouldn't have frightened a three-year-old. In fact, the three-year-old might have curled up next to it as bedtime toy. The most dangerous thing about the creature Chase was gaping at was that the price tag attached to its tail was a potnetial a choking hazard.
Of course, don't tell a paranoid Aussie that.
"Quick, mates! Get up off the ground b'fore she gets you!" Chase scrambled to the nearest potted plant and attempted to scale the trunk like a frightened squirrel. He wasn't having much luck.
Cuddy closed her eyes for a second, then marched over to the stuffed animal. Picking it up, she returned to the group, holding it out accusingly.
"Who's idea was this?"
"Put it down, Sheila!"
"Chase. It's not real."
"She's sleepin', mate, jess wait until she wakes up and finds you holdin' her!"
"She was made in Taiwan," Cuddy retorted, holding up the tag. She squeezed its fluffy body to prove her point. The toy actually squeaked.
While Chase tentatively climbed down, Vogler began to chuckle pompously to himself. House leaned back on his cane.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself," the diagnostician said curtly.
"Chase, you always were gullible," Vogler smiled.
Cameron, still curled on the floor, glanced up. "You put the crocodile there?"
"Of course not. I have people who do those kinds of things for me." Vogler decided not to mention that his money-hungry henchmen were actually now sealed out and separated from him, thanks to the lock down.
"He uses slave labor," House elaborated. "Third world countries. Those kids on the sidewalks with their lemonade stands." He dry-swallowed a Vicodin then stared resolutely at Vogler, not bothering to waste a full-fledged glare on the man. "What's interesting is how you'd know to torment our little Aussie before you even showed up. How would you know what was happening?"
"I've been prepared," Vogler responded with smooth, fake charisma. From his pocket, he withdrew a folded wad of papers.
Cameron immediately recognized them. "My preliminary notes!"
"I must say, Dr. Cameron," Vogler continued, glancing over them again, "these Happy Pills were a brilliant idea. Really charming. Too bad the side-effects are…shall we say, less than desired?"
As if to reiterate his point, Wilson started laughing again. He leaned up against Secret Private Coma Guy's wheelchair to keep from rolling on the ground in hysterics.
"Get a hold of yourself, Soldier!" the Secret Private snapped. "We got ourselves a situation, here!"
"We certainly do," House murmured to himself. He was trying incredibly hard not to fume over the fact that Vogler had known about the Happy Pills and their effects long before he himself had. "So, Dark Agent of Doom. You manage to steal Cameron's notes. Amateur. You've done nothing but plant a toy crocodile here. If this hospital does collapse into chaos, you've done nothing to help it along. You might as well go hop on your bike and find yourself a Born to Be Wild tattoo."
"Dr. Cameron's preliminary notes were quite interesting, though," Vogler continued smugly. "I don't believe she's told you all the details?"
Cuddy arched her already arched eyebrows. "Cameron…?"
The intern's face was growing redder by the second. "Um… The Happy Pills… They take a while to get out of your system."
"How long?"
"You have to up the dosage to get through the delusional part. That's why Chase and Foreman think they're from the Outback and the Ghetto right now."
"Their fear side effect was being stereotyped," House realized.
"Yes, but they didn't take enough to overcome that stage yet, like Dr. Wilson did."
Wilson tried to confirm her point, but only laughed.
"If Chase and Foreman don't start increasing their intake of Happy Pills, they're going to remain like they are until then."
"Well, then increase the Happy Pills!" Cuddy said. "What's so hard about that?"
Cameron hesitated. "But then they get into the euphoric stage of the pill."
"Example A," House muttered, gesturing offhandedly to Wilson, whose uncontrollable giggles had reduced his face to a bright shade of fusia.
Cuddy waved her hands in a prompting motion. "Which lasts how long?"
"Because the dosage must be increased…" Cameron closed her eyes. "The pills can take over a month to finally wear off."
Wilson found this little piece of information particularly hysterical. There was a thump as he hit the floor, arms wrapped around his stomach as he laughed.
"This—this is really—bad news," he managed. "But it's okay because—because—life is happy!"
"There goes Oncology," House announced. "Hey, at least he'll be able to entertain the cancer kids. I'm sure a side-splitting doctor will improve their mood dramatically."
"Cameron, why in the world would you release medication that has such damaging effects?" Cuddy demanded.
"There—there not damaging," Cameron protested weakly. "If everyone's laughing, everyone will have a good time. No one will be miserable."
"Ah, yes," House agreed. "We'll all be crazy, but hey, at least we're happy now."
"Except you," Cameron interrupted. She almost sounded disappointed. "You're just as cranky as ever."
"It is interesting, isn't it?" House murmured.
Vogler scoffed at his self-proclaimed arch-nemesis. "What's interesting? The guy's incapable of happiness. No surprise the pills don't work on Dr. Vicodin Man."
Suddenly, a smirk broke along House's face. "That's it."
Cuddy was in no mood for another harebrained idea. This one better be good. Particularly because Foreman had now decided to attempt graffiti on House's cane with the black marker.
House would have stopped him, but he figured it was far better having Foreman distracted by art rather than rapping. Besides, he'd just solved their differential.
"It's the Vicodin," he announced. "The Vicodin balances out the Happy Pills. It negates the side effects."
"How?" Cameron was incredulous.
"I'm guessing your pills prompt a fear reaction because of the excessive endorphins, right?"
Cameron nodded.
"So in come the fear side effects, which also trigger feelings of fear: Wilson and his wives, Chase and the croc, Foreman and his…" House watched warily as Foreman gave up on the graffiti and started picking at his invisible afro he'd apparently grown over the last hour, "and his Ghettoness."
"And the Vicodin—" gasped out Wilson from between laughs.
"The Vicodin is a pain-reducer. Cameron, thank you for proving my point: Happiness always leads back to pain." House smiled victoriously. "All you have to do is start these giddy lunatics on Vicodin and they'll be back to normal in no time."
Cuddy actually smiled. Cameron looked relieved. Chase was still shrinking back from the stuffed croc, but what can you do? Foreman was debating with himself on whether or not he should blow out his fro or get the dreds braided.
Secret Private Coma Guy was demanding he get his Vicodin right now so he could go back to sleep.
House turned to face the proverbial Dark Agent of Doom again. "Looks like you're plan didn't work out so well after all—"
He was cut off by the furious roar of the motorcycle. Vogler revved up the bike, yelling something probably meant to be offensive and intimidating but entirely inaudible over the noise. The tail pipe emitted a puff of eye-tearing smoke, blinding everyone temporarily. House could feel the brush of the bike as Vogler rode by in a burst of speed down the corridor.
Secret Private Coma Guy declared that he was on the pursuit. No one stopped him, because it seemed kind of sad to have to run down an elderly man in a wheelchair.
"The—the—" Wilson quickly inhaled, trying to suppress the rest of his laughter, "House—the Vicodin—?"
"I don't know. I kind of like you this way."
"House," Cuddy warned.
"I'm just joking," House said, sighing dramatically. He dug through his pockets for his ubiquitous pill container. "Here you go. Don't take them all because my leg's in more pain than you are laughing…" House suddenly stopped.
"Come on, House," laughed Wilson, still unable to pull himself to his feet. "This isn't funny!"
Cuddy stared at the diagnostician's befuddled face. "What?"
"The Vicodin." House pulled his empty pockets inside-out to prove his point. "It's gone."
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Vogler practically ran over a door to the furthest Clinic exam room. He clutched the Vicodin container tighter within his palm. Getting off the bike with the grace of a drugged gorilla, he slanted a chair against the door, essentially locking himself in.
"What are you doing?"
The Dark Agent of Doom started at the voice behind him. A patient sat, apparently still waiting for his check-up, on the exam room table. His black hair receded entirely from the top of his head; his chin was oppressed by a day and half's worth of scruff. If you squinted, he looked like a combination between Danny DeVito, Billy Crystal, and Bruce Springsteen. Two of three, not so bad. He had the roughened Jersey face and speech down to perfection. He probably drove like a maniac, too. The name on his chart said Moriarty, Jack.
Vogler liked him immediately because Vogler liked anyone he could use.
"How are you today, sir? My name is Dr. Vogler."
Moriarty had had a long day. He'd been waiting two hours for someone to check his cough and assure him it wasn't life-threatening. In the meantime, he'd caught sight of a crazed Australian and a gangster who had apparently broken out of New Jersey's State Prison and raided the hospital. During lock down, he'd dashed for the nearest exam room and decided to sit it out in there.
He looked this Dr. Vogler over suspiciously. He didn't know of any qualified doctors who wore leather jackets and rode motorcycles. (Yes, House does both, but typically not during an exam.)
"Uh… I think I'm just going to go home." Moriarty rose to his stocky feet. He glanced once more at Vogler in front of him, then toward the sealed door. "This is the worst hospital I've ever been to."
"Would you believe I almost donated $100 million to it?" Vogler asked, smiling.
Moriarty paused. "That's the craziest thing I've heard yet."
"I know. And it's all Dr. House's fault."
"Dr. House…?" The name didn't ring a bell. "Is he the Australian—"
"Nope. He's not the ghetto guy, either. He's in a league of insanity all his own."
"Hah," Moriarty tried a chuckle. "And I thought those guys were crazy." He paused, noticing the glimmer in Dr. Vogler's eyes. "Uh… You're not one of those vengeful people, are you?"
"Me?" Vogler tossed the container of Vicodin from chubby hand to chubby hand. "It depends on the day. And you?"
Moriarty shrugged. "I've really got no reason to be."
"Well." Vogler leaned in, raising a brow. "What if I gave you a reason?"