YES! Finally, the upload worked! Sorry for the delay... The story has actually been done for the past three days. Now, to end the suspense... ; )

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The one time House could actually put to the Vicodin to good use, he didn't have it. Cuddy was annoyed, but she could still function rationally.

"So just go to the pharmacy. It's right at the other end of the Clinic!"

"That would be a brilliant idea," House agreed, "if the designers of this lock down system hadn't decided to put one of their fancy metal doors around it."

She rubbed her head. "Well, that was pointless."

Foreman had found some patient's discarded baseball hat that was left in the waiting room. He put it on his head, tilting it to the side in gangsta fashion. "It won't fit over my fro, son!"

"You don't have a fro. That's your stupidity manifesting itself into a subconsciously physical entity."

"Yeah, G."

"Come on." Cuddy grabbed House's sleeve with one manicured hand and Foreman's with the other. "We're going to find Vogler and get this straightened out right now."

"Man, that hoorider is wack," Foreman griped.

House smirked. "So we speak the same language after all."

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

Meanwhile, Moriarty was struggling to understand what Vogler wanted him to do.

"Okay. So you'll give me $1000 if I just hold on to these pills?"

"Yes," Vogler nodded, growing impatient. Even Chase hadn't been this clueless. "Keep them in your pocket. Don't let anyone know you have them."

"But what are they for?"

"Nothing important. Just hold on to them." Vogler gave the seat of his motorcycle a resounding pat and then went to leave. As he climbed onto his motorcycle, he turned back for a split second.

He didn't have any final words of wisdom to give Moriarty. The only reason he turned back was because his leather pants picked this moment to rip. Dear readers, I will not elaborate on why the Dark Agent of Doom wears Barbra Streisand boxers. There is a line to draw with randomness.

But since he had turned around, he had to say something to make it look good. Belting out Someday My Prince Will Come seemed kind of inappropriate, so he went with the next best thing:

"And don't be surprised if they start coming after you," Vogler said.

Moriarty nodded. He glanced once more at the pills. "Uh—nice boxers."

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

Vogler drove out of the exam room, keeping Moriarty hidden inside. He was halfway down the hallway when he was beset by House, Cuddy, and a swaggering Foreman. The intern was wearing a pink baseball cap that read Someone In New Jersey Loves Me.

"Ya'll goin' down, son," Foreman called.

Vogler stopped. He even got off of his bike, this confrontation far too entertaining to miss. "What brings you fine doctors here?"

"The pills, Vogler," Cuddy said firmly. She held out her hand and waited, glaring. "Now."

"And suddenly this is my fault." Vogler sighed, shaking his massive, beach-ball-shaped head. "If you'd only taken my $100 million…"

"Oh, would you let that go already," House snapped. "We should've taken the money and spent it on one giant space shuttle to blast you to the moon. That would have solved a lot of things."

Vogler was on the verge of chuckling again. "But you chose to reject the check. Your loss. So now—"

"Holla, son, I gotta give you props, yo."

Vogler turned, aghast when he realized Foreman had just climbed onto his precious motorcycle. The intern patted the glossy side of it, impressed.

"Get off of there right now! Do you have any idea how much that costs?"

"Nah," grinned Foreman, revving the engine. "Dis is tight. On the rilla, son, you did a'ight with that cash."

"See, Vogler, don't you feel so much more reassured?" House said, placating.

If Vogler's head was a beach ball (and we have our theories), it was on the verge of popping any minute now. "Get off—"

"Yeah, son, I'm down wit dis ride. Wat you think, G?" He grinned over at House, an expertise on bikes. "Lookin' fly now." He revved the engine for show.

Cuddy wasn't quite sure who to stare at this time. "Foreman, since when do you know how to ride?"

He waved a hand, grinning. "I'm just playin', dawg. I don't know—"

Suddenly, Foreman cranked a wrong knob and went speeding off, leaving the others in a puff of exhaust smoke.

"Well, hopefully he figures it out soon," House said, watching as the intern and bike grew smaller and smaller down the hall.

"My bike!" Vogler screeched.

"I'm sure you'll be able to afford another." House stepped in front of him. He made sure his cane landed on one of Vogler's spotless leather shoes. "Now. Those pills."

"I don't have them."

"I'm in no mood for this," Cuddy interrupted. She stepped between Vogler and House, holding out a demanding hand. "Give them over now, or I will call the police."

"And have me arrested for what?"

"Assault. Harassment. Breaking and entering. A trespassing motor vehicle."

"Being ugly in a public vicinity," House added. "I hear that's a big sentence in Jersey."

Vogler glared through his smug expression. It gave his face a prune-ish look, which—compared to the previous metaphors—was a relative improvement. "I don't have them."

"We know you have them," Cuddy persisted, annoyed.

Vogler turned his pockets inside out, just as House had done before. They were empty. "Surprise."

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

Back in the waiting room, Wilson was about two steps further from where he'd been when Cuddy, House, and Foreman set off after Vogler. Another burst of laughter had hit him, stalling his efforts.

Chase was crouched in pouncing position on one of the chairs. He was contemplating helping Wilson, going out in search of the croc, or hiding from them both.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could just make out Secret Private Coma Guy returning from down the hall.He had a look of grave importance scrawled on his face.

His wheelchair squeaked to a halt right in front of Wilson. The oncologist, sprawled on the floor, was eyelevel with one of the wheels.

"Get up, Soldier! Your country needs you!"

"Vog—Vog—"

"This is no time to Strike a Pose!" cried the Secret Private. "Those friends of yours are on the wrong track!"

"Vogler has—"

"No, he doesn't!" Secret Private Coma Guy threw up his wilted hands with frustration. "Haven't you read the pamphlet, Soldier? We have a Situation 0017485 on our hands right now! Article IV, Section III: The Art of Diversion. The Dark Agent of Doom doesn't have the pills on him; he's passed it on to someone else, someone we'd never suspect!"

"Like… That guy?" Chase suggested. He pointed down the hall, where Moriarty was slinking out of an exam room.

"ATTACK!" cried the Secret Private. It took him a good half-minute to get his wheelchair rolling.

Wilson collapsed again in laughter. "Go on—go on without me!"

"No! We never leave a man behind!"

"Seriously—go—"

"Soldier." Secret Private Coma Guy fumbled for a bit with the wheels until he got his chair spun around to face Wilson. He gave a small nod of respect. "For all your insanity, I've come to value your companionship over the mission."

Wilson was trying to say that's nice, but he didn't really want to be reduced to a pile of giggles for the next month.

The Secret Private wouldn't have listened anyway. Managing to stand up out of his chair, he tried to drag Wilson into it instead.

"No, stop—" giggled Wilson.

"I'm saving your life, sonny!"

Overcome with such a sudden onslaught of hilarity, Wilson accidentally toppled the wheelchair over. It collapsed into a heap. A wheel went bouncing down the hallway.

Secret Private Coma Guy clutched his own head, gasping. He held his wrist to his lips, speaking into his hospital ID band as if it were a Top-Secret radio.

"General! Our transportation has been destroyed, Sir. We have no means with which to pursue the enemy, Sir. Requesting further backup ASAP, Sir!"

"Chase—" Wilson pulled himself together just long enough to nod toward Moriarty.

"But that ain't the croc, mate!"

"More—important—"

"Crickey! Whah's more important than the ol' girl?"

Wilson covered his face with his hands and was officially lost to laughter.

Chase was getting a bit worried, so he decided maybe he would be better off finding some new company. He wasn't entirely sure what Moriarty had to do with anything, and he didn't see how in the world he would have the pills. But perhaps this patient knew further info about the croc.

Chase stealthily followed him, ducking behind potted plants every now and then. Belly-crawling back to the coma patient's room, he stopped in horror to find his fort had been torn down. Troubled, he examined the tracks in the plants, the indentations in the dirt, some pink fabric fuzzies left on the scene. Either a croc in a skirt dissembled his lookout, or Cuddy had.

Regardless, Chase figured he didn't need the fort after all. Moriarty had run himself into a corner at the end of the hall, his back against the metal door that sealed off the all-important—and inaccessible—pharmacy.

"Stop jess right there, mate! I have a few questions fer you!"

Chase didn't even have to say anything. His flamboyant dive toward his newest pursuit was enough to make the patient freeze.

A container of pills rattled in Moriarty's hand. He glanced to the clock, not knowing how he was going to explain to his wife that he'd spent the entire day at a hospital running from crocodile hunters and Barbra Streisand underwear. He might have better luck getting her to buy the latter.

"I'm kind of busy right now."

"I reckon you are. Jess hand me over those pills for my mates and you'll be on yer way, then."

"Uh… I can't."

"C'mon, cobber. Jess toss 'em here, no worries."

"I don't want any trouble."

Chase raised an eyebrow. "Well, maybe you should'a thought of that b'fore you got yerself mixed up with a croc!"

"A what?"

"A croc."

Moriarty paused. "A—a what?"
"A THIS!"

Chase and Moriarty both looked up at the new voice. From the other end of the hall, Vogler

tossed something plush and green toward them.

The stuffed crocodile skidded to a halt between them. Chase's shriek reached a level usually reserved for horror films and teenage girl sleepovers.

"No, Chase!" Cuddy's voice came into the picture. She stepped out from behind Vogler. "It's not

real!"

"CRICKEY! D'you see the size of her!"

House emerged, standing beside Cuddy. "Your shoe size is bigger!" he called. His voice dropped into calm, rational tones. "Chase. Pull it together. Step over the stuffed animal and get those pills."

Chase was dubiously terrified. "You—you want me to walk over her?"

"No," House retorted sarcastically, "I want you to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea with her."

"For cryin' aloud, I ain't a Brit, mate!"

"You're not much of a crocodile hunter either, if you can't do this!"

Chase took a wavering breath. The crocodile's beady little button eyes stared back. She was apparently awake now.

These Seppos knew nothing about the dangers of crocs, he thought…but they did seem to need those pills quite desperately. It was time to face his fears.

Inhaling deeply, Chase closed his eyes and took a dramatic leap over the toy that would have made every hopscotch player in the world proud.

With a quick move, Chase snatched the pill container from Moriarty's hand. Cuddy cheered, and House waved his cane for him to get on with it. The two quickly moved toward Chase. A shocked and rather confused Moriarty slipped out of the gathering crowd without anyone caring of his departure.

"Glad we'll never have to see him again," House muttered. "Now, Chase. Let's see those pills."

Chase grinned, dumping them out in his palm. "Right'o, mate."

"Uh… Chase?"

"Yeah, mate?"

House picked one up, examining it to the light. "These aren't Vicodin."

"No way, cobber—are you sure?"

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. "They're aspirin."

"Well, that would be effective, too," House griped, rubbing his head as he returned the pill to Chase's hand. He already had a headache and his leg was started to hurt. "So if Vogler's little henchman didn't have the pills, who does?"

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

Just then, a spewing motorcycle came roaring up from down the hall. Foreman was leaning over the handlebars, grinning into the wind. On the seat behind him was Secret Private Coma Guy.

The vehicle shrieked to a stop, dousing Vogler in a burst of tail pipe fumes and black smoke. He waved his hand, furious. "Get off of my bike!"

"Not so fast." Secret Private Coma Guy hobbled down from the back seat, taking his own advice as he inched his way along. Creakily, he stood up beside the bike, waving a shriveled, crooked finger at Vogler, looking like someone's upset grandfather. "You've caused our country a lot of problems, you dang son of a gun."

"My bike—"

"It's not your bike you're so worried about," Secret Private Coma Guy continued. He nodded to Foreman, who pried off the back seat of the motorcycle. Beneath it was a hidden storage space; within that was the stolen container of Vicodin.

"How did you know--?" Cuddy started to ask.

"Haven't you read the pamphlet, Soldier? We have a Situation 0017486 on our hands right now! Article V, Section I: The Art of Diversion's Diversion." The Secret Private handed the Vicodin to House. "I believe these belong to you, you potato-eating slob."

House nodded, immediately popping a pill for himself. "Send my respects to your General."

Secret Private Coma Guy gave a tuft of his nonexistent hat. "Yes, I'll be sure to do that." He plucked a Vicodin from the container, announcing grandly, "God bless our great land," before swallowing the pill and immediately conking back into his long-awaited coma.

Cuddy sighed with relief, taking the container out of House's hands and gesturing for Chase and Foreman to get their dose. She could hear Wilson laughing down the hall and set off to find him.

House, meanwhile, whirled his cane, stopping to tap the floor with it victoriously. "See?" He smirked at Vogler's disbelieving expression. "Tenure goes a long, long way."