Recap

Rick forces Jerry to join him on a quest to retrieve his old space ship,

which has been in the hands of the federation since it was confiscated at the wedding.

Summary

Jerry is literally pushed into an unpleasant situation.

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CHAPTER 5: CHOP TOEY

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A friend, Rick told him. They were meeting a friend, a connection within the federation that was supposed to help Rick get his spacecar back.

Jerry wondered if this was how mob bosses talked, always calling people friends and buddies, smiling while their hands twitched over the trigger. Because this was definitely not some lighthearted fluff, that much Jerry knew when Rick tossed him a heavy-looking Nerf gun. Only it wasn't a Nerf gun at all–it was a 'semi-automatic plasma ray.'

"Be careful," Rick had burped, fixing explosives to the interior of his soon-to-be discarded spaceship. "Sometimes it goes off for, like nouuUURpo reason."

Jerry held the thing at arms length after that comment.

After securing the explosives, Rick led Jerry away from the dock and into the vents of the highly guarded Galactic Federation outpost. The vents were highly variable, switching from spacious to spelunker's nightmare depending on 'what sort of airation a room needs,' according to Rick. Whenever they walked through the large vents, Rick appeared to hold his breath but he never told Jerry to do the same. Jerry supposed there was something in there that he shouldn't be breathing and that was probably why he was so lightheaded. Y'know, aside from the terror that had drilled its way into his very bones.

He tried to mimic Rick's breathing habits in an attempt to assuage his fear. It didn't work and he still felt sort of sick.

"Now," Rick took in a breath and spoke through the strain as they entered another vent—this one large enough to stand in. "Sangulon's in a room below one of these vents. All you need to do is meet him in that room and he'll tell you the rest from there."

Jerry tensed, fear crawling up his spine as he hurried after Rick. "Why do I have to do that?"

"Because, Jerry, what, you think I can do all the legwork here? I-I-I mean c'mon, have a little–be not a little bitch for once, o-okay?"

"But Rick, don't you think this is a little…" Jerry looked down at his gun. "Dangerous?"

"Uh, duh."

Rick swung out an arm to stop Jerry from walking further. He kneeled, working on a metal panel in the floor of the vent, and said, "Do you know what a taster is, Jerry?"

"Uhm," Jerry clutched his gun, heart begging for escape from his chest. "N–"

"A taster, Jerry! It's–it's what kings had in the dark ages, the guy that ate the the King's food to make sure it wasn't poisoned. You know why I'm telling you this, Jerry?"

Rick snapped open the panel and stood, tugging Jerry by the elbow so he stood near it.

"Nnngh, um," Jerry swallowed, "Because… you have a newfound interest in history?"

Rick grinned, his eyes crazed, and Jerry's heart fell like a stone at the sight. "You're gonna be my taster, Jerry!"

What followed was a blur of sensation. First, the pressure of Rick's large hands on his back, pushing. Then the stomach-drop feeling of falling. And the pain of landing, shooting up his legs and back—the shock of pain led him to release his grip on the gun and when it hit the ground, a burst of plasma shot out from the barrel, hitting a federation official in the foot.

Jerry blinked several times.

Oh, wow. There were dozens of federation officials surrounding him, all with their heavy guns (semi-automatic, his mind reminded him) trained on his person.

Rick was betrayed.

Rick knew he was betrayed.

Rick knew he was betrayed and he made Jerry take the fall.

Jerry swallowed. "Rick," he choked, "You jerk."

Afterwards, Jerry would swear he heard the sound of Rick's laughter somewhere above him.

...

Jerry, strapped to a metallic table, could not appreciate the normalcy of a garbled voice through the overhead speakers: "Lunch break, Ted?"

Ted, also known as Ted the Torturer, looked up from where he'd been sawing Jerry's toe off. "Oh, shit yeah, it's enchilada day!"

Jerry almost whimpered, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Ted quickly sliced off the remaining flesh before tossing the toe into a bucket with the rest. "Only four more to go!" he said to Jerry, chittering.

Jerry tried to keep from puking again. So far, he'd vomited three times and almost choked the last time because Ted had forgotten to turn Jerry's head to the side. When Ted did realize, he simply emitted a gleeful little, "Whoops!" and adjusted Jerry's positioning. Rock bottom, Jerry decided, was the feeling of your own stomach sludge dripping from the corner of his mouth and pooling thickly where his cheek met the table.

"Alright, buddy," Ted stood from where he sat on a low stool by Jerry's feet. "I've gotta go eat. But don't you worry 'bout a thing, I'll be back soon to get rid of those pesky little digits!" He tapped Jerry's foot with his exoskeletal claw of a hand and Jerry winced at the hot rush of pain. Still, that wasn't as bad as the constant, expanding ache, the invasive burning in his feet…

"Pwwww," he murmured, "Pwwww, wwmm wmmw mwmo wmamiwm!'

"Yeah, yeah," chittered Ted, "Listen, buddy, I only have so much sympathy for someone who spends their time with Rick Sanchez, all right?" He tapped the side of his head and there was a sound like plastic-on-plastic. "Shoulda thought about your decision to mingle with a wanted criminal, huh?"

"PPPWWWww," cried Jerry. He was trying to communicate his own fiery hatred for Rick as well, but it wasn't working, not at all.

Ted left the room, chuckling to himself. All that remained were two guards and Jerry, strapped to a table that had tipped at some point during his torture so that now his feet were elevated higher than his head. He could feel cooling blood running from the wounds on his feet up his leg and to his knees.

Jerry had not expected the torture. He wasn't sure what he expected, really, but… This was the Galactic Federation—the government. Surely they'd understand he was just a pawn in Rick's game.

And they did. They just didn't care.

"Jerry Smith," one had reported to his boss, "Rick's son-in-law."

The apparent commander, Jerry remembered, had seemed irritated at this. "Where is the other one?"

"What other one?"

The commander waved his limb, mandibles shifting restlessly. "You know, the young one who's always wearing a yellow shirt?"

"Oh," the rookie Gromflomite peered at Jerry. "According to the security cams, Rick only brought this guy."

The commander hummed. "The young one was likely too valuable to bring on an excursion into the Federation, especially knowing as much as he does about Sanchez's life."

The rookie nodded cluelessly.

The commander emitted a long-suffering sigh and turned to face a window overlooking black, empty space. "Well," he said, folding his arms at the small of his back, "I suppose we should get as much as we can out of him anyways."

…

He was completely toeless by the time Rick burst through the floor.

Jerry was floating in a semi-conscious state, vision blurred and sounds distant. He didn't register his rescue. He just listened to the piercing wails of the alarm as he watched the flashing red emergency lights dance over the reflective surfaces of the torture chamber.

"–erry," there was a strong hand on each shoulder and Jerry was suddenly aware that he was right side up again. "Jerry, wake the fuck up! God fuckin' dammit, stupid little fuckin'dumbass fuckin' traitor Sangulon…"

The torture chamber was trashed, covered in the black blood of Gromflomites (including Ted, who lay slumped in the corner with a thin tongue sticking out of his now jawless head). There was a gaping hole in the floor of the room, around the edges of which was more black blood, bodies spread all over the room below.

Jerry blinked, trying to focus his vision on the person in front of him… or was it persons? They were possibly twins, each with a shock of pale hair and old, grayish skin… Oh, wait, they were merging. Nope, they were apart again. Annnnd merging…

"Jerry!"

Jerry's head whipped to the side and a curious tingling sensation bloomed on the still-exposed section of his face. Oh, he realized, I just got slapped. His head whipped to the other side all of a sudden. More sharp tingles. Oh, he thought, I just got slapped again.

"Oh, for Christ's—if you don't get up, I'm leaving you here."

Jerry groaned, awareness slowly but surely seeping back into his heavy head.

"Jerry!"

There was something familiar to that grating, almost painfully harsh, voice. "R-Rick?"

"No, Margaret, it's me God. Yes, it's fuckin' Rick! Get the fuck up, Jerry, we gotta go!"

"Rick…" Jerry rasped, "My toes…"

Rick dragged a hand down his face. "I'll get your toes, Jerry, but if you could just–just help me out here? Before we die? I-I-I-I-I-I don't wanna die because of a Jerry, okay. God, can you imagine what the other Rick's would say if I died 'cause of a Jerry?"

Ah, a familiar roiling in his gut, a limp energy circulating in his fists… Jerry wanted to punch Rick in the face. What did they call this feeling?

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Rick yanked at Jerry, tossing him over his slender shoulders, "Oh, God, you're like a fuckin sand bag," he wheezed, "Or like a giant… fuckin' turd… Yeah, that's more like it…"

Jerry was definitely re-entering the world of the living. He knew this because all of a sudden, his feet hurt like a motherfucker. "Riiiiiick," he moaned, fists nudging at Rick's lower back. "My tooooeees."

"Yes, goddamnit, Jerry," Rick stuffed Jerry into the passenger seat of his spacecar and stalked to the torture table, scooping up a yellow bucket that was on the floor before returning to the car, "I've got your fuckin' toe bucket, okay? Here– here, take it!" He thrust the bucket of ice into Jerry's limp arms. Jerry's head lolled downwards, eyes flickering over the white frozen cubes and the watery blood smeared all over the plastic sides.

"I should," he slurred, staring at his severed big toe, "I should cut my toenails more often…"

Rick slammed the passenger door, shouting expletives and pulling at his hair for a moment before proceeding to walk around the side of the car. The piercing alarm seemed to intensify when Rick opened the driver's side door only to once again recede under the sound of the door slamming.

"Oh, fuck yeah!" Rick said, wriggling in his chair, "Still got mah seat settings, biiiiiiitch!"

Rick leaned over to pull a seat belt over Jerry's chest. Jerry blinked slowly as this happened, watching the silent scene in what remained of the torture chamber. A group of Gromflomites had burst through the door as Rick was getting in the car and they were now shooting at the vehicle, but Rick didn't look concerned so neither was Jerry. He just let himself slump further into his seat, body pulsating as it leaked its life force all over the floor mats.

"Aw, Jesus Christ, Jerry," Rick sat back up and jerked a lever beside the ship's steering wheel, "You're getting your gross blood over everything."

"Sorry…" he muttered.

Rick ignored him, instead flipping a few switches before returning to the stick shift, performing some sort of movement that allowed them to hover a moment before they crashed straight through the wall into open space.

Jerry watched rapt as the Gromflomite soldiers left in the room were sucked into the vacuum of space, weapons scattering.

"Fuck yeaaaaaah, bitches!" Rick grinned and spun the ship around before they jetted off into the blackness. "That's what happens when you fuck with Rick fuckin' Sanchez, beeeeeeeiiiitch! Lick, lick, lick my baaaaallls!"

Jerry's head fell against the glass. "No, thanks," he murmured, "Too tired."

…

Jerry could not understand Rick's shameless joy. There he was, in the driver's seat, saying stuff like shit yeaaah, and oh, yeah, that's my fuckin' soooong, boi as the radio continued playing Earth stuff. Meanwhile, Jerry was gulping down all the available liquid from the glove compartment (it tasted like acetone, which wasn't ideal, but...), hoping drunkenness would act as a buffer between him and the absolute agony of re-applying his toes to his own body. And he had thought trying to figure out which toes went where was a nightmare…

By now, Jerry was nearly done fixing himself up. He had just dumped some alcohol onto the one remaining stub that was supposed to be a toe, hissing all the while. Then, he used one hand to hold his right big toe in place while his other aimed a stem cell gun at the clean split between the flesh. Grimacing, he pulled the trigger.

"Ahhh, fffffrick!" The burning sensation began from within his bone marrow, expanding as the surrounding tissue tried to accommodate the sudden invasion of a new extracellular matrix. "Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck." It would take a few minutes before the pain would fade into a regular, pulsing ache.

"Keep it down, will ya?" said Rick, sipping from his flask. "I'm tryna–tryna listen to Young Thug, aight? Givenchy mah toes and mah hoes and mah bros.. foh sho, fo sho…" Rick bobbed his head, cranking his seat back. He looked over at Jerry, smiling, only to be met with a glare. "Oh, what, the toe thing? Too soon, huh?"

Jerry just kept glaring.

"God, you and Morty, huh?" Rick shook his head, taking another swig. "Always taking things personally." He frowned and then nodded at Jerry's feet. "By the way, I think you fucked up a couple toes there. Pretty sure the pinky toe goes on the end."

Jerry looked down at his feet. Sure enough, the pinky toe was in the place of the middle toe. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

…

Rick landed sloppily, as he always did, in the parking lot of the Flim-Flameria. "Nice–uuURp–nice hustle today, Jerry, you really–you really took one for the team," Rick burped.

Jerry ignored Rick, shoving the space car door open and gingerly placing both bare feet on the ground. His only remaining pair of pants was now stained with blood at the cuffs. And where did his shoes go in all this commotion? He gave a wary glance at the clothing store next to the strip club. Guess he'd have to do some shopping with his meager paycheck. He wondered if his shoe sizing would be any different now that some of his toes had been rearranged…

"Hey, Jerry, what're you just–you just gonna ignore me?"

Jerry pushed himself into a standing position and took a baby step forward. Yep, that hurt, but it'd do. He limped away from the car, shoving the door shut behind him.

Rick rolled down the window. "Fine, be that way, you big baby."

Jerry flung him the bird, hobbling his way back to the Flim Flameria while making sure to avoid the glow worms jutting out of the pavement.

He didn't look back when he heard Rick fly away.

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A/N:

Up next—not sure, sorry.

Sorry about this chapter, I didn't have much time to edit it as I've been very busy with family stuff all week. Also, I haven't had the chance to write the next chapter yet so I likely won't publish it for a couple weeks.