DO NOT read unless you have seen Episode 10 of Season 4; the episode that aired Sunday the 28th of August.
This episode was halfway decent, so I thought it was appropriate to send Ball to rehab, but I'm pretty sure he'll fall off the wagon sooner or later.
Chapter 2- Rehab
The perfect song for this chapter is Amy Winehouse's Rehab. I thought I'd get you in the mood by typing a few lyrics, but it would be best to play that song from youtube. com or hum it in your head as you read this.
They tried to make me go to rehab,
I said, "no, no, no."
Yes, I been black,
But when I come back, you'll know, know, know.
I ain't got the time,
And if my daddy thinks I'm fine.
He's tries to make me go to rehab,
I won't go, go, go.
The day after the Episode 9 aired the team of creative writers shoved the reviews into Ball's not-so-awaiting hands. Ball took the papers along with his Tall Mocha Latte and sluggishly slithered into his corner office.
"Too many goddamn windows," he murmured, shielding his eyes with his hand from the rays of the sun. Pressing a button on his desk, the shades lowered, giving Ball a minor reprieve from the heady hangover he sported.
"Damn reviews; why should I fucking care what they have to say?" he stated to himself as he slammed the newspapers down onto his desk and plopped himself forcefully into his leather wingback chair.
He scanned the words, not really reading because he fucking didn't care, but a single phrase caught his attention; this feels like little more than shipper pandering.
"Shipper pandering," Ball repeated, clearly confused on the accurate connotation.
Ball flicked on his computer and as he waited for it to warm up, he perused the other articles. The critics painted his brilliance in a horrific light. Phrases like 'close to giving me a cavity' and a 'cop-out to end all cop-outs' filled the pages of the paper. Ball was in disbelief of the ignorance of the viewing population; did they not know extraordinary even when it slapped them in the bloody face?
Finally his homepage booted up and he clicked on one of his bookmarked sites; Dictionary. com.
He keyed in the word pandering and waited as the computer took a minute to process. The definitions were:
A person who furnishes clients for prostitute or supplies persons for illicit sexual intercourse; procurer; pimp
A person who caters to or profits from the weaknesses or vices of others.
A go-between in amorous intrigues.
Ball looked at the definitions and was even more baffled as to why that particular author found those words to be offensive.
Was not Bill a procurer and instructed to do what was necessary? Did not the vampires profit from Sookie's vice? Was Cookie not a go-between as she sandwiched herself between two hungry vampires for an amorous intrigue?
All these questions swirled in Ball's fucked up mind as he couldn't understand the negative essence of the statement, so instead he took the meaning as a complement and sat there, in his leather chair, with a satisfied smile, drinking his Mocha Latte.
A knock sounded at the door.
"What?" Ball yelled as the pounding taunted him like a driving hammer intent on securing a nail into a piece of wood.
The door opened slowly and a few guys on the staff walked in; for the life of him he couldn't remember any of their names as the foggy haze still had not totally lifted from his mind.
"Alan, we have some concerns?"
We, he thought as he looked over the blurry images before him.
Clearing his throat one of them said, "We feel you've lost your…mojo. It may have something to do with the amount of…aids you take."
Surely they could not be referring to my Listerine Strips.
"What are you saying gentlemen? Get to the point; I'm a busy man," Ball snapped, as he randomly ran his fingers over the keyboard to imply that he was actually working.
"We feel…that you need an intervention. If you want to maintain your status on the show you have to seek treatment. The staff has enrolled you in the Promises Treatment Center in Malibu."
Ball remained calm at their declaration because the one thing he did know was that if he lost his temper they'd be shipping him off faster than it took Cookie to suck out a bullet.
Ball played it cool, "Gentlemen, I believe there has been a mistake. I'm sure we can work something out."
As the three, possible six men shook their heads vigorously Ball had to clutch his desk so he wouldn't fall over. Their bodies blended together into one, and then would separate into different factions, spreading out around the room as if he were surrounded. His head felt like it was about to explode and the fight in him went out, as he passed out, landing on the floor.
He woke up in a room all of his own and he guessed from his surroundings that he was at Promises. "Promises, promises," he grumbled as a sexy nurse walked into the room.
"Am I allowed to say Mr. Ball that I think True Blood is de-vine. You are the greatest man to ever walk this Earth." the nurse gushed as he flailed his hands in wild gestures, reminding him of the flamboyant Lafayette.
"Please, call me Alan, and you are?" he asked with a wink.
"I am Mark, and don't worry your pretty little head; we'll get you out of here in no time."
Ball thought to himself, I'm betting on it.
Forty-eight hours later Ball had completed his accelerated twelve-step program and even received his first sobriety pin; the first step to a long recovery he was told. He never thought he'd miss his bed as much as he did and when he woke up that first morning after rehab, he felt like a changed man.
Alan Ball had a purpose, a vision on where he wanted to take True Blood, but for the life of him he couldn't fucking remember it. It must have been all the acid, he thought as he went about his morning routine. It was now Sunday, having lost so many days because of the unnecessary intervention.
Alan Ball was a very superstitious man and refused to break his morning rituals. On Sunday, because Monday was the day he met with the creative directing team, he would glean ideas from the everyday ordinary people by fraternizing among them.
Literary genius results is tough shit, he thought as he sipped a cup of coffee trying to dispel the hammering that invaded his mind; withdrawals he was told would plague him for some time. Do they think I can pull such greatness out of my ass?
With moments like these, only having a few mere hours before he had to pitch his ideas to the team, Ball actually checked his ass to see if it held the key to the answers he sought.
"Damnit, nothing!" he cursed silently to himself.
So Sunday was an important day since his ass wasn't up to the challenge of continuing the storyline that he so readily fucked up.
He left his house inconspicuously trying to avoid the paparazzi, disguised with a ball cap and sunglasses as he took off in his cherry red Porsche with a license plate that said 'dreamer'.
Ball was a dreamer and frequented said dreams into the show. Reality bites without a bit of fantasy, he thought to himself.
The first stop of his morning, which was early afternoon by the time he got his ass out of bed, was to pick up the morning paper. The paper set the tone for the day, not the actual paper, but the fortune that governed the inside of the pages. Ball left nothing up to chance in his life and knew that fate really could move the world. So his first act every Sunday morning was to consult the esteemed words of wisdom that could only be found in his horoscope as he ate lunch at his favorite restaurant; Moon Goddess.
Moon Goddess was essentially a Chinese restaurant ran by a New Age woman that was as painted up as a Geisha. Ling escorted Ball to his usual table with his paper securely tucked under his arm. Ball believed that everything was fated and as he sat down he noticed the new Chinese Zodiac placemats. Immediately, without even giving Ling a second glance, he scoured the animals looking for his match. The year 1957, his birth year, meant that he was a Rooster.
"I love cocks!" he said out loud, snorting at his poorly played humor. He breezed through the qualities of a Rooster and liked what he saw; Roosters had a very keen 'sixth-sense'; they were multitalented and excellent trouble shooters; and, though sharp, practical, and resourceful, the Rooster loved to dream.
He sat back in his chair filled with awe; every quality that labeled the Rooster fit him perfectly like a custom made glove. He jotted down his cock-like qualities in a little notebook that he carried for such things.
As he waited for his food he opened to his horoscope to seek his daily dose of wisdom. Scanning down he reached his life's direction.
Life will be filled with unsavory battles, fighting with massive weapons, but one battle that cannot be fought lies within the heart.
"What the hell does that mean?" he asked no one in particular, but praying that the powers-that-be would send him a sign.
"Mr. Ball, can I please get a picture with you?" a young man asked bringing him out of his internal struggle.
"Sure," he stated without enthusiasm, not intending on getting up, but Ling had other ideas.
"Mr. Ball I take picture by Tiki torch. Get up!" Ling demanded in her broken English.
Ball reluctantly followed the adoring fan and the painted Geisha over to two Tiki torches. He didn't want to know why the torches were inside a New Age Chinese restaurant.
"Hold torch!" Ling commanded, but as Ball placed his hand on the torch, he received another reprimand from Ling. "No, like this," she said, demonstrating as she pulled the torch from the floor and held it out on an angle to him. Ball took the torch and the fan stood beside him as they posed for the picture.
Ball's eyes drifted to the wooden make of the torch and as his eyes trailed even further down, he discovered the sharp pointy end.
"Can I have your autograph, Sir?" the fan asked, extending to him a very sharp, very wooden number two pencil.
…fighting with weapons of mass destruction….
His fingers curled around the weapon, er pencil as he examined the pointy end, deciding if the splinters would be enough to kill a vampire.
"Sir?" the young man questioned as Ball examined the pencil like it was a foreign object, something which he had never seen.
Ball shook himself and said, "Who should I address this too?"
"Can you write: Terry, Shoot me a line next time you're in the clubhouse?"
It sounded like an obscure request to Ball, but he indulged the youth, not thinking much of the inscription at the time. The young man walked away with a skip in his step and a smile on his face.
Ball returned to his seat and ate his meal. Ling brought over his favorite part of indulging in the Chinese culture; the fortune cookies. They might not seem that significant to some, but Ball practically worshiped the advice they contained.
He offered up a silent petition to the powers-that-be, hoping that he'd receive guidance on what to do about Cookie's lack of sexual competence and the Festival of Tolerance. He kissed the curved-like fortune and broke it.
The Light at the end of the day will be what saves them all.
Ball taped that fortune into his notebook and pondered over the meaning of the light. Sookie, when she's trying to not be Cookie, has the power of the Light, he thought.
…fighting with many weapons of mass destruction….
The pencil, the Tiki torch and the Light were many weapons indeed, but what of the outcome?
Ball cracked open his next medium for knowledge.
Men without souls do not cry.
"What the fuck?" he said a bit too loud.
"Mr. Ball, keep dirty language to self!" Ling scolded with her finger wagging in his face. Ball sheepishly apologized to the Moon Goddess.
He had one last cookie, and before he opened it, though not a religious man, he made the sign of the cross, figuring that he'd even accept help from Jesus. He kissed the cookie one last time and then broke it.
Those who interfere will vanish into thin air.
This time Ball thought, what the fuck, clearly terrified of the frightening Ling in all her painted glory. He had almost made up his mind to go home, and look for his box of Listerine Strips that held the magical LSD, until his sobriety pin fell out of his wallet.
I will not fall off the wagon, he thought, at least not so soon!
With a sigh, he paid his bill and meandered down the street looking for inspiration.
He thought over the logistics; he had not found a stunt double for Cookie because many women feared the wandering snake, not covered by the damn sock. He tried to talk to the Swede, but apparently he felt more comfortable au naturale. Not that Ball was arguing because he also felt a bit more happy seeing Alex dangling free. No, the solution clearly was to find a creamier double-stuffed Oreo, but who?
As Ball traveled down the street he stumbled upon a used book and video store. What better way to gain knowledge, he thought.
The children's section was in the front of the store and as he was about to push on to the adult section, a series of books caught his attention; The Magic Tree House.
A light bulb flickered to life in Ball's mind. What was it that boy had asked him to write? Something about Terry shooting at a clubhouse?
Ball picked up one of the Tree House books and skimmed the back; apparently Jack and Annie solved all the problems of the world inside a magical tree house.
"Who is having problems?" Ball asked himself. "Who isn't, is the better question?" He decided to write down these ideas in his notebook for later.
Weaving in and out of the aisles his eyes rested on a featured book by Kazuo Ishiguro entitled, Never Let Me Go. Ball vaguely remembered it, even though it had been turned into a movie not all that long ago. But as he flipped to the summary a thought entered his mind; Tommy finds his completion in death.
Hmm, Ball thought as he wondered how that could possibly correlate with True Blood.
Roving down another aisle Ball discovered a collection of James Bond movies; Quantum of Solace and Casino Royale stood out.
"All Daniel Craig was good for was blowing stuff up?" Ball mused, which inherently shifted his mind to the Moon Goddess in True Blood.
If the vamps wanted to rid themselves of Antonia/Marnie, what would they do? What the hell would bored Sookie do because there would obviously be no nookie for Cookie without a stunt double?
"She would interfere," Ball said almost reverently as the story began to knit itself together.
Those who interfere will vanish into thin air, echoed into his mind. So Sookie would vanish, which inherently wasn't a bad thing considering her lack of a sultry persuasion.
Ball turned to leave, but an episode of SpongeBob, that was playing in the background, caught his eye.
SpongeBob was speaking to Squidward and saying, "You must never question the wisdom of the Magic Conch. The club always takes it's advice before we do anything." Ball stood there and watched a bit more, mystified over the magical wonders of the conch, before he flipped his phone open to call his assistant.
"Yeah, get me a Magic Conch Shell, and not just any one; The Magic Conch Shell." He closed his phone and continued on his way back to his car.
He drove home in silence, pondering the mystical forces that swayed his creative juices. He parked his car in the garage and relinquished himself of his disguise. Tepidly he wandered into his home seeking refreshment from his mentally straining ordeal.
Plopping himself down on the sofa, he surfed through the channels. The X-Men were playing on TBS and Ball thought to himself, wouldn't it be uncanny if the X-Men had to save our dear Rogue again.
"Damnit!" he cursed as he thought back to his predicament with Cookie. Because he was unsuccessful in his quest to find a stunt-double, wardrobe had not bothered to shop for her clothing. Taping began in two days, what was he to do?
A brilliant idea flashed into his mind; a very cost effective idea. "Lisa, Arlene's daughter doesn't even have screen time this week. Sookie can wear Lisa's clothes since they are roughly the same size."
Ball flipped open his notebook and reread his findings for the day. His horoscope warned him of battles with different weapons and that could only refer to the Festival of Tolerance. A smile bloomed upon his face when he thought about the possible weapons.
"Only Nan could get away with a pencil," he thought evilly.
The Light must be from Sookie, he mused; Sookie's Light must save them all.
A battle that cannot be fought lies within the heart, Ball reread from his notes. It was Cookie's heart that was in question and because of sanitary reasons and lack of extras that idea needed to be delegated to another episode.
"I know, Lisa has one of those heart sweaters that Sookie could wear. Problem solved," Ball stating, dismissing the true meaning of the fortune and deciding to brush it all under the rug, by the use of an immature, very teenage looking sweater.
Ball reviewed his notes moving the words and phrases around until they made even a semblance of sense; Terry, cock, Magic Tree House, and weapons still plagued him.
"There ain't no Roosters in True Blood, not unless Sam turned into one." He briefly thought of that idea as he swirled the words around inside his head, but ultimately decided against it.
Terry and Andy cockfight, shooting it up at the Magic Tree House where all problems are solved. Perfect, Ball thought.
Men without souls do not cry, Ball read from his fortune.
"Ah, shit. I guess that means that there will be some weeping willows among the men."
Ball turned back to the tube and began flipping through the channels. Turner Movie Classics had on one of his favorite movies; The Princess Bride. He tuned in and it was almost at the end, but at his favorite part.
"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father, prepare to die," Ball repeated along with the actor.
Ball loved the conviction that Inigo had and the vengeful spirit that shadowed his entire life.
A thought occurred to Ball and he whispered, "Hello, my name is Sam Merlotte; you killed my brother, prepare to die."
Ball was mighty proud of himself because he creatively brainstormed without the help of Drew Carey or LSD.
A/N- I just wanted to mention that I do realize that these shows are taped way in advance, but for the purpose of these segments, let's pretend that they tape during the week and air on Sunday.
Disclaimer: I do not own and I do not wish to offend the following: Mary Pope Osborne, Tiki torches, pencil makers, Drew Carey, SpongeBob, The Magic Conch, Nabisco, Chinese people, fortune cookies, James Bond, or cocks in any way. Oh yeah, I don't own any part of the fuckery that is called True Blood.
Thanks to LadyHlin for checking this out for me ahead of time.
If you have any ideas for methods for Ball to obtain random storylines than feel free to pass them along. Thank you for reading this installment, and until next time….
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