Enjoying? I hope so. Just for clarity's sake, ONLY the characters named in the description are borrowed from writings I don't own. That does NOT include nickname-references that House uses to try to get a rise out of the masked man. Anybody may mention them as a mere reference, regardless of copyright law. So, is Negan's patrol getting too close? How is House going to treat his kidnapper? What's the masked man got going on? Hmmm . . . This is in two parts.

WILL THEY FIND THEM—

Six bikers rolled up to stop by a dirt track that turned off the highway. The biggest biker came strolling forward with a sneer on his face and a snarl in his voice. "Dooby?"

"Right there, Ben." Dooby, adjusting the bandanna around his face, nodded and pointed at a wrecked Nissan by the intersection with its trunk ajar. The driver of the car was a dead man wearing a football helmet with a broken ski through his chest that stuck through the steering wheel and out the shattered windshield. "Those funny tracks? Yeah. They pick up again right there. Whatever that was, it drove in this way and out again, headed west. Stopped there for a few minutes on the way out. Probably the same people cleared that bridge we blocked." Dooby dismounted, walked over to the Nissan's trunk. He opened the trunk and pulled out a medicine bottle. "Hmp. 'Vicodin.' For Gregory House for pain."

Ben straightened. "House?! Step back, Dooby. Careful like. Negan said he's the guy sets traps for us. Wants his dead head still growlin'." Ben stepped forward, picked up a small piece of dirty cellophane. He squinted at it. "Who's from Jersey?"

One biker paused, then held up a hand, "Not born and raised—been there a lot."

Ben handed him the scrap of cellophane. "Cigarettes from Jersey, right?"

The biker squinted at the scrap. "Yeah, think so. Bit of a haul!"

Ben took the medicine bottle out of Dooby's hand. "What is this, fifteen years old? Looks in awful good shape. This from Jersey, too." He shook his head. He pulled out a walkie. "Ben, checkin' in. We had to put down Jack. His job's open. Odd tracks off the highway and back on, headed north. Dooby found drugs with House's name on it. Location code one-thirty-eight." He listened to the static for a moment and heard a voice cut in. "Orders are find him but be careful, Ben, and check in a lot. He's killed about forty of our guys. One bottle for his growling head. Six bottles for him alive but bloodied up."

Ben nodded. "I'm gonna check why he went off the highway. He may be gone, but Dooby's good. I'm for findin' out where he was."

Uh—hmm. All plans CAN go awry, but did the masked man plan for Ben's contingent to be headed backwards or forwards along House's 'trail?' Who's smoking? WTF? Anyway, this next part is what most of us have eagerly awaited.

WILL HE MI—IND HIM—

House forced his eyes into focus. A masked man dressed all in black, thin-looking clothing with reinforced boots, yellow dishwashing gloves, and a black plastic hazmat apron. The gauntlets and apron were spattered with gore. The man sat on the edge of a recliner. House tested his wrists and ankles against the zip ties holding him to the office chair. He looked around at the unfamiliar, unfinished walls. He looked back at the masked man. "Why are you wearing a mask? That's kind of pointless these days."

"I have some things I need you to do, Dr. House."

"If you cut my hands free I could unwrap a Luden's for you."

"I've kidnapped your friends."

"Ricola, then?"

"I've not done any LASTING harm to them yet."

"Maybe you have some honey, lemon juice, and rum? I could stir it."

"The woman, Ann, she asked about you."

"I wouldn't recommend lemons from across the Atlantic. Too expensive. Oh, wait! Money's not a problem anymore."

"Wilson asked that I not torture him. Very politely."

"He should probably do a throat culture on you, make sure it's not strep."

The masked man stood. "If you can't be troubled to really talk to me, I could just turn one of you over to Negan's men."

House frowned. "So you DON'T work for Negan? That's good. Kind of hard to divide three hostages in HALF."

"Not really. I do have a bone saw. Perhaps your leg won't hurt anymore if both are cut off? He has a bounty on you. Legs are not required."

"He'd make you give him half your mask. Which half will you give him?"

"He doesn't know I exist."

"If you give one of us to him, he will."

"He'll assume you're lying. You didn't part on good terms."

House smiled. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have NEVER parted on good terms."

"And you've never been known to pass up a challenging problem to solve. I have between two and twelve of them, depending on the solutions to the first two."

House blinked. "Wilson ratted on me, didn't he? You said you did no lasting harm to him."

The masked man brushed a bit of gore from his gloves onto the concrete floor. "Not yet."

House frowned. "This doesn't seem personal to you." He paused. He looked down at his pockets and noted his pockets had no bulge. "You've taken my Vicodin."

"I moved it to a new bottle."

"Why would you do that? That bottle had sentimental value."

"I left it as a clue that you really are still alive. And that you might be here."

House made a worried look for the first time. "He knows that. Ohh—what do you WANT, anyway?!"

"Your cooperation. You solve the puzzles I give you, and no harm comes to your friends. You don't cause problems, and I'll give you Vicodin on top of basic necessities."

"I HAD Vicodin."

"I'll be blunt, then. You don't irritate me, and I won't WITHHOLD Vicodin."

House paused. "I'm really just a junkie. If it's the last published Ken Ken, you're out of luck. My subtraction's rusty."

The masked man stepped toward the door.

"What happens when I can't solve your problems?"

"You'll show me why. When I'm satisfied, I'll give you the next problem. When our business is concluded, I'll return you to where you were. If you behaved, I won't lead Negan to you as I move on."

"Do I get visitation rights?"

"Only Wilson, only when I say so, and only as long as you behave."

"I actually need his help to solve problems."

"Ann Gee tried to claim her name was Dr. Gina House. Said it explained her tattoo. When pressed, however, she couldn't name but one of the arm bones. She's the least intellectual of you three and concocted a believable lie about imaginary printers' mistakes in Trenton applying the wrong photo and reinterpreting a ten-year-old tattoo in the spur of the moment. I don't think you'll actually need anyone's help. Cut yourself loose when the timer goes off." The masked man stepped forward, tossed a set of fingernail clippers onto House's lap, fastened a small device to the zip tie around House's right wrist, and walked to a modified storm door. He opened it, exited, closed it, locked it, and closed the door outside it.

A few moments later, the timer went off, cutting the zip tie holding his right wrist to the chair. House cut himself loose, stood, picked up his cane from where it was leaning on the armrest, limped to the storm door, checked the knob, and found it locked. He turned to face the rest of the room. Something was behind the chair he'd been sitting on. He limped forward for a look. Three copier paper boxes were stacked behind the chair he'd woke up in. Each one had a second lid around its base. Each box was labeled with a letter. He pulled the lid off box 'A' to find a tray of generic office supplies, two days' worth of random cans of food, a wrapped sandwich, a can opener, some utensils, a clear plastic bottle containing six Vicodin, a bottle of water, a package of zip ties, a sealed envelope, a timer counting down from sixteen hours, twelve minutes, eleven seconds . . . and a spray vial. Taking a Vicodin immediately, he tore open the envelope. It read:

'When the timer goes off, you have two full minutes to resume your first chair, zip tie your left hand and feet to the chair, and spray yourself in the lower face with the sleep agent. Box 'A' will remain your personal locker. You may notice I have sewn your pocket openings shut and removed the linings. Boxes 'B' and 'C' contain transcripts to decode, references, and technological aids. Your chamber pot, trashcan, and hot plate are in the corner. Clean up your own messes or I will leave your food in the messes or your chamber pot, without the packaging. -X'

House tried the first chair, found it bolted to the floor, leaned on the stack of boxes, stabilized them with his cane, and pushed them all to the recliner, hopping awkwardly. He started to use the nail clippers to open the zip tie package, then raggedly tore the edges, ripping a piece of plastic out, and tossed the package onto the chair. He turned the spray vial upside down on the scrap of plastic and balanced it in the lid of box 'A' on the floor next to the recliner. He sat down and started skimming the documents while sharpening a pencil.

Now, what's HE up to? Please read and review.