Cat's Paw - Part 10 by Zooie
Standard disclaimers apply
Duo POV
“Want to play Bullshit?” Heero randomly asks, startling
the catfish bait out of me. I flinch forcefully, hitting my knees
on the bottom of my bedside tray, displacing the neatly arranged rows
of letters that constituted the manifestation of my morning’s
mental exertion. They spill onto my bed like an extremely unappetizing
alphabet soup. I sigh as I realize my Scrabble game has fallen victim
to Heero’s haphazard speech patterns. I sigh again as I recognize
the harsh truth that I probably need some Valium.
It’s the day after Hilde and Relena visited and I’ve
been jumpier than a hyperactive Chihuahua all morning. Every time
Heero so much as breathes I’ve been ready to flee the hospital
premises, trailing Drippy along behind me like a outlandish pet dog
on a leash. My fears have latched onto my consciousness like a gold-digger
to Bill Gates. They are my new best friend. I just cannot shake the
suspicion that all is not well in the World-o-Heero. Though last night
I was perfectly willing to believe that everything was merely just
a dream, things are looking a whole lot different in the morning light.
What in the name of thundermuffins is going on here?
You know, since I met Heero, I’ve really learned a lot about
myself. For instance, this morning I learned that I’m very good
at sharing and especially excel at allocating my opinion. Every time
my roomie vacates my immediate area, I have been verily sharing my
thoughts with--read: thrusting my worries upon-- whatever unsuspecting
soul happens to chance along. Despite reassurances from the interns,
the nurses, the doctors, the physical therapist, the Roaming Nomad
Priest, the janitor, Drippy, Sucky, the psycho clown poster, and the
underwear gnomes who I swear live under the bed, I remain unconvinced
that there is no evil afoot.
Whoever said “if you give you shall receive” took just
one too many drags off the old doobie.
From my point of view, there is more than enough evidence in the
surrounding environment -namely the police and their oh-so-nonchalant
actions, but also Heero’s abrupt comings and goings- to support
the idea that something in ward eight is seriously FUBAR... and it
sure ain’t my perception of reality. However, since no one will
validate my pressing concerns, I am forced to remain ensconced with
the time bomb affectionately nicknamed Coma Boy. I am less than pleased
-and far from relaxed. You could probably bounce quarters off the
nervous aura I’m exuding. It’s all I can do to not start
spewing out obscenities like I have turrets syndrome.
I believe it was Mark Twain who observed that under certain circumstances,
profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.
I am fairly certain that Heero has noticed my erratic behavior. My
diving to the floor when he threw back his covers was probably a dead
give away. How was I supposed to know that he was only overheated
and not trying to avoid a terrorist attack?
Every time I look at him, I get this fierce desire to be lonesome.
The trouble with roommates is that they’re not returnable.
At least Hilde left me armed, though I doubt rubberbands would stop
a prairie dog, let alone a murderer. Unless, of course, it was Gimpy,
the frail, sickly prairie dog, or it was a murder who was borderline
retarded. [1]
“Eh-heh heh heh,” I chuckle nervously. “Come again,
buddy?” My voice is unnaturally high and kind of squeaks intermittently.
I sound like Mickey Mouse on helium. Heero looks at me oddly, his
fugly eyebrows lowered to a depth that looks way too menacing for
my comfort. My panic meter creeps to new heights, stopping to hover
somewhere above “twitch spastically” but below “ooze
a large body of water.”
“Do you want to play Bullshit?” he repeats patiently.
At least I think it’s patiently. With his monotone it’s
kind of hard to tell. It could be menacingly. It could have sadistic
undertones. He could have said “do you want to play Bullshit?”
but actually have meant “do you want to watch as I disembowel
this small, fuzzy animal that I just happen to have snatched off the
windowsill during the wee morning hours?”
Poor Gimpy. Run, Gimpy! Run! Run like da wind!
And -did he say Bullshit? Jumping Gee Willikers. Oh, yes. That’s
just what I want to do. Play “who’s lying and making shit
up” with a boy who’s lying and making shit up. Swell.
Bundles of joy. Words cannot hope to capture the mere shadows of my
euphoria. Where do I sign the papers, sir?
“No, that’s alright,” I sputter, trying to collect
all the fallen Scrabble tiles from my lap. It‘s difficult because
my fine motor skills are nonexistent. Much like my intelligence. “Lunch
is going to be here soon and then Wufei will be showing up so...”
“Lunch isn’t for an hour and Wufei isn’t coming
this week. It’s spring break, remember?” Heero argues,
completely creeping me out. Why does he know that? He’s never
even met Wufei, let alone talked to him! How could he have known that--
Oh, wait. I told him. Never mind.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “My throat is sore
today and I don’t want to talk a lot.”
*cough* *cough* *hack* Get the point or do I need to smack you repeatedly
with the telephone receiver?
Diplomacy is the skilled use of blunt objects.
“You don’t need to,” he dismisses my pathetic pretext
with nary a second thought, wielding logic more skillfully than Charles
Babbage.
Sure. Just shoot my excuse to hell. I don’t mind. Dammit.
“Let’s start,” he continues, almost visibly donning
his thinking cap. I wonder if it has a little propeller on top. “We’ll
play for rubberbands.”
“Rubberbands?” I make an incredulous face... but not
too incredulous. Wouldn’t want to offend anyone... “But
you don’t have a rubberband gun. What are you going to do with
rubberbands?” Strangle me while I sleep, perhaps? Tie me to
my bed so when the murderer shows up I’m defenseless and trapped,
an ample distraction that will buy you time to get away?
“If I have your rubberbands,” he explains long-sufferingly,
“then you can’t shoot me with them.”
Oh. That did make sense. Especially since I’d been clutching
said weapon all morning. Turns out my trigger finger is a bit itchy...
Heero had already nearly lost an eye more than once and hence I’d
almost lost my life an equal number of times. Quite literally, I’m
certain.
How can I get out of this...?
While my main concern is to limit my interaction with Screwy Yuy,
I must confess to an alternative, exceedingly egotistical motive:
the preservation of pride. I am quite possibly the worst Bullshitter
in the world. I just can’t lie. Every time I try, I get this
look on my face that resembles a cross between a cow who’s been
hit one too many times with the ole cattle prod and a US senator who’s
just been accused of bonking the intern. I learned long ago that it
was better to be honest and look apologetic than lie and look guilty.
I try to adhere to a diet of strict truth.
Good grief. Now I sound like the narrator in the Great Gatsby. “I
am the most honest person I know.” And we all know where that
got him: generations of scholars and students suspecting that he lies
like a rug and not trusting a thing he says. Me thinketh he doth protest
too much.
Anyway, the important thing is that I can’t lie. And since
I can’t lie, there’s no way in hell I’m going to
win at Bullshit, not unless Heero agrees to wear a blindfold. And
much like a three year old in a game of Candy Land, I’m not
much interested in playing if I know I’m going to lose.
Hey, I’ve been a loser for most of my life. Anything I can
do to redeem that situation gets two thumbs up from my panel of critics,
albeit they’re slightly biased.
What to do... what to do... Pretend to faint? Lock myself in the
bathroom? Run away? All of my ideas are worth about as much as a belch,
the difference being that the belch would be more satisfying. I am
in the depths of despair over my uncreative-ness when inspiration
smacks me atop head with a brick.
I can play the Fairness Card. No one likes to take part in an activity
when they’re getting the short end of the stick! I’ll
just casually observe that Heero’s bound to lose and he’ll
lose interest in playing. From what I’ve seen, he’s very
competitive. Of course, it’s more in fairness to me than to
Heero, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“I think I have a lot more rubberbands than you do, Heero,”
I cunningly inform him. “That would be an unfair advantage.”
And that would be bad.
He holds up a wad of rather stretch-out rubberbands. “Sixty-five,”
he says, brandishing them around like a demented bouquet of dead slugs.
“Sixty-five?” I repeat weakly.
“You have shot me with sixty-five rubberbands.” I guess
my trigger finger is itchier than I thought. Who am I kidding? It’s
damn near epileptic. “That woman gave you 150 to start off with,
so you have 85 left. I’m willing to begin with a ten rubberband
handicap.” He stares at me, looking ever-so-slightly perturbed.
“Well, alright,” I agree reluctantly. “I guess
we can play then...” Time to stop arguing. Wouldn’t want
to anger the murder-attracting Coma Boy. That cannot be good, my friend.
Being a human shield is not my idea of a good time. Staying in his
fair graces would be a first-rate idea. People generally don't try
to kill their friends.
Of course, man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms
with the animals he intends to eat right up until the moment he slaughters
them.
Funny. Heero doesn’t look like a butcher. He’s just sitting
there, staring at me with his creepy eyes and tiny nose and creative
facial hair. He’s just staring... staring... staring...
Shit. Does he ever blink?! My eyes begin to burn just looking at
him.
“I go first,” he says, breaking the silence, his eyelids
finally flicking down. Surprise surprise! “There are 74 letters
in the Cambodian alphabet.”
“T-true.,” I stutter. I don’t want to play! Time
out! Red means stop! Do not go! No no no! Heero looks at me expectantly.
Oh, crud. I‘d better say something. “Uhhhh.....A-a chimpanzee
can learn to recognize itself in a mirror, but other monkeys can't.”
“True?” I nod, indicating he‘s correct. “Dueling
is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood
donors.”
“True. Cheerios cereal was originally called Cheerioats.”
“True. Ballistics is the science that deals with the motion
of projectiles.”
“True. The phrase ‘rule of thumb’ is derived from
an old English law which stated that you couldn't beat your wife with
anything wider than your thumb.” Okay. This isn’t so bad.
I can handle this. A little game, a little fun. Nice-nice. We’re
bonding. We’re cool. We’re doing fine. We’re not
really bullshitting, but whatever.
“True. Theodore Roosevelt was the only U.S. president to deliver
an inaugural address without using the word ‘I‘.”
“True. Dr. Seuss wrote Green Eggs and Ham after his editor
dared him to write a book using fewer than 50 different words.”
“True. The water in the Great Salt Lake of Utah is more than
four times as salty as any ocean.”
“True. A lump of pure gold the size of a matchbox can be flattened
into a sheet the size of a tennis court.”
“True. Large doses of coffee can be lethal. Ten grams, or 100
cups over 4 hours, can kill the average human.”
“True. The word ‘assassination’ was invented by
Shakespeare.”
“Bullshit,” Heero barks, scaring the bajeezes out of
me. I nearly have a coronary. If I was still hooked up to a heart
monitor, the nurses would have run in with the crash cart. As it is,
I succeed in once more spilling the Scrabble tiles across my bed.
I knew I shouldn’t have left the tray there! Stupid stupid stupid!
There is no such thing as an underestimate of average intelligence.
“Actually...” I reluctantly falter, keeping my eyes strictly
confined to the vowels and consonants before me. Maybe Heero‘s
like a wild animal. If I don’t look in his eyes, perhaps he
won’t feel threatened. “Actually, it’s true.”
“Prove it,” he challenges. “Prove you’re
not making it up.”
I glare. Discretion only goes so far and I tend to keep mine on a
rather short tether. I generally don‘t trust it to go far out
of my sight. “How would you like me to do that? Am I supposed
to magically whip an encyclopedia out of my ass?”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth if you have no
way of proving it?” Heero disputes, proving it is not necessary
to understand things in order to argue about them.
“You’re the one that wanted to play this in the first
place!” I glare.
“Fine.” He tosses a rubberband in my direction. I immediately
load my gun with it and shoot it right back at him.
“I don’t want your goddamn pity rubberband,” I
tell him.
“Are you done?” Heero actually looks rather pissed. Oh,
good lord. I’ve managed to anger the Harpy of Death. [2] Way
to go, Duo! What would you like written on your gravestone?
Now I’ll really raise Hell. That sounds fairly apt.
“I’m done,” I meekly acquiesce. Please don’t
kill me, Mr. Eyebrow Man....
“Fine.” He takes a deep breath and shifts slightly in
bed. “Johnny Ace, real name John Marshall Alexander, Jr., a
singer. Committed suicide while playing Russian roulette in 1954.
Ray Combs - talk show host of Family Feud- hanged himself on the night
of June 2, 1996, with bed sheets in his hospital room at Glendale
Adventist Hospital while on a 72-hour suicide watch. In 1987 R. Budd
Dwyer -a politician from Pennsylvania- was convicted of bribery and
conspiracy in federal court, but before he was sentenced he called
a press conference and, in front of spectators and TV cameras, he
shot himself in the mouth. Actress Lillian Millicent Entwistle committed
suicide in 1932 by jumping from the 'H' of the 'HOLLYWOOD(LAND)' sign.
Eugene Izzi, a famous writer, hanged himself in 1997 from an 11th-floor
window on Michigan Ave., Chicago. There is speculation that it perhaps
happened by accident while he was researching a scene for a book.
Jim Jones - leader of a religious cult known as the Peoples Temple
killed himself in 1978 after watching more than 900 of his followers
die from the ingestion of Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. In 1933, a
19 year old Japanese student named Kiyoko Matsumoto committed suicide
by jumping into the thousand foot crater of a volcano on the island
of Oshima, Japan. This act started a bizarre fashion in Japan and
in the ensuing months three hundred children did the same thing. Actress
Lupe Velez took an overdose of sleeping pills in 1944; she was 4 months
pregnant. There is a much-circulated, but undocumented story that
she had dressed in her best outfit for the suicide and took her pills,
washing them down with alcohol. Getting sick to her stomach, she rushed
to the bathroom, but tripped and fell, drowning in the toilet. In
1942 Virginia Woolf-”
“STOP!” I interrupt Heero’s running diatribe of
bizarre suicides, more than slightly disturbed. “Why the heck
are you telling me this? Why do you even know all those things? That‘s
borderline psychotic!”
It’s friggin’ “Wonder Boys” come to life,
that‘s what it is. Break out the red cowboy boots and put the
dog’s carcass in the trunk! We’re going on a road trip!
“Is it bullshit?” he asks point-blank. He shifts in his
bed, dragging his cast around so that it hangs over the side of the
bed, sticking out like some huge, plaster fishing pier. .. or maybe
there’s a Tommy gun hidden inside, like the 1920s gangsters
used to do with violin cases! Maybe he senses some kind of danger
lurking in the hallway and he’s preparing to flee or blast his
way to safety!
Oh, crap. I’m in the line of fire!
Oh, crap. Heero is staring at me funny!
“What?!” I sputter, afraid that my death is imminent.
“Is it bullshit?” he repeats.
What?! I’m facing death straight in the face and he’s
talking about some dumb-ass game?! Has he no sanctity for life?! Has
he no respect for those whom he sacrifices in order to preserve his
own skanky skin?! Selfish bastard!
“How the heck should I know?” I snap, irate. “I
don’t exactly sit around memorizing the obituaries!” Just
the thesaurus...
“Maybe you should,” he tells me gravely. “You could
learn something.”
“L-learn something?” I squeak. Oh, crap. I really am
going to die. Speculation is one thing, but this...!
“About death. And honor. And sacrifice.”
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Was that a veiled death threat?
Was that an implied “I-plan-to-use-you-to-block-the-path-of-whatever-psycho-tries-to-kill-me”?!
Or was it a “I-fully-expect-you-to-throw-your-puny-self-in-front-of-said-murderer-and-save-my-sorry-life”?!
Or is Heero just some run of the mill necrophiliac who gets his jollies
off of reading about corpses?
Or am I just reading waaay too much into this?
No! A big N followed by a little o, No! Can’t take that chance!
“Get away from me, you freak!” I yelp. “There’s
no bloody way I’m going to be your human shield! There will
be no Operation: Get Behind the Duo!” I shove my tray to the
side and it rolls into the wall with a thud, showering Scrabble pieces
all over the floor like some kind of zany pinata. Levering myself
out of bed, I grab my black bag from beneath my pillow, heave myself
to my feet and stagger in the general direction of the door, trying
to keep one eye on Heero the entire time. “Make no sudden moves!”
I warn him. “I don’t want to hurt you! I‘m armed!”
Well, actually all I have is Drippy, but if you can kill a man using
only a spoon, an IV stand should accomplish the job just as sufficiently.
I should have left this room a long time ago. Then again, history
teaches us that men only behave wisely once they have exhausted all
other alternatives.
“What are you talking about?” Heero looks mildly concerned.
Damn, but he’s a good actor. I can almost believe that he has
no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe he really doesn’t
know anything about a murder. Maybe it is just a rumor. Maybe I’m
completely overreacting. He does seem rather normal, except for the
preoccupation with death and war and...
Wait a minute.
Maybe he’s one of those freaking insane killers, the kind who
have split personalities! Yeah, the ones whose aggressive/murderous
side just springs forth all of a sudden, like Diana from Zeus’
head! They seem all normal and cool and nice and meeker than a sheep
on Ritalin, and then the next thing you know they’re planting
an axe in your head and running off with the new Saucony’s you
just picked up at Foot Locker on sale for $89.99! I’ll bet that’s
what he is. I’ll bet that’s why all those cops are around.
He’s not being watched to make sure no one murders him! He’s
being watched to make sure he doesn’t murder anyone!
And I’ve been sharing a room with him. I hope phonomania [3]
can’t be transmitted by osmosis.
“Duo,” Heero sounds very concerned now. I would, too,
if someone had just blown my cover all to hell! “Are you okay?”
Oh, yeah, I’m just peachy... you freaking psycho! If this were
an after school special, you’d be paying the price for your
little deceit! McGruff would take a bite out of crime, straight from
your ass! Screw Yuy, indeed!
Please don’t kill me, Screwy Yuy...
“Eh-heh-heh,” I laugh nervously. “Doctor’s
orders! I’m supposed to stay in bed and drink lots of fluids.
Well, I’ve been in bed and I’d like more fluids, so I’ll
just be going to see the nurse now-”
Actions most certainly lie louder than words.
“Why don’t you just use the call button?” he asks.
He looks like he’s trying to climb out of bed. He looks like
he’s succeeding. I wonder how much blunt trauma he could do
if he swung his arm cast at my head.
“No need, no need,” I hurriedly assure him. “One,
I’m almost there. Two... well, I don’t have a two. Oh,
look, I’m at the door now. Bye-bye!”
I yank open the door and stagger out into the hallway. The lights
are brighter than in our room and I blink owlishly, blinded for a
moment. Tracy looks up from the nurses’ station and smiles.
“Feeling up to a walk today?” she chirps happily, her
blond ponytail swinging as she tilts her head to one side. “Or
did you just get sick of staying in that room all day and need a change
of scene?”
You have no clue, lady.
I want to tell her the truth. I want to tell her to have Heero carted
off to the psych ward. I want to grab the nearest telephone, call
McGuyver, and demand he come down here and solve this mystery once
and for all. I want to call the nearest Roommate Dealership and ask
if I can trade Heero in for a more stable model.
“Can I have a hug?” I instead ask breathlessly, shutting
the door firmly behind me. Closing it will render Heero powerless
against me. How, I don‘t know. It just will. “I feel needy.”
Tracy laughs, but immediately gets up. “Of course, hon. What’s
wrong?”
“Nothing really,” I say, leaning gratefully into her
arms. “But do you happen to know where Quatre is?”
“He’s assisting with another patient,” a new voice
suddenly interjects. I jerk my head around and upwards to see Detective
Barton standing a few feet away, his face as blank as ever. “Perhaps
my company would suffice for the time being?”
Well, he sure ain’t McGuyver, but I suppose an anorexic-appearing,
ex-French-model-turned-law-enforcer is better than nothing.
“Yeah, sure, why not,” I shrug, pulling away from Tracy.
She rubs the stubble that passes for my hair and returns to her chair,
leaving me standing in the hallway with the man formerly known as
Creepy.
--We interrupt this program to increase dramatic tension.--
*******
TBC
*******
[1] This sounds really politically incorrect -and maybe it is- but
I swear it was actually in my psychology textbook. It’s the
term used to describe someone who’s IQ is on the brink of being
mentally handicapped.
[2] When I read this over, this line cracked me up. All Harpies are
female. I think my muse is trying to say something about Heero!
[3] phonomania: pathological tendency to commit murder.
On to Part 11
Back to Part 9
Back to Zooie's Fan Fictions
Back to Fan Fiction Index