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The Demon Kidney of Romford
by bammel
Garth Marenghi loathed David Shore.
Everyone else loved David Shore, he gathered, even the traitorous Peruvians, the only people on the accursed rock called Earth who'd ever turned their beady little unworthy eyes toward Marenghi's work of genius. Darkplace had been sabotaged by the ignorant, failed spectacularly, and had been forgotten after a paltry six episodes, while House was to continue on interminably, if not forever, or even longer. It was a profound testament to the mediocrity of Shore's vision that so many people could appreciate it. (And they did, very much, which was absolutely evil, if anything was. And things were, and Marenghi often wrote about them. Things like rats that learned to drive, and devilish pecans that crawled into people's ears and ate their brains while they were busy watching Doctor Who. Fitting.)
Shore's Gregory House was one of the most celebrated fictional doctors in the history of history, a bootleg Sherlock Holmes in an unfashionable music-related tee shirt, and Marenghi hated that crusty bastard and all his little hangers-on in that prissy, clean little hospital. None of them could match the suavity and charm of Marenghi's Dr. Rick Dagless, MD and his band of valiant go-getters. And Liz.
Marenghi was not jealous. In fact, he was actively the very opposite of jealous. Anyone could write stories about a regular, well-lit hospital filled with regular, albeit extraordinarily attractive, people dealing with everyday problems like lupus, nephroptosis, amyloidosis, and Lesch-Nyhan Syndrome. Not that Marenghi had ever seen the show, which was for laymen and middle-aged invalid housewives. It took a true and genuine master to pen tales of previously unimagined dreamscapes of fear in a hospital sitting atop a gate to hell itself. And Marenghi knew it.
The only problem was that David Shore didn't. (Marenghi had once asked him if he did and had received a remarkably discourteous reply.)
Cracking his knuckles, Garth Marenghi sat down to consolidate his beautiful and terrible and rebellious and inspiring inspirations.
THE DEMON KIDNEY OF ROMFORD
There was a stranger in the hospital, and whether he was merely a homeless beggar or a harbinger of catastrophe and general misfortune, I wasn't quite sure, because it really could go either way. And Reed wasn't being very helpful, probably because I hadn't asked him anything. So I went into his office and crossed my arms and tapped a foot, in no mood for the runaround, which I was sure to get from shortsighted administrators.
"What's that guy doing here?" I demanded. "I don't like the look of him. That walking stick—what could it be for?" I didn't like the look of it, either.
The cane was indeed ominous, an embodiment of infirmity and suffering. And oldness. And grotesque sexual innuendo. Not something you'd want in a hospital, especially where sick kids could see it. The stranger who'd been holding it had been a funny-looking fellow with a long, scruffy face, the kind you'd find on a serial murderer or a bus driver. And bus drivers are good people, but you don't really want them hanging about in hospitals when there are buses to be driven. People have places to go.
"Good questions, Dag," said the ubiquitous Sanchez. Loyal Sanch never let me down, except sometimes when he turned into an ape because of contaminated water or engaged in sexual congress with a dying patient. He was in good form at the moment, though, and his hair looked spiffing. "You always get to the heart of the matter," he went on. "The cane is rather menacing, now that you mention it. I've never seen its like before. Those flames! Unearthly."
"He might have a sword in there," I pointed out. "A really thin one. Or it could be some kind of wand. You don't know the things I've seen." Wands are bad news, especially in the hands of kids who are already off their tits on drugs. We'd have to keep Liz posted by the kiddie wing just in case. Women can come in handy sometimes, even when there's no tidying-up to be done.
"Cool it, you two!" Reed pounded on his desk and stood up, but I wasn't intimidated at all by this keen display of bravado and manliness. "Orders from Won Ton, Rick! You may be the best damn GP the world has ever seen, but you still have to answer to the Powers That Be, ie., my boss. Won Ton. Remember that."
I jerked my head decisively in affirmation. I'd learned this gesture as a child from a very cold and rude man that I'd thought was my father, but wasn't. "I remember, even if I wish I didn't sometimes." Fortunately, I often forgot. Mainly because I'd never seen Won Ton.
"Some very complicated arrangements have been made. That man is a ne—neph—neffer—a kidney doctor, Rick. Kidneys, man! He's here to solve our little 'problem.'"
"I doubt he'll be of much help." Sanchez's voice was appropriately disdainful. "If Dag couldn't handle it, no one can."
"I hope he doesn't get hurt." I started to stalk out of the room, Sanchez following, when Reed spoke again.
"Don't look into his eyes!"
You never know who's a warlock. He looked like one. The guy was a good six feet three, loomed over me like a mutant ape creature, but I wasn't impressed, because his legs didn't work right even if they were longer than mine. Plus, cripples are unnatural.
The stranger frowned, and I was careful to avoid his terrible gaze after I realized it was like a window to hell itself. Or, rather, like a window to two tiny cerulean flames of hell. They were eyes that would've sent babies screaming, but, fortunately, there were none in the immediate area.
"What the hell kind of place is this?" he said. I was surprised to hear his American accent, because he wasn't particularly fat, like those people tend to be. Not that I have anything against the obese, even if they are disgusting. "You have a lot of water coolers and only one nurse."
"You don't want to know," I replied, keeping my face as stony as possible. "I don't like strangers. They die too easy."
He didn't seem very concerned, but I knew that, given enough time, he would come to understand exactly what he was dealing with.
Sanchez grabbed the guy's shoulder, and I winced, because I'd learned firsthand in 'Nam how like iron his grip was. "Get out of here, man. It's not safe for you!"
"Cuddy said I never have to do clinic hours again if I took this case," the guy said, shaking Sanchez off with a wiggle of his lanky arm, "but I'm not sure you people are worth it."
"We are. I'd bet your life on it," I said. Any sensible person would. "Dr. Rick Dagless, MD." I extended a hand.
The guy didn't take it. "I know. Greg House. I'm hungry and jet-lagged and they took my pills at the airport, so let's get this over with so I can go drink myself unconscious somewhere in this godforsaken hole."
Sanch and I looked at each other. Maybe this House was all right.
"If you're dead set on it, it's in the basement," Sanch said. "We'll take you."
Plenty of people have died in Darkplace's basement. I use the word people loosely because they weren't all technically human people, but no one wants to be called prejudiced. Especially in the workplace, because that can get you into some trouble with HR.
"It really is a kidney," House said, staring at the enormous floating organ that had appeared in the basement a week prior to his arrival. The kidney had said a lot in its strange, high-pitched voice over the past few days, had probably made plenty of demands, but no one could understand a word of it. It was a lot like a woman, but Liz hadn't been able to get a reading on it.
"Yes," Sanchez assured House. "A kidney."
The thing was shiny and would've glistened horrifyingly in the moonlight, had any been available. (There are no windows in the basement.) As it was, the low-wattage incandescent bulbs made everything seem a bit gloomy, and I felt my blood turn to ice, but I had to be strong for the others.
There was also one of those little disposable plastic cups on the floor, and someone—probably Liz—would have to pick it up.
House was still boggling like a rug rat at a funfair. "Wilson is going to shit," he said.
"A kidney! Yes! Amazing!" Liz had joined us sometime in the last five minutes, but I'd be damned if I knew exactly when she showed up. "Rick thought it was a spleen, but we all knew he was absolutely daft."
"Yes, a kidney," I said, glaring at her. There was no reason to for Liz to start dumping her hormones and pheromones all over this person, enticing American or not. "We don't know what it wants. It won't leave, and it's interfering with admin's games of after-hours basement Manhunt." One of the many hazards of having a hospital on top of a hellmouth.
"I was told you could speak its language," Sanch said. "You're some kind of kidney-reading linguist-warlock?"
House nodded and spun his cane a few times as the kidney hung threateningly in the air, quivering and dripping with ichor. I'm not even exactly sure what ichor is, but it sounds like something that would drip from an enormous disembodied kidney, so it'll have to do.
A second later, House stopped, and then he leaned on the cane.
"No," he said. "I lied. I can't help you. I don't even know if this is a hallucination."
"Damn it." I could've punched him, but I'm not one to give into my baser urges, unless a friend of mine is in need of an emergency penectomy. In cases like that, even I get a little overwhelmed. In this case, I was almost overwhelmed. After all, not even Reed's shotgun shells'd had any effect on the demon kidney, and the Magnum had been a joke. This unkempt American had been our last desperate hope. The only thing we could do now was name the thing and then ignore it and hope it didn't spend too much time in the WC.
"Whatever shall we do now?" Liz asked.
"Don't get hysterical, Liz," I snapped at her and then turned to the kidney. "What do you want?!" I shouted at the floating thing. "Can't you draw us a picture or something?" Surely some of its more dangly bits would serve as hands.
It only squeaked and vibrated a bit in reply.
"I need a stiff one. Or four. Drinks are on you," House said. Yes, they would be, because I'm very well paid.
"Maybe we can fumigate." Sanchez, good fellow, patted me on the shoulder. "Let's go, Dag, Liz."
It was when we all turned to leave that the kidney ate House and then disappeared, leaving an enormous pool of blood (oh, so much blood) and a cane covered in indescribable gore. Liz would be down there with a mop for positively ages.
"No!" I screamed as Sanch and Liz hauled me upstairs. I fought them every step of the way, of course. They couldn't understand. House and I had bonded on a deep and spiritual level. We'd understood each other, as physicians and as men. And warlocks, even though I'd left that life behind. It wasn't my place to judge. It wasn't his fault he had been completely useless, asocial, crippled, and a travesty of manhood. And, as I learned later, a drunkard and a druggie. And not very conventionally attractive.
"You did what you could, Rick," Reed said quietly when we were all back in his office. "It was his time, obviously. At least nothing happened to you, which is what's really important. No one wants HR getting their knickers in a twist over hiring a new doctor."
"He's right. It's awful, but you shouldn't beat yourself up." Liz's mascara was running, and it was reminiscent of the Exxon Valdez disaster and all those little oily birds flapping about helplessly until they died. "And the kidney's gone, at least!"
Reed slapped his desk. "Yes! A gold star for that one, Rick!"
"I just wish—" I couldn't go on. Why did everyone have to die? They all left me. It was always the same story. My eyes burned, but I refused to weep.
Sanchez shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about it too much, Dag. No one will miss that guy. He was obviously a real jerk. And quite stupid. And his eyes were positively ghastly."
Later, standing on the roof, admiring a beautiful pink-and-golden sunset, I had to admit he was right. Because he was. You don't turn your back on a demonic kidney if you have the misfortune of being a cripple. It's just not a wise thing to do.
Fin
Putting the finishing touches on his tale of terror and tragedy, Garth Marenghi sat back and stretched. He looked his masterpiece over a few times before hitting CTRL-P, and when all 1,843 gorgeous words had been daisy-wheeled onto his acid-free paper, he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt purged. David Shore would finally come to realize how insignificant he was in the face of a talent like Marenghi's.
Marenghi decided to include a personal note with the manuscript.
Dear Mr. Shore, it read.
I trust you've had the pleasure of viewing my groundbreaking television series, Darkplace, which paved the way for your derivative rubbish. Unlike Gregory House, who is an obvious self-insertion wish-fulfillment fantasy, Dr. Rick Dagless, MD is utterly human and three-dimensional. I actually have to just assume that House isn't three-dimensional, because I've never seen your program. In any case, you should be ashamed of your plundering of my vision, which you've watered down for the unwashed masses and their mothers.
I've included a short piece of speculative fiction exploring how your Dr. House would fare in an actual dangerous situation. Drama is something your program sorely lacks.
Thank you for your time, and I hope you've been humbled. Because you should be humble. Also, you look like an even homelier version of David Duchovny.
Respectfully submitted,
Garth Marenghi
Months passed with no reply, and he relaxed into his usual routine until one night when he heard something scratching at the window. Drawing the curtains to one side, he peered into the opaque, inky, spinechilling blackness, making a note to include this element in his next masterpiece. He dismissed the sound as something springing from his peerlessly fertile imagination and went back to his sudoku.
A tiny yellow Post-It was now sitting on top of it.
David sent me.
Before Marenghi even had time to be afraid, a pale, slimy, puffy, frosting-covered hand snaked into his peripheral vision, and he turned.
He turned to face the most horrible sight ever to touch the retinas any human who had ever lived. Too horrible to even describe accurately, too horrible for contemplation, horrible beyond all description.
"Hello," said Robert Sean Leonard, and he opened his mouth wider than any human mouth should open.
THE END
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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