Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Cat's Paw ❯ chapter ten: what in the name of thundermuffins...?! ( Chapter 10 )

Cat's Paw 10

"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-s ave-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.--

-end chapter ten-

Footnotes

[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.

Zooie-Notes

Well, that was a really mean place to cut this off. However, I don't know when I'm going to have time to continue this. This next week is just insane. Better something than nothing, right?

Have you ever played Bullshit? It's fun. It's based on a very simple premise. Namely, that while most people can't tell you their own blood type, every last one of them will know the theme song from "the Beverly Hillbillies."

No degree of dullness can safeguard a work against the

determination of critics to find it fascinating. -- Harold Rosenberg