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.The House of Adders	By : keithcompany Category: G through L > House Views: 1297 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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More Disclaimer: This work is my own. Do not repost this story beyond the limits of the Fair Use standards of Copyright Law (quotes, examples, 'you gotta read this' excerpts, the usual).

At the counter of a clothing store, a clerk turned to the next customer and asked how he can assist him.

Edmund Blackadder looked at his wristwatch.

"Amazing. How you could help me would, at this point, involve a device which had the capacity to move you backwards through time. I entered this store with the intention of purchasing a few items of clothing," he gestured with the shirts in his hand.

"That was, oh, at least a geological epoch ago. In the interim, I have counted the holes in the ceiling tiles, and the tiles in the ceiling. I have taught myself approximately forty-five percent of the dance steps of the ending number of Riverdance.

"Finally, I have managed to invent no less that three rather gripping stories of a life threatening emergency in someplace called 'The Cheesecake Factory' which would support your side of the phone conversation you just had, in plain sight of a waiting customer."

A manager stepped up beside the customer, while the clerk blushed.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"A problem?" Blackadder repeated with apparent astonishment. "Why should there be a problem? Your business, or rather, your apparent tax write-off, must be designed to maximize the use of expensive shopping mall floor space with the minimum risk of garnering any sort of profit.

"With the employment of clerks who spend no less than 16 minutes of presumably business hours in the scheduling of dalliances with fellow minimum-wage earners at someplace called 'Way-Huna's Grill,' the corporate tax lawyers must be absolutely thrilled at your lack of success.

"How could there possibly be a problem?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the manager oozed, "another clerk will ring up your sale immediately."

"Oh, there's no sale," Edmund replied. "I decided against that about the point they were exchanging diabetes-inducing nicknames. I merely remained out of curiosity. Just how long could a salesperson ignore a client, I wondered. And now I know." He handed the shirts over and turned to go.

Two steps away, he stopped and turned to the manager. "One more thing. I don't suppose you could summon an ambulance to this location, could you?"

With that, Edmund bent over and vomited upon the pants and shoes of the older gentleman.

-----

Doctors Cuddy and Cameron strode swiftly down the hallway of the hospital. Cameron read from a medical chart.

"He's comfortable, now, but more than usually dehydrated, and the EMT's say he was really miserable on the way in."

"Uncomfortable?"

"No, snarky. He criticized everything from their bedside manner to the color choices inside the ambulance."

Cuddy shook her head. "Great. Maybe House has a new friend."

"Or they'll kill each other," Cameron replied. They reached an elevator, Cuddy selected a floor.

"Look, I've gotten three calls from the State Department already. Evidently he's a very important person in their military. We have to keep this from becoming an international incident."

"Okay, I'd probably start with 20cc's of benzodiazepine," Cameron suggested as they approached the nurse's station. Chase waited at the counter.

"What is in his chart that suggests a need for that much sedative?" Cuddy asked.

"Not him," Cameron replied, closing the chart and setting it down. "For House." Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"Don't be so sure," Chase warned. "A few cc's for the patient is not contraindicated."

"AND STAY OUT!" They turned to the door of the patient's room at the shout coming from it. Foreman stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

"The man's a racist," he said, stepping over to join the group.

"Are you sure?" Cuddy asked. "Did he use any specifically racist terms?"

"Well," Foreman responded angrily, "he didn't drop the N-bomb, but he made his feelings pretty clear."

"What did you do?" House asked him, stepping up from behind the group.

"Are you saying HIS racism is MY fault?"

"No, I'm saying that you have, in the past, put people off with your off-putting manner. Maybe it's not that he's a racist, but the fact that you're a neurologist."

Cuddy covered her eyes with a hand. "What are you saying? That he's bigoted against people by medical specialty?" Behind the counter, a nurse answered the phone.

"No, no, no, no. Well, maybe. If you cruise the fetish boards, you find that people get sexually excited over nearly any aspect of human and non-human life. So finding anyone that's prejudiced by nearly any aspect wouldn't be impossible. But, no, I'm saying that if you have a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.

"If you have a neurology degree, every problem looks either like something you can fix with neurosurgery, or something so simple a nurse can fix it."

"It's for you," the nurse said, holding the handset up.

"For who?" Chase and Cuddy asked together. The nurse shrugged and punched the speaker function.

"It's for all of you-all," Edmund said. "First off, I'm not racist. Some of my best friends are Scots. And I'm on polite terms with no less than two men from the Continent.

"Second off, sick is not deaf. Perhaps in a facility of this size, there might be some soft of closed off volume of air space that you could utilize for this conferring on the subject of medical problems like my health and this foreperson's bedside manner? Something like a conferring room? Or ...say....a conference room?"

After the click of a severed connection, the doctors looked abashed at each other. Except for House.

"I have got to meet this patient," he said.

"You do?" Chase asked. But by then he was talking to his boss' back.

"SO," House said on entering the patient's room. "I hear you hate black people."

"Not at all," Blackadder said from the bed. He was sitting up, reading from a thick leather bound book. The hospital table over the bed had a plastic tray of chocolates and a small glass of wine. "I have nothing against a person's race. Just hold them responsible for their own idiocies."

"I suppose my neurologist told you that the problem was a big, horrible, difficult, brain tumor that required life-threatening surgery?"

"No, the other nail," he replied. "He found out that I had just flown over from Britain, and diagnosed extreme jet lag."

House helped himself to a chocolate. "And you feel this is an error because...?"

"I am a purchasing agent for the Ministry of Defense, responsible for acquiring things our military needs that the British Isles cannot produce."

"Ah," House said with a nod. "So you travel a great deal." He sat at the foot of the bed.

"Quite. I have been to every continent, either to establish a contract with an industrial supplier for the entire military, or to engage a supply source with a local businessman for a single post or deployed unit."

"And you've never been sick?" House asked. Blackadder pushed the chocolates closer and the doctor took another one.

"I take ample precautions," Edmund explained. "The necessary shots, of course. And I take care with my diet: bottled water, fully cooked foods, no wines from any place I can't pronounce, and nothing served wrapped in waxed paper.

"I also," he continued, "spray the beds for lice and the bathtubs for mold."

"Is that everywhere you travel, or just here in New Jersey?"
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.The House of Adders