Co-Written By: Cymereane and JayArre (wink wink) Archive: If anyone actually reads this and understands it and likes it,sure.  Doubtful, but sure. Email:  Pretty Please?  jrae@crosswinds.net or cimerene@yahoo.com or both! The first chapter was a self-parody, and this chapter is just a parody.  Don’t know what y’all were expecting with the following chapters, but somehow we doubt this is it…but now, for those of you that care, on to the “real” story… “A Hell Frozen Over” Chapter One: It Starts Tentative titles for this chapter: “Something Isn’t Right” “Sex, Lies, and Videotape, Except, There’s No Sex, and the Batteries on the Camcorder Just Ran Out” “See, NBC Execs!!!  This Is What Happens When the Summer Hiatus Is Too Long!!!” ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Co-Written by: Cymereane and JayArre (wink wink) Disclaimer: *Sigh,* you’re not really going to make us repeat all that again, are you?  If you’re an insomniac, go to the first part, it’ll put you to sleep faster than you can say No Doze. Song credits attributed to “One More Minute” by Weird Al Yankovic (and no, we didn’t ask permission, sue us…no wait, we were kidding!)  We guess this part of this chapter qualifies for the ERFFCC song-fic challenge. Notes: Thank you to all the wonderful people that responded!  It definitely gave us encouragement to post following chapters. All of the people in this story are intentionally written out of character, none of this would, could, or should ever happen, we know that.  It’s supposed to be funny, if it’s not, there isn’t a whole lot we can do about it now that it’s posted.  Sooooorrrrrry! Folks, it’s only going to get weirder from here… ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Dave Malucci flexed his massive bicep in the small mirror glued to the inside of his locker door. Posing was one of his favorite pastimes; he usually spent his breaks in the lounge doing just that.  That is, when no one was around.  He had scrounged around up on the upper floors for the right color of scrubs, dark blue and a size smaller than he normally wore them, that way the tight sleeves could  show off his muscles to a greater extent.  He had spent almost an hour picking out the perfect ensemble for daily work, tight t-shirt, somewhat tight scrubs, and tight jeans.  Casual, assured, and certain to bring on the hot co-workers. Or so he had thought, until Dr. Luka “Mr. Misery” Kovac had come along.  Okay, so Kovac had actually been there before he had, but the effect was still the same.  Nurses giggling and gossiping near the storage rooms, certain female med-students checking out his ass as he passed by in the halls; eye-lashes fluttering, sugary-sweet smiles, “Yes Dr. Kovac, right away Dr. Kovac.”  Ugh.  Enough to make a guy sick, but that wasn’t even the worst part.  Kovac seemed to have absolutely no clue that women were fawning, no, make that *throwing* themselves at him.  How dense could he possibly be? So, Dave, never one to back down from competition, went out of his way to build his stature.  He had even forgone his usually subtle nature to ask out a few co-workers, but to no avail.  They had basically, in delicate terms, told him to shove it.  In Grenada, the women had been falling all over them, and they were more likely to wear bikinis, too. “Would you mind holding off the ego sessions until after your shift, Malucci?  I suggest that you stop preening and go check the board for something to do.”  That voice, he knew that voice.  He had had nightmares about that voice.  A slow burn crept into cheeks, realizing that he had been caught.  Dave quickly shut the locker and spun around with his usual ambivalence. He chuckled half-heartedly, “Uh, right, Chief.”  He just knew that under her thick glasses she must inwardly lust for him. “Get to work, Malucci, we’re swamped.”  With that and a withering glare, the flame-haired doctor crutched out of the lounge.  Dave sighed in relief at her departure.  He always thought that Weaver either hated him with the fire of seven suns, or grudgingly liked him, deep down.  He flexed his left bicep, “Who wouldn’t want a piece of this?” The door swung open once more, catching him in mid-flex.  “NOW!” Okay, maybe deep, deep down. Dave quickly jogged out of the room and into the hallway, where he spotted Cleo running through the automatic doors.  She hadn’t even broken a sweat.  “What, did you jog from your parked car?” Well, that makes two glares in the last five minutes.  “No, Dave, I jogged about four miles, just like I always do,” she replied in her trademark monotone.  He cocked his eyebrow in curiosity, eyeing her carefully.  She must not have very active sweat glands, he thought.  Odd.  Cleo brushed past him and headed towards the recently emptied lounge. “Nice spandex,” he called after her. “Thanks, I’ll tell Peter you said so.”  Was that a smirk on her face?  He shook his head; no, he must have imagined it.  The same thin-lipped expression had been there the entire time.  “Geez,” he muttered while turning away, “lighten up.” With no Weaver in sight, he rounded the desk, stopping in front of the admit board.  Well, the Chief hadn’t been lying; they had a full house.  He picked up a marker to sign his name to a patient, but several charts were promptly shoved into his arms.  “Here you go, Malucci, I took the liberty of  assigning you to a few patients I thought worthy of your care.” ‘Damn, how does she do that?  Is she cloned, so she can be everywhere at once?’ Dave wondered.  The thought stopped him in his tracks.  ‘Multiple Kerry Weavers, now that is scary.’  He quickly sorted through the charts, glancing at the locations and symptoms of each patient.  “Why me?!” he  muttered. That voice, again.  “Because there is no one else better suited for the thankless job of rectal examinations.  This way, you’ll learn to stay on task, and I can be sure you won’t kill anybody.” ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ The OR ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ The OR was buzzing with activity today, certainly not helped by the fact that two of the head surgeons had remained tied up for the last two hours, fervently working in OR 3.  Nearly the entire staff had avoided OR 3 since the gurney had been wheeled in, they dared not interrupt.  The last thing anyone wanted was to get on the bad side of Robert Romano, so they avoided the operating room like the black plague, not even momentarily stopping to observe the progress, Inside that room, the level of tension was high, mostly due to the aggravated presence of the Chief of Staff. “How are we doing over there?” Romano asked, directing his question to the anesthesiologist. “Well, I don’t know her O2 sats because we don’t have a small enough ET tube,” he replied cautiously. “Well, someone can go get a coffee straw from the cafeteria, intubate her with that,” Romano snapped.  “Must I think of everything?” “Err, Dr. Romano—” “Is it really that difficult a concept?  The competence level in this room is dropping by the minute.  You--” He pointed a gloved finger at a hovering nurse, “Go get one, now.”  The relieved nurse immediately dropped the pitcher of water she had been holding and ran out the door. “Give me her vitals.” “No palpable BP, heart rate is slow.  We’ve given .00005 epi, along with one cc of saline,” Shirley called out. “Robert, are you sure we should be doing this?”  Elizabeth asked, no longer able to silence her good judgment.  “I mean, its only a--” “Only a what?  Say it Lizzy, this just isn’t worth your precious little time.  Would you rather be assisting the Whipple procedure next door?”  Romano’s eyes heated behind the surgical mask. “No, but it seems we are putting forth all of our efforts, and for what?  Is it really wor-” She was interrupted by the piercing alarm of the cardiac monitor. “She’s flatlined!” “Damn!  Get the paddles, now!” It had been a brain hemorrhage, likely a blown aneurysm, but they hadn’t been able to enlarge the X-rays enough to get a good look.  Rapunzel hadn’t had much of a chance to begin with, but Romano had insisted on surgery.  ‘Lot of bloody good that had done,’ Elizabeth thought, pun unintended.  Almost uncomprehending the situation, she gazed at the gut-wrenching site for a long time before finally placing the ping-pong paddles on the operating table in resignation.  Too many times in recent memory, she had had to do that. "Robert, I'm sorry,” her eyes full of sympathy,  “but its too late, she has left us.” He looked up sharply at that, the alarms indicating full arrest still wailing in the background.  She decided to continue.  “She was deprived of water and oxygen too long at the scene." Robert continued to glare at Elizabeth, challenging her to break eye contact, before screaming, "NO!  I won’t let Rapunzel die.”  He snatched the discarded paddles, and directed his fury on the nearby nurse.  “Charge to .4, now!" Elizabeth was shocked by his outburst, but knew it wasn’t an unlikely reaction.  “Robert,” covering her hand over his pinky finger, which had been furiously pumping compressions on the patient’s chest.  “There isn’t anything we can do.  Even if we could resuscitate Rapunzel now, what kind of quality of life would she have?  She would probably have to remain on life support, unable to swim like she used to.  It’s time.” His shoulders slumped forward, and Elizabeth almost thought she caught a tear in his eye.  Romano gazed longingly at the small figure on the white, water-soaked sheets, gently stroking her paled yellow scales.  “I’m sorry, Rapunzel.  I should have known never to let you watch the circus act, seeing  that clown shot out of a cannon must have given you ideas.”  He sighed, and glanced up at the clock.  “Time of death, 23:05.” He started to walk out of the room, but Elizabeth ran over, gently placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Robert, is there anyone I can call for you, a family member, a friend?  A pet shop?” He shook his head slowly.  “No, I’m fine.  I’ll miss her, though.”  A definite tear streaked his face, and Elizabeth was shocked.  The sight of Romano sprouting tears was like, well, seeing a fish ride a bicycle.  However, that probably wasn’t the best analogy to be using considering the circumstances.  She gently patted him on the back, and slowly led him out of the fateful OR, away from the sight of the nurses retrieving the death kit and pulling the sheet over his beloved friend. Romano looked up at Elizabeth.  “I think I’m going to take the rest of the night off.  Let everyone know.” She watched the small, sad, bald figure walk away towards the locker room, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his head.  Something caught her eye as he turned the corner; was that a hemline peeking out from beneath his surgical coat?  She had almost thought it looked like paisley, but she shook  her head.  “First operating on a dahmned goldfish, now my thinking Romano’s wearing a house dress, you must be losing it, Elizabeth.”  Another dress-clad figure brushed past her. “Petah?  What are you wearing?”  He never turned around, but continued his trail blaze down the hall.  “For God’s sake, Elizabeth, don’t ask!” ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Carter ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Ah, the night shift.  You gotta love it.  Well, actually, you don’t, but if it’s assigned to you, you can only hope that there isn’t a full moon and psych services aren’t over at Doc Magoo’s preparing themselves for future angioplasty. Carter casually strolled through the automatic doors.  He was early, his shift didn’t start for another half-hour, but he had returned from a late session with his therapist and didn’t have anything better to do.  He always felt at ease after a session, calm, collected, in tune with his thoughts, at one with himself.  The “Find the Inner You; No Not That One, the Real Inner Inner You” self-meditation tapes didn’t hurt, either. He had returned from Atlanta a week ago and started working at the hospital again, not long after he was settled.  He was surprised to see how much things hadn’t changed, and how they had.  Romano was constantly on the warpath; Kerry, Mark, and Anspaugh, and Benton had promptly been rounded up and herded into his office the day after Carter returned, but he didn’t know why.  Abby had cut her hair quite short, in a way that reminded him of Susan Lewis, but it was cute.  Malucci was well, Malucci was just himself.  His superiors had been supportive of his return, and basic guidelines had been set up.  He wasn’t eligible for Chief Resident; he couldn’t handle narcotics for three months, and had to have regular therapy sessions.  He could live with that. Things in general had been going well since his return from the rehab center.  He no longer had the need to mainline narcotics, definitely a plus. His back still hurt, but time and hours spent with the physical therapist from hell had eased some of the pain.  Months of therapy had helped some, but he was constantly told it would be a long process.  Hypnotism worked very well in his sessions; he didn’t know what the therapist told him or why it worked, but it had helped. His issues had been calmed to some extent, but he still held onto a quiet resentment towards the means used to get him to the rehab center.  Not only was he blackmailed into going, but he was also forced into a 90-day treatment facility, not just the standard month-long detox.  Three months of group therapy, reciting, “I like myself,” and, “Self-loathe is not your friend,” and, “Think happy thoughts,” and “Free your sorrow from its cage to be at one with your soul,” and best of all, “Don’t let drugs control you, let *you* control you.”  Day, after day, after bloody damned day.  He had started wondering who exactly had been taking the drugs, the patients or the “mental health coordinators.”  It had been all he could do not to lose his sanity. Having learned the signs of stress, depression, and other disorders, and being forced into hours of self-realization, he had almost become an auteur psychiatrist.  He observed many of his co-workers behavioral patterns and was beginning to feel he was able to analyze them effectively.  Romano had  an extreme inferiority complex.  Physically, the man could easily be outdone and overpowered, but he purposefully slimed his way to the top, so to speak, so he would have a mental control over others.  ‘A chip on his shoulder the size of Montana,’ Carter determined.  Mark, on the other hand, relied on  passive-aggressiveness.  Dave overcompensated for feelings of unworthiness and inferiority.  This probably dated back to his childhood, being the middle child that was always overshadowed by the better older sibling, having to find other ways to get attention. Cleo…something wasn’t right with her, but he didn’t know what.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about her bothered him, especially since he had recently discovered his abilities of determination of depth and psychological behavior.  She just seemed to emit a sense of blank intelligence, like she wasn’t all there upstairs.  Like there was a 50-watt bulb tightened in a 100-watt circuit.  Like a Pentium processor, but with a 56k modem.  Like the enchilada was on the plate, but lukewarm and missing the side of rice and beans.  But maybe that was just her personality. “Hey, Carter, you’re early.” Kerry’s voice interrupted his thoughts, but it was not unwelcome. “Hey, Dr. Weaver.  Yeah, I figured I’d come in and catch up on paper work.”  And compile my psychological analysis theories, he added silently.  If he had to have his brain probed and suffer through three damned months of group therapy and patronizing advice from brainless twits, the least he could do was return the favor. ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Luka ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Ah, paycheck time.  Lucky for him it was Thursday; he had bills to pay. “Luka, Mrs. Burbadon is waiting in Exam 3.”  Haleh left the chart next to him on the desk. Luka slowly lumbered over to the room, dragging his leg just enough to hint at a slight limp from a previous injury.  All the more to add to his aura of mystery.  Pushing through the door, he greeted his patient.  “Well, what seems to be the problem?” “My, you are handsome, Doctor.”  The elderly woman smiled. He smiled wanly, “Thank you.”  Ran his fingers through his hair for good measure. “That is an interesting accent you have, Eastern Europe?” “Croatia,” he replied thickly.  Sold another customer.  Luka smiled inwardly, proud of newfound abilities to charm and charm alike, and it hadn’t taken much.  Women were fawning, no make that *throwing* themselves at him, women of all ages.  He noticed, how could he not, but he kept  himself reserved until just the right one had expressed interest. ***** Well, I heard that you're leavin' Gonna leave me far behind 'Cause you found a brand new lover You decided that I'm not your kind ***** After all that time, planning, and conjugation of emotions, though, Carol had left him.  For Seattle and her ex, no less.  Here he was, months later and still angry.  He had thought she was the one, the one that would understand him and love him and want to be with him; he thought that one day he might be able to tell her.  But nooooooo.  She tore open his chest with a sternal saw, ripped his heart out and proceeded to stomp all over it, offering half-assed comforts with gems like, ‘You’ll find her, Luka.’ and ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ ***** So I pulled your name out of my Rolodex And I tore all your pictures in two And I burned down the malt shop where we used to go Just because it reminds me of you ***** A tad extreme, but yup, that covered it pretty damn well.  His eyes darkened in anger. ***** That's right, (that’s right) you ain't gonna see me cryin' I'm glad (I’m glad) that you found somebody new 'Cause I'd rather spend eternity eating shards of broken glass Than spend one more minute with you ***** Carol had used him like you would use a electric can opener to open a can of tuna, except there were no cats around, and the electricity had short circuited and electrocuted him.  She must have attended some kind of class where girls were taught how to use men and destroy people’s lives.  Luka had  planned the whole thing out so carefully.  Using all the tried and true techniques of silence and broody stares, he had even bought colored contact lenses to darken the color of his eyes.  Smoldering Mystique, the color had been called.  He had even made up an entire story about his wife and kids being killed just to get a sympathy vote from her, (which he also used to justify his actions at work, that had definitely come in handy) but what did he get in return?  Egg all over his face.  Well, not literally eggs, as that would be sticky and he'd have to wash his face, but still…. ***** I guess I might seem kinda bitter You got me feelin' down in the dumps 'Cause I'm stranded all alone in the Gas Station of Love And I have to use the self-service pumps ***** “Bitch,” he muttered. ***** Oh, so honey, let me help you with that suitcase You ain't (you ain’t) gonna break my heart in two 'Cause I'd rather get a hundred thousand paper cuts on my face Than spend one more minute with you ***** “I’m sorry, did you say something?”  Mrs. Burbadon eyed him curiously. “Ah, no.”  He graced her with a dazzling smile, of the forget-you-already-had-a-significant-other kind.  The melt-your-clothes-off-on-a-below-freezing-winter-day kind.  The it’s-worth-it-to-throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-speeding-car-if-it-will-get-his-attention kind.  The--well, you get the point.  “What can I help you with today?” An hour and a half later, Luka finally managed to excuse himself from the patient, and made a quick getaway.  Loping over to the main desk, he dropped the chart off and told Randi to discharge Mrs. Burbadon with the diagnosis of a now-removed splinter in her left pinky. He wandered over to the lounge and retrieved a bottle of hair gel from his locker.  Peering into the mirror taped to the inside, he proceeded to slather more gel over his hair.  “Lookin’ a little dry there, buddy,” he smiled at his reflection before combing a large glob of gel through his hair; well, it was getting a little long now, maybe he should start calling it his “mane.”  He slicked the almost-dripping tresses back, when he noticed a few brown roots.  “Hmm, time to buy another bottle of black hair dye.”  Normally he would just go to a salon and have it done professionally, but he didn’t have the extra money. If the tutor hadn’t been providing such satisfying results, he wouldn’t have bothered, just gotten a few language-on-tape self-teaching programs.  With the tutor, the accent had been perfected; he was now to the point where he sounded like he had been speaking English for some time, but made it obvious  it wasn’t his first language.  He had known when the accent was perfected, when the women started drooling when he gave directions to Bloomingdales.  People loved exotic accents; they’d pay to hear him recite stock quotes from the NASDAQ exchange.  He’d actually had people offer.  Even the tutor was amazed at how quickly he had picked it and the language up, like he had spoken Croatian all of his life. No one would ever know, no one would ever *guess* that Luka wasn’t who he said he was.  “Stupid people,” he mumbled.  They would never realize that he didn’t speak Croatian, or for that matter, that he wasn’t Croatian.  With one more glance in the mirror, he kicked the locker shut and headed out the door with a grin and freshly gelled hair.  “Such a wonderful façade.” ~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~ Next time on “When Fanfic Writers Go Bad”…well, uh, we don’t know because we haven’t written the chapter yet.  :-)