The Continuity Monkeys Strike Again
House looked at the devastation the cop had made of his apartment. Son of a bitch mongrel bastard. He still had 'having my baby' running through his head. That was punishment enough for a thermometer 'accidentally' forgotten in an inconvenient spot. But trashing his apartment was cruel and unusual punishment. He gazed at the tropical palms blowing gently in the breeze outside his window and idly wondered what the cop had made of Cuddy's red thong in his underwear drawer.
He would have to call his cleaning service: C.M. Cleaning Services Inc. He rubbed his scruff thoughtfully. Maybe he should try another firm. He liked C.M. They worked cheap. In fact he had never known of a cleaning service that wanted to be paid in bananas before.
But they kept putting everything back in the wrong place. When he'd asked them to tidy up the closet, he hadn't meant quite in that sense.
He also suspected they may have had something to do with that small door in the alcove that said 'this way to John Malkovich'.
Now he always skirted past it on the way to his bedroom, eyeing it warily, his back against the wall, no way was he going through that door again. It had taken ages to get back from the New Jersey Turnpike, he'd been late for work and Cuddy had yelled at him. He'd tried to explain he'd been filming Con Air, but she'd just given him extra clinic hours and told the nurses to keep him away from the red lollipops. It was so unfair. He never got an even break.
Tim the prop guy sighed happily. Finally, after all these months the Househaus, as those little eagled eyed pedantic bastards called it, was perfect. Everything single irritating teensie weensie prop was mapped, marked out and properly placed. No one could complain now.
A work of art, he thought as he entered the set. His happiness turned to shock as he stared at the apartment set. Rage cursed through his veins. Who, he thought. Who could have done this to him?
Then he saw the single banana lying on the floor.
Hugh wasn't paying much attention as he traipsed down one of the Fox side streets to his next set for filming. He puffed happily on a cigarette while going over the script.
Walk into apartment. Apartment trashed. Look all dramatic: check. Line line line…. Hey a new guitar! Cool. Tritter is all menacing. Look all dramatic: check. Hmmm – no brooding this scene? He stopped and brooded about his lack of brooding. Must talk to the producers he thought.
He was jolted out of his brooding when suddenly he heard a hooting howling sound. One of the Writing Monkeys was bolting round the corner with Tim the head prop guy in hot pursuit waving… was that a machete – where had he got that from. Just what was happening on Standoff this week?
"Everything okay Tim?" he asked as the man bolted past.
"Just fine Mr Laurie. Just a little chat with one of the writers," yelled Tim breathlessly as he rounded past the Bones set in pursuit of the little howling devil.
Hugh smiled. Those loveable little monkeys – always coming up with crazy kooky ideas. He noticed David Morse. He was standing by the Bones set looking slightly bewildered.
"Hey David," he yelled. "This way."
David came over and they continued on their way. "Hugh," said David pointing to back the way he had come. "Did I just see a little monkey in a tie run past me?"
"They work cheap." Hugh shrugged and quickened his pace. This was Hollywood after all. They did things differently here. "Come on, this way David." He wanted to check out that new guitar.
House came home and sighed. C.M. had done okay. Everything seemed to in its proper place. He checked. Yes he still had a kitchen and he decided he rather liked the tropical palms he could see out of his window. Sort of like Lost meets Princeton.
He went into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Sleep. A nice night's entertainment.
He was pulling off his shoes when he noticed it. Oh shit. A wardrobe. A big wardrobe. A big old fashioned wardrobe.
He cautiously approached it. He gingerly opened the door. No black holes or portals to other dimensions so far – just fur coats. He didn't think fur coats were his thing. He pushed them aside.
Oh great – a freakin lamp post.
He sat on the bed and put his hands in his head. His best friend hated him, he was up on drug charges and a big nasty cop was on his tail. Quite frankly Azlan could just go take a jump in the lake.