Well, here's my first attempt ever at writing fanfic. In fact, I haven't written anything since Creative Writing class in high school.

I'm a sucker for hurt!House and decided to take a prompt from the sick_house community and give this a try.

Thanks so much to 2tailswaggin for all of her help and encouragement.

Title: Monster Truck Mayhem
Author: bmax67
Characters: House/Wilson friendship
Rating: PG
Summary: House takes Wilson to the Monster Truck rally and mayhem ensues.













Monster Truck Mayhem





“Told you these tickets totally rocked.” House gloated as he and Wilson meandered through the pits, glancing at the gigantic behemoths made of steel and fiberglass parked alongside their respective trailers. Some had names such as ‘Maxzilla’, ‘Carolina Crusher’ or ‘Bounty Hunter’ painted on the sides in obscenely bright colors.

“Never doubted you for a second.” Wilson answered, keeping pace with his friend as he stared wide-eyed at the sights and sounds around him.

House had once again managed to get his hands on two all access passes for this year’s Monster Truck Mayhem, the same event House had taken Cameron to a few years earlier. This time House had asked him in advance before actually buying the tickets.

“You don’t plan on going on another date with any of my exes this time, do you?” House had cracked to Wilson, referring to the dinner date he had had with Stacy a few years back, causing him to miss the event. He remembered how House had looked like an abandoned puppy when he had told him he couldn’t go. He wanted to cancel the dinner with Stacy but knew how desperate she had been to get help for her husband.

Wilson kept his love of monster trucks locked deep in the back of his closet, It was something he kept private, like admitting he enjoyed going to the ballet (House would have a field day if he ever found out about that one). The sport had a stigma about it; a stereotype. Everyone assumed fans were southern hicks with no education, sporting mullets, wearing baseball hats and only able to utter the word “Wooo!”

House, on the other hand, could care less what others thought. He would wear his Gravedigger hat proudly to work and watch Monster Truck Madness on his small television while the entire hospital staff passed by the glass windows in front of his office.

House had taken him to his first event about ten years earlier. As he watched the over powered, super charged behemoths leap into the air and crush everything in sight, he felt the testosterone and endorphins flowing through him, a natural high he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, without the aid of chemicals in his system. There was something primeval about it, mindless. An escape from his otherwise boring and mundane existence.

“I’m hungry.” House’s voice snapped Wilson out of his daze.

“I’m shocked,” replied Wilson as he turned to look at his friend currently clad in his Gravedigger paraphernalia; black T shirt emblazoned with a picture of the truck surrounded by gravestones and skulls, a green button down shirt and his green Gravedigger hat, complete with skull and crossbones. He was a veritable walking... well limping...billboard.

They made their way across the pits, occasionally glancing at the competition on the track surrounding them. Sudden Impact was racing against Carolina Crusher in the last quarterfinal race, the winner having to face Rampage in the semifinals. Gravedigger was top seed and was pitted against Black Stallion in the other semifinal and House wanted to hurry and get his food before the next round started.

They reached the food stand, House sighing audibly when he saw the line of people waiting in front of them. He shifted his weight fully on his cane, his right shoulder hunching as he eased the weight off his protesting leg. They had walked quite a bit and Wilson could see it was starting to take a toll.

House pulled out his trusty bottle of Vicodin and popped the cap with his left thumb. Downing a pill, he turned to Wilson and announced his order.

“Two hot dogs with everything but pickle and a Mountain Dew in one of those cool souvenir cups.” House turned and started to limp away.

“What do I look like? A waitress?”

“You really want me to answer that?” House looked back at Wilson and raised an eyebrow.
“All you need is the cute little apron and maybe a low cut blouse. I’m sure Cuddy can set you up.” House retorted over his shoulder as he continued to limp toward his destination.

“Wait! Where you goin?”

House stopped and pivoted on his left heel, “I’m gonna save us a prime spot for the semi’s so we can watch Gravedigger kick Black Stallion’s ass,” responding as if it should’ve been obvious.

“How am I supposed to manage carrying all that?” Dumb question. Now he just waited for the witty retort...

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, being college educated and all.” House yelled to the sky as he continued to make his way across the hard packed dirt towards the edge of the track, his cane leaving little circular craters in the loose dust.

After a few minutes of waiting, Wilson placed the order and managed to get the two giant sodas and four hotdogs precariously balanced in his arms, walking gently, feet stepping gingerly over the uneven ground as he made his way toward the edge of the track. One false move and...

“So, tell me. How does it feel to be a fan of a loser?” House said in a mocking announcer voice as he shoved the video camera in Wilson’s face, the lens mere inches from his nose, earning a glare that would’ve singed House’s retinas if not for the camera lens to protect them. Eventually a middle finger was able to free itself from its grasp from one of the hot dogs and let itself be known to a certain obnoxious ass.

“I got that on film. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Give me a hand, you ass.”

House tucked the camera under his left arm and started clapping his hands together in mock applause, cane dangling from his right pinky and ring finger. Wilson’s eyebrows became one as they knitted together above his scowl.

“Oh, relax Jimmy.” House reached out to relieve Wilson of his drink and his hot dogs. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

“I left it at the food stand because I didn’t have enough hands to carry it too.”

They both stood by the poor excuse of a fence bordering the track. It consisted of a string of flimsy plastic laden with small triangular flags with the name of one of the sponsors of the event printed in bold letters across each one. House leaned on his cane and munched on his hot dog while Wilson was playing with the settings on his camera which he wrestled back from House, chewing a mouthful of his own dog loaded with everything but onions.

Wilson let a slight smirk cross his features as he looked out of the corner of his eye to see the excitement building in the older man standing next to him. His blue eyes grew wider with anticipation and the childlike expression on his stubbled face reminded Wilson of a seven year old boy watching his first professional baseball game live, witnessing his favorite player in action for the first time in person. The baseball hat completed the image.

He looked away from the overgrown child and picked up his drink from the ground, a ring of dirt encircling the bottom of his cup, clinging to the condensation that had collected. He took a drink, turning his attention back to the starting line.

The semifinals were starting. Gravedigger lined up against Black Stallion. House’s favorite against Wilson’s favorite.

“So, why do you like Black Stallion? Shouldn’t that be like, I don’t know, Foreman’s favorite?” House questioned.

Wilson just rolled his eyes and ignored House’s disregard for political correctness. “I like the truck. Sue me.”

“You need to find a different truck like maybe.... Neediness Eater or The Enabler or something.”

Wilson did his best to ignore House’s remarks, staring straight ahead at the starting line as he continued chewing on his hot dog with a little more vigor than necessary.

“Fifty bucks- Gravedigger wins.” House shoved the remainder of his hot dog into his mouth.. “Hw bwt it..” He mumbled through a mouthful of chewed up bun and beef.

“Yer on.”

The overly ambitious announcer made the call as the trucks lined up, awaiting the green flag, the obnoxiously hyper voice echoing off every section of the stands.

Suddenly, the crowd went wild as the trucks accelerated with a deafening roar, shaking the outdoor stadium to its foundation; the smell of high-octane exhaust filled the cool spring air.

Wilson watched through the viewfinder as the trucks made their way around the track, creating havoc in their wakes. The trucks launched off the ramp simultaneously over a row of beat up cars, flying twenty five feet in the air and landing atop some less fortunate ones parked at the end of the line. Metal was crushed and debris flew as the crowd roared its pleasure.

“C’mon, c’mon...” House mumbled out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed on the straw poking out of his souvenir cup, nervously bouncing his cane on the ground in front of him.

As the trucks rounded the final turn, both men lost sight of them behind the giant hill which served as the finish line. They purposely wanted to watch the finish from slightly down the track so they could capture the trucks head on as they made their final launch across the line.

“Have the camera on the hill so you get Gravedigger smoking Black Stallion’s ass.” House yelled over the din of the massive engines and crowd noise.

“I know, I know.” Wilson replied as he framed the finish line in the viewfinder. He quickly lowered the camera and tried to hand it to House. “You wanna do it?”

“Hey!” You’re gonna miss it!” House pushed the camera back towards him and returned his focus to the mound of dirt with the giant checkered flags, “Just get the shot. Then we can watch Gravedigger’s victory over and over again on your cheap VCR.”

As if on cue, the menacing black and green machine catapulted into the air, a mere car length in front of Black Stallion. The front end stood up high in the air, the front wheels clawing at the sky as it left the ground and soared a good twenty feet off the track, the giant wheels spinning, spewing dirt and mud in every direction.

“Yes!” House raised his cup high in the air in salute, declaring victory.

The crowd went wild as Gravedigger returned to Earth with a resounding thud, its suspension working hard as the springs fully compressed to absorb the additional load.

A victorious grin on his face, House turned to Wilson, “Ha! Never bet against G-“

Without warning, the front left wheel buckled inward then broke loose from the metal beast looming just feet away from the two hapless fans. It took off like a Tomahawk missile, heading straight for the infield where they were standing.

“House! Move!” Wilson shouted as he caught sight of something large and fast heading directly toward them.

House’s mouth dropped open in shock, frozen to his spot, cold drink paused midway to his mouth. Wilson turned and gave his friend a shove to the right as the wheel bore down like a giant buzz saw, threatening to cut them in half.

Unfortunately, House was caught off guard by the sudden shift in weight to his weak side. Pain shot up his thigh as his right leg buckled, refusing to support the extra load. He went down on his hands and knees as his cane dropped from his grip. He scrambled to get to his feet, palms flat against the ground as his left foot tried to find some purchase on the loose dirt. His eyes grew wide as he turned his head to the left and saw the eight hundred pound missile looming closer as it barreled through the makeshift fence, tiny little triangle flags getting caught up in the massive tread like tuna trapped in a fisherman’s net.

Wilson dove to the left as if a grenade had been thrown his direction. He heard the enormous projectile rumble by him, shooting dirt and debris every which way; tiny stones and dirt pelting him, stinging like raindrops in a hurricane. It passed and continued through the infield, crashing into the middle of the food stand where he and House were just visiting a few minutes ago. The sound of splintering wood and crashing metal echoed in his ears as the little shack succumbed to the wrath of Goodyear.

It was over in less than five seconds.

Wilson opened his eyes, blinking away the accumulated dust on his eyelashes, realizing he was face down on the ground but seemed to be relatively intact except for a slight burning sensation on his elbow where he must’ve scraped it upon landing. He lifted his head and squinted up at his surroundings, raising a hand to wipe away the dirt and grime from his face. He craned his neck, looked over his shoulder and noticed the distinct track in the dirt a few feet behind him, realizing just how close he’d been to becoming part of that tire. For a moment he imagined himself like one of those cartoon characters smashed flat like a pancake, helplessly spinning round and round, a permanent fixture to the tire’s tread. He shakily pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and dropped his head to look at his chest, noticing his navy blue sweatshirt was now a dull shade of dusty brown.

He sat back on his knees, hands on his thighs as he shook his head to rearrange his brain into some kind of working order and brushed himself off. The last minute or so ran through his muddled brain in less than a second: Great race, cool finish, runaway tire, shoving House...

House.

Chapter 2