This author of this delightful fic is MadFashionista who has graciously allowed me to post it here for the world to enjoy! Only she can come up with this kind of brilliance!
Comes with the usual warnings....violence, etc.
Title: Get out of the car!
“Get out of the car!”
House shoved Wilson out of the car with a push, then gunned the engine and streaked down the road. His mind was made up. This had to end. Now. Let out his anger? He’d show Wilson what anger was.
With a screeching turn, he aimed at the building. He braced himself, because this car didn’t have airbags.
But he didn’t care.
The car smashed through the wall, sending wood and glass flying everywhere. A garbage bin overturned, workers scrambled to move out of the way, and House found what he was aiming at:
The writers room.
House knew they were in there, concocting more and ever shittier plots for the Season Eight, and House was PISSED.
He gunned the motor again and flew head-on into the writers room, enjoying for a split-second the panic on the people’s faces, David Shore’s mouth opening, Greg Yaitanes trying to jump back, most of the entire writing and directing staff frozen with horror.
Then there was blissful silence, broken by a fluorescent light dropping from the ceiling.
House pulled his cane out of the car, and limped gingerly out of the wreckage as the moans and screams began. His leg hurt even worse than usual, but what did he expect after after smashing through a television studio? He made it to the outside, stumbling on overturned cameras and cast chairs. House’s shoulder hurt too; he must have wrenched it.
Wilson was waiting for him.
“You’re right. I feel much better.”
Wilson sighed. “I do, too. Except my arm hurts like a bitch.”
“Did I do that? I’m sorry.”
“Ah, it’s okay. Too bad you couldn’t do that to Comcast.”
“You can’t drive a car through the fifty-first story of an office building, Wilson.”
“If Greg Y has his way, you could. Come on, let’s get out of here before the studio guards start looking for us.”
“We’ll pretend we’re the actors. Make sure you look properly freaked out but don’t say anything. I’ll lean on you and pretend I’m in shock. If anyone asks me, I’ll say ‘no comment.’"
“Works for me, House."
House slung his arm over Wilson’s shoulder and they hastily made their way out of the back studio exit. The fire alarms were Mozart to House’s ears.
He really did feel better.