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I don’t have a dog, numbnuts
Dec. 30th, 2016 10:21 pmIn cases like this, policy was simple: in situations where close calls are made, all field crew have three days to get any post-exposure medical treatment taken care of before coming back to the studio, or they don’t come back at all. This was on top of a list of required vaccinations usually reserved for people travelling to the most remote areas of the planet. It was policy Wilford himself adhered to. Not out of some noble quest to lead by example, but for the simple fact that getting infected with some fucking lycanthropy virus would really screw up so many of his plans.
When he went to the clinic first thing the next morning, Wilford lied about his stitches, and said he got treated at some urgent care up in Blaine County. Four hours, a spinal tap, and a round of post-exposure vaccines later, Wilford was sent on his way with a mountain of antibiotics for the infection and a scolding about going out during the full moon. On his way out, he passed by Billy heading in, and hoped the rest of the crew were planning on taking advantage of their three-day window. He didn’t want to see any of them showing their face in the studio until he had a chance to calm down.
Wilford stopped by HR on his way to his dressing room, dropping off own medical clearance forms to be filed away. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the stricken looks he was getting from everyone in the studio that day. He put up with it for all of about twenty minutes before calling the day a wash and going back home.
The dog was back. The hole leading under the porch had been filled, but the dog had just dug another one. Wilford could hear it snuffling around under there, but he was too tired to do anything about it. Right up until his neighbour stepped outside to gaze upon the trail of trash leading straight into Wilford’s front yard.
“Your fucking dog got in my trash again, Warfstache.”
Wilford looked at the trail of trash, and found he didn’t have the energy to deal with that either.
“I don’t have a dog, numbnuts,” he called back, before quickly going inside to get away from everything and everyone.
He briefly considered taking about half of the pills Guppy had given him in an attempt to get some sleep, but it was a very brief moment of consideration. He didn’t like pain killers that much to begin with, and when he tried to take them as a means to fall asleep, he always regretted it. It wasn’t just the sick feeling of disorientation and the sensation of being completely disconnected from reality, although that was pretty bad in itself. It was the way he couldn’t get going again when he woke up. It was having to walk the line between not enough to actually get him to sleep, and skirting the OD line where he’d wake up finding he’d lost two days and had pissed himself. He’d save the codeine for the times when he actually needed it. Instead of doing anything stupid like that, he fell into his chair and grabbed his laptop to have something to stare at for the next few hours.
—
Wilford dozed off and on all day, but he still didn’t feel any better for it. He was still as tired as ever when he made his way back to the studio the next morning. He bypassed HR all together, intending to just hide away in his dressing room until he was needed for a sound check or something, but his plans were waylaid when he came across Kevin in the hallway. Without even stopping to think about anything, Wilford stepped up and slugged him in the side of the jaw. Kevin stumbled away, hunching over with his hand over the spot where Wilford had hit him.
“What?” he said breathlessly.
“Get out. You’re gone,” Wilford spat, before continuing on his way. He could hear the confused murmurs that built up behind him, but Kevin knew what he’d done, and it didn’t need explaining.
While he was at it, Wilford continued past his dressing room, and walked to the cube farm across from the set. Mandy was at his desk, furiously typing something up when Wilford approached.
“You’re gone. Go,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the door.
Mandy sighed. “Motherfucker,” he said, already saving his work so he could shut down his computer.
Wilford didn’t care what he took with him. He just wanted him gone. And with that taken care of, he made his way back to his dressing room before anyone else could get in his way and piss him off even more. He was no less tired behind his desk than he was at home, but at least here, he could pretend to get some work done. There was the huge backlog of emails to deal with, which he did so by deleting them all. If it was important, they’d get resent. He also needed to actually go through the footage from their hilariously failed excursion, and figure out just how much of it was actually usable. Eventually, he went to go get the CF card from the camera, and the SD cards from audio, all the while ignoring the sideways glances he got from everybody he passed by. Some of it was good. Really good. Kevin had managed to work his annoying brand of magic, and needled more than Wilford had expected from the drivers on the way up to the mountain. While Wilford went through the video footage, gritting his teeth through the nightmare that was native sound, Billy walked through the door with his usual stack of morning reports.
“Thanks for the assist, ass,” Wilford said, scrubbing back and forth over the part where he got tackled to the ground by a 250-pound werewolf.
“I figured you’d want me to keep rolling,” Billy said, dropping the folders in front of Wilford.
“You’re still an ass.”
Most of the folders were absolute junk. Preliminary feelers for stories too boring to even use as filler. But buried somewhere in the middle of it was everything Mandy had been working on over the last few days. If they’d had just a few extra days to prep this story, the outcome would have been entirely different. Mandy had figured it out on time, but it just didn’t get relayed out quickly enough.
“Get Mandy to follow up on some of this,” Wilford said, circling bits with his red pen.
“Right now?” Billy asked.
Wilford thought about this for a moment. “After lunch. Let him sweat a little longer.”
Billy laughed and took the folder back. “Such a kind, understanding man,” he said.
“You can be gone too, if you want,” Wilford warned as he moved on to the next folder.
“You wouldn’t survive the day.”
The annoying part was Billy was right.
—
The dog was gone. It was the first good thing to happen all week. No more snuffling, trash-eating dog under his porch. It was a goddamned miracle. Before heading inside, Wilford peeked over the fence around his back yard, and found the trash cans unmolested as well. Animal control must have finally decided to come do their damn jobs, then. It was about time. It meant Wilford could go inside and try to get some sleep without fear of his horrible neighbour banging on his door again. Halle-fucking-lujah.
But it was not to last. Because nothing nice ever lasted. Wilford had clearly angered some ancient deity, or some evil spirit, because life was just an unending series of misery lately. And this time when the dog came back, it let its presence be known with a constant high-pitched whine. As soon as it started at six in the morning, Wilford reached for his phone and called the police, and animal control, and even the local pound, but nobody cared about a stray dog. It wasn’t attacking anybody, so it wasn’t a priority. He called again at 7:00. And again at 8:00. Finally, knowing he was getting nowhere, he tried a different approach.
“Where are you?” he asked as soon as Billy answered the phone.
“I am in the drive-through line at Up-n-Atom,” Billy said. “Don’t ask me to get you anything. I’ve already ordered.”
“Just get over here,” Wilford said.
Billy sighed. “Fine.”
Wilford hung up and found a scrap piece of paper and a pen. He quickly wrote down the words ‘take care of it’, and after taping the paper to his front door, got into his car and left before Billy could show up and get angry.
When he went to the clinic first thing the next morning, Wilford lied about his stitches, and said he got treated at some urgent care up in Blaine County. Four hours, a spinal tap, and a round of post-exposure vaccines later, Wilford was sent on his way with a mountain of antibiotics for the infection and a scolding about going out during the full moon. On his way out, he passed by Billy heading in, and hoped the rest of the crew were planning on taking advantage of their three-day window. He didn’t want to see any of them showing their face in the studio until he had a chance to calm down.
Wilford stopped by HR on his way to his dressing room, dropping off own medical clearance forms to be filed away. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the stricken looks he was getting from everyone in the studio that day. He put up with it for all of about twenty minutes before calling the day a wash and going back home.
The dog was back. The hole leading under the porch had been filled, but the dog had just dug another one. Wilford could hear it snuffling around under there, but he was too tired to do anything about it. Right up until his neighbour stepped outside to gaze upon the trail of trash leading straight into Wilford’s front yard.
“Your fucking dog got in my trash again, Warfstache.”
Wilford looked at the trail of trash, and found he didn’t have the energy to deal with that either.
“I don’t have a dog, numbnuts,” he called back, before quickly going inside to get away from everything and everyone.
He briefly considered taking about half of the pills Guppy had given him in an attempt to get some sleep, but it was a very brief moment of consideration. He didn’t like pain killers that much to begin with, and when he tried to take them as a means to fall asleep, he always regretted it. It wasn’t just the sick feeling of disorientation and the sensation of being completely disconnected from reality, although that was pretty bad in itself. It was the way he couldn’t get going again when he woke up. It was having to walk the line between not enough to actually get him to sleep, and skirting the OD line where he’d wake up finding he’d lost two days and had pissed himself. He’d save the codeine for the times when he actually needed it. Instead of doing anything stupid like that, he fell into his chair and grabbed his laptop to have something to stare at for the next few hours.
—
Wilford dozed off and on all day, but he still didn’t feel any better for it. He was still as tired as ever when he made his way back to the studio the next morning. He bypassed HR all together, intending to just hide away in his dressing room until he was needed for a sound check or something, but his plans were waylaid when he came across Kevin in the hallway. Without even stopping to think about anything, Wilford stepped up and slugged him in the side of the jaw. Kevin stumbled away, hunching over with his hand over the spot where Wilford had hit him.
“What?” he said breathlessly.
“Get out. You’re gone,” Wilford spat, before continuing on his way. He could hear the confused murmurs that built up behind him, but Kevin knew what he’d done, and it didn’t need explaining.
While he was at it, Wilford continued past his dressing room, and walked to the cube farm across from the set. Mandy was at his desk, furiously typing something up when Wilford approached.
“You’re gone. Go,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the door.
Mandy sighed. “Motherfucker,” he said, already saving his work so he could shut down his computer.
Wilford didn’t care what he took with him. He just wanted him gone. And with that taken care of, he made his way back to his dressing room before anyone else could get in his way and piss him off even more. He was no less tired behind his desk than he was at home, but at least here, he could pretend to get some work done. There was the huge backlog of emails to deal with, which he did so by deleting them all. If it was important, they’d get resent. He also needed to actually go through the footage from their hilariously failed excursion, and figure out just how much of it was actually usable. Eventually, he went to go get the CF card from the camera, and the SD cards from audio, all the while ignoring the sideways glances he got from everybody he passed by. Some of it was good. Really good. Kevin had managed to work his annoying brand of magic, and needled more than Wilford had expected from the drivers on the way up to the mountain. While Wilford went through the video footage, gritting his teeth through the nightmare that was native sound, Billy walked through the door with his usual stack of morning reports.
“Thanks for the assist, ass,” Wilford said, scrubbing back and forth over the part where he got tackled to the ground by a 250-pound werewolf.
“I figured you’d want me to keep rolling,” Billy said, dropping the folders in front of Wilford.
“You’re still an ass.”
Most of the folders were absolute junk. Preliminary feelers for stories too boring to even use as filler. But buried somewhere in the middle of it was everything Mandy had been working on over the last few days. If they’d had just a few extra days to prep this story, the outcome would have been entirely different. Mandy had figured it out on time, but it just didn’t get relayed out quickly enough.
“Get Mandy to follow up on some of this,” Wilford said, circling bits with his red pen.
“Right now?” Billy asked.
Wilford thought about this for a moment. “After lunch. Let him sweat a little longer.”
Billy laughed and took the folder back. “Such a kind, understanding man,” he said.
“You can be gone too, if you want,” Wilford warned as he moved on to the next folder.
“You wouldn’t survive the day.”
The annoying part was Billy was right.
—
The dog was gone. It was the first good thing to happen all week. No more snuffling, trash-eating dog under his porch. It was a goddamned miracle. Before heading inside, Wilford peeked over the fence around his back yard, and found the trash cans unmolested as well. Animal control must have finally decided to come do their damn jobs, then. It was about time. It meant Wilford could go inside and try to get some sleep without fear of his horrible neighbour banging on his door again. Halle-fucking-lujah.
But it was not to last. Because nothing nice ever lasted. Wilford had clearly angered some ancient deity, or some evil spirit, because life was just an unending series of misery lately. And this time when the dog came back, it let its presence be known with a constant high-pitched whine. As soon as it started at six in the morning, Wilford reached for his phone and called the police, and animal control, and even the local pound, but nobody cared about a stray dog. It wasn’t attacking anybody, so it wasn’t a priority. He called again at 7:00. And again at 8:00. Finally, knowing he was getting nowhere, he tried a different approach.
“Where are you?” he asked as soon as Billy answered the phone.
“I am in the drive-through line at Up-n-Atom,” Billy said. “Don’t ask me to get you anything. I’ve already ordered.”
“Just get over here,” Wilford said.
Billy sighed. “Fine.”
Wilford hung up and found a scrap piece of paper and a pen. He quickly wrote down the words ‘take care of it’, and after taping the paper to his front door, got into his car and left before Billy could show up and get angry.
