Trailer Park Boys Fanfic
Rated T for explicit language, mentions of violence and alcoholsim
Summary: After an encounter with Rick turns ugly, Jim Lahey goes back to his trailer to get back up
Jim Lahey banged through the trailer door with a loud, “Fuck!”
Startled, Randy looked up from his magazine and rushed over to him. “Mr. Lahey!” he exclaimed, looking him up and down with shock. “What happened to your pants?” The man was a dusty mess from head to toe, but it was the huge tear in one pant leg that caught Randy's attention.
Jim leaned in and narrowed his eyes to slits. He could barely speak his teeth gnashed so hard. “Ricky,” he snarled. “That's what fucking happened.” He shoved Randy away and headed for the sink. With quick, angry movements, he splashed water over his head and hair, furiously scrubbing out dirt and at least one cigarette butt.
“Ricky did that to you?” Randy asked with distress. “Well what the--”
“That little shit-wit has gone too far today, Rand,” Jim interrupted, turning from the sink. He furiously rubbed a towel over his head. “If you're not too fucking busy in here, boy, you're coming back out there with me. It's gonna be a real shitocolypse today, bud!”
“Shitocolypse?” Randy repeated with a grimace. He crouched down to bring himself level with Jim's thigh.
“What are you doing, Randy, we don't have time for--”
“You're frigging bleeding, Mr. Lahey!” Randy said. He held the back of Jim's leg securely, his free hand moving torn fabric out of the way of a nasty gash. “What really happened out there?”
“It'd take too long to explain,” said Jim, as he tore away from Randy and went to the bedroom. Randy climbed back up to his feet and followed anxiously.
“That's a deep cut! At least let me wash it out before you go back outside,” Randy implored. He watched with growing desperation as Jim searched the room for something. He attacked the pillows, tearing sheets off the bed, and then dropped to the floor to peer under the bed. “What are you looking for?” Jim heard above him.
Not finding it there, Jim got up from under the bed and dug through a dresser drawer. “Ahhh!” He pulled an aluminum bat from beneath a messy pile of costumes in one of the drawers.
“What are you going to do with that?” Randy asked in a panic. He got in Jim's way as he tried to leave the bedroom. Jim glared at him.
“Move aside, Rand,” Jim warned. “I'm on the fucking warpath, boy.”
“Not wounded, you're not!”
Lahey snorted derisively. “Wounded! This is nothing compared to what's in store for that prick.”
Randy took hold of the bat. He met Jim's eyes with a hard, unyielding look of his own. “Not right now, Mr. Lahey.”
Randy took advantage of Jim's momentary shock to yank the weapon clear out of his hands. He tossed it on the bed out of reach and looked squarely at Jim. Just as Jim started growling at him in protest, Randy said firmly, “You're not leaving this trailer till we do something about that cut, Mr. Lahey. That's all there is to it.”
Jim's anger reluctantly evaporated. He sighed wearily and flopped himself onto the bed, taking this opportunity to lie down and stretch out, one arm slung over his eyes. “Who the hell's in charge around here, anyway,” he grumbled.
Randy knelt by the bed, carefully inspecting the injury. He looked at Jim warmly and gently touched his knee. “Would you take your pants off so I can clean this out?”
Jim groaned. “Come on, Randy! Just rip the fucking hole bigger if you have to. Jesus, every fucking second I spend lying here--”
“Ok! Don't stress yourself out,” Randy said before Jim could degenerate into another rage. At least he was relatively sober today, Randy noticed. That made him a little easier to control. “I'll just...do what I can, I guess.” Grabbing the fabric in both hands, he ripped the hole the bigger, exposing the full length of the gash. It was uneven, thin, and looked deep. “What exactly happened? Ricky didn't actually cut you, did he?” Randy reached under the bed for the bottle of vodka Jim kept sneaking into the bedroom, and got a clean rag.
“Not literally, Randy! But I still hold him completely responsible for--” he sucked in his breath as Randy pressed the alcohol soaked rag on the wound. He was quiet and still, though it was obvious to Randy how much it hurt him.
Still, Randy pressed. “So it was an accident? What cut you, a shard of glass, a nail, what?”
“Nail,” Jim managed to say. Randy paused and gave him such a look of alarm, he said, “Well don't make a big deal out it, Randy! Ricky's the stupid prick building his shit shacks all over the fucking park. He and the rest of those recidivist reprobates are growing dope in there, Randy, as we fucking speak!”
“I know they are, sir,” Randy said, just to quiet him a moment. He'd been trying to imagine what had happened since Jim first tore through the door. From what Jim just said, Randy could only figure that Jim had been pushed, or stumbled, into the wall of this alleged shed and got caught on a stray nail. Even if that's what really happened, Randy was still just as eager as Jim to blame it entirely on Ricky.
When he finished cleaning the wound and the skin around it, Randy got up for a bandage. “So what's the plan now, sir?” He tenderly placed the biggest bandage he could find on the wound and remained on the floor beside him.
Jim winced with pain as he made himself sit up on the bed, and then scooted to the side. Randy got up off the floor and sat on the now clear space on the bed. He loomed over his boss' slight frame, ready to snatch him up in his arms if he passed out. But already Jim was recovering by the second. “We get back out there, Rand, show that prick he can't get rid of me that easily. Ohhhh, no,” he began to chuckle evilly, and sat up straight. The passion of his fury seemed to flow through his body, strengthening it as no medicine ever could. “I'll bet he thinks he's put me out of commission.”
“Well, he's wrong, Mr. Lahey,” Randy said, gazing warmly at him. “Ricky can't do frig-all to you, sir.”
Jim gave him a lopsided smile. “Thanks, bud,” he said, and leaned towards him. Randy immediately moved his arm so could warp it around the older man's shoulders, and held him snug. Sighing gently, Jim pressed a kiss on Randy's jaw and then wriggled out of his arms. He snatched the vodka bottle from the floor and took a good swig—for courage—and rushed out of the trailer.
Randy had to hustle to keep up with a Jim Lahey on the warpath, but he paused at the bedroom door a moment. After careful consideration, he grabbed the baseball bat and ran outside.