Raise your hand if you didn't know I was broken? *crickets* Right. So if you haven't read annakovsky's Five Families Connor Was Not Magically Squeezed Into After His Real Vampire Dad Slit His Throat, you are missing out. Fantastic. The Arrested Development ficlet is my favorite. That being said, apparently there's a show called "Supernatural" and it has a family called the Winchesters. I did not know this. I saw "Winchesters" and immediately thought of Charles Emerson Winchester III from M*A*S*H. And assumed Connor had been sent to Boston to grow up in the lap of luxury with a pompous git of an older brother, currently serving in the Korean War as a surgeon.
And couldn't get that out of my head. So. I give you the following, a sharp left-turn, and containing some "Screwtape Letters" influences. Rated W for WTF?
Title: Suicide is Painless
Spoiler Warning: End of Season 4
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is for fun, not profit. Neither M*A*S*H nor AtS characters belong to me. Relax. It's friggin' LJ. Who do you think you are? George Lucas?
Summary: What if Connor had been sent back in time to live with the Winchester of Boston, Mass., forced into brotherhood with one Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third, currently surving a tour of duty in Korea as a heart surgeon for the 4077th MASH unit?
Spoken into tape recording device known as a Real-to-Reel
Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third, Viper-Pit, Korea, dated October fourteenth, Nineteen hundred and fifty-three.
For my younger brother, Connor.
I hope that you are setting an example to the other boys at Choate, and also doing everything in your power to not besmirch the good name of Winchester. The Winchesters have been in attendance at Choate since its inception, and the family holds steadfast to the legend that Great-Gandfather Bertram Winchester helped coin the noble motto, Fidelitis et Integritas. Mother tells me that there was an incident? Hmm? Something involving a scuffle late at night? Now, now, far be it from me to scold you, lads will get up to fisticuffs now and again, but it is precisely those baser instincts that make you seem low to the others. We wouldn't want that, now, would we? We are civilized men, after all.
Our sister Honoria wrote and spoke of your excellent scores in mathematics. I'm sure our father hopes you can turn that into a fine head for business. Have you spent much time with Father? I dare say that he was far too busy amassing our fortunes and solving the problems of the looming war when I was in school. I hope you aren't becoming a dullard - studying nothing but figures and statistics. The soul wants to fly, Connor. Do not neglect your Woodsworth. Your Keats. Your philosophy. These are the paths for which your mind should travel, my boy. I've been told you've given up the clarinet? Pity. And while I understand the joy that a fine stroll can provide, playing sports with the boys from town? I only hope that our sister was joking.
I am trapped in a God forsaken pesthole with the results of such activities, and let me assure you that while they may be doctors in degree, they are simians in life.
Do try and aim higher?
Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third, Hell on Earth, Apparently Korea, dated this November the twentieth, Nineteen hundred and fifty-three.
Addressed to my brother, Connor.
Well. I see you have chosen to NOT take my advice and give in to your carnal needs. I hope you are happy. Mother actually attempted an overseas phone call, of course I didn't take it, do you honestly think I want that hairy, organ grinder's monkey listening in on family business? I'd sooner share my toothbrush with a Democrat.
A broken leg. You've given another boy a broken leg? Quite frankly, I'm astonished you were able to apply that much force. Which is neither here nor there.
You must gain control of your emotions. It is unseemly to act otherwise. We Winchesters have a long tradition of leadership. Honor. The lower class looks to us for the example set. You can't just... go about breaking legs when the mood strikes, Connor! I hope you have apologized to the lad? Learned your lesson?
I understand you have been reading books on the heart. Following in big brother's footsteps, are we? Well, I cannot say that I'm not pleased by your interest, but take this advice from me. I may have graduated at the top of Harvard Medical School, interned with the finest surgeons the world knows, yet what has it proferred me? I am stuck in this... tar-pit of moral morass. This cess-pool of bumbling clowns who can barely differentiate from their scalpel with their scapulae. As the Bard once penned, "All offences come from the heart."
Honoria informed me that you've been staying out late? Well... A young man has certain... oats he feels he must sow, but I hope that your late night excursion won't be cause of any shame upon the family. I'm speaking, of course, of any young ladies you may be dallying with? I'm surrounded by walking glands whose only occupation seems to be in preoccupation in sexual behavior. Connor, we are far and above Crabapple Cove, and I hope you do not forget that.
If you don't mind, please contact Congressman Furnough about lifting the ban on sending quality alcohol to the troops. It would be nice to have the ambrosia found in the family's wine cellar than the paint thinner manufactured and filtered through an old sock by my... colleagues. It's any wonder that they haven't blown our living quarters to Kingdom Come. The '27 Rothschild should be sufficient. Send that along with your next letter, if you please.
And should you have any further questions regarding the heart your dusty tomes can't answer, well, big brother is only a letter away.
I am yours, wasting away in utter despair,
Charles E. Winchester the Third, Two miles east of the River Styx, Christmas
I am sure you find it most amusing to send along a bottle of Thunderbird. Ha ha. In case you are wondering what that particular sound is, it is the sound of a man who is completely and utterly broken. And a Merry Christmas to you. I hope the package I had delivered from Abercrombie & Fitch arrived in good condition? Father tells me you have taken an interest in the noble sport of hunting. I understand that you prefer a bow and arrow like a red-skinned heathen, but no matter. Revolvers take a certain level of skill that not all possess. The bows I had delivered are equipped with lead tips. I was led to believe this insures a quicker kill. They twist off to be replaced, however.
In your last letter you asked about the breast plate. One of the more difficult aspects of being a heart surgeon is getting to the damned thing. I suppose you could pierce the breast bone with an arrow, but certainly not at close range. Whatever do you want to do such a thing for? Have the boys at Choate suddenly turned into a raving pack of monsters? Ahaha. Well, I suppose the hormones of youth can certainly transfigure an apple-cheeked lad into a raving beast. It is your good breeding that prevents you from being a spotty, whey-faced brat, you know. Winchesters do not have acne. Although I'm confused about the one boy you mentioned. Localized acne has been known to happen, but to make his face appear as if it had ridges? And just like that you say? They just... appeared one night? Most peculiar. Inferior breeding, obviously.
In answer to your other question, approaching the heart from behind is not advisable. Far superior armor on our backs than our fronts, you see. I have found that access just at the diaphragm and moving upwards underneath the breast plate is the most direct manner. Saves the surgeon from having to cut into bone and wasting time. On average, a male's heart is ten centimeters posterior to the stomach, and four centimeters distal to the median plane.
Connor, I know we are a proud lot, we do not coddle one another, but your interest in my profession is quite flattering, I don't mind saying. I'll assume you read the article I sent Mother from the Stars and Stripes where yours truly was interviewed for my hand-massaging a heart back to life? If I must be trapped in this wasteland of filth and fools, I will certainly do everything in my power to rise above the swine who wallow in its muck. They may have cut me off from the civilized world, they may have incarcerated me with moronic cellmates. They may torture me with their thrice daily swill - oh, and thank you for the biscuits, they were most appreciated - but they cannot break the spirit of a Winchester! My voice shall be heard from this wilderness, and I shall be delivered from this fetid and festering sewer!
Apologies. I have been on my feet for 30 hours straight and Hawkeye has been needling me about the swill you sent as a joke. I did not give it to him, naturally. Not that I wanted it, of course. Anyway, do stop the late night carousing as Mother is beginning to worry. Discretion, hmmm?
I've sent along diagrams of the human circulatory system, per your request. And now that you've had your little joke, send the bloody wine!
Yours, and Happy Christmas,
The lines: "I'd sooner share my toothbrush with a Democrat" and "They may have cut me off from ... this fetid and festering sewer" were lifted from the TV program and slightly modified to fit in, all apologies to the writers of M*A*S*H.