There’s a TV channel in his brain and he doesn’t even need to wear a foil helmet and antennas to get reception. The channel used to play high school cheerleaders when he was on the football team, then bad pornos, then collegiate football. Sometimes when he was bored and all the nakedness or the football got to be monotonous, he’d have a scifi movie marathon. In Afghanistan the channel played picket fences and apple pies and everything back in the good ‘ole US of A. In Antarctica, it played dead people and home movies.

Now, it’s All Rodney All the Time. Ford would call it RodneyVision or the Dr. McKay Channel. But Ford’s not allowed in his brain, because Ford is very obviously not Rodney McKay. And he can’t name things.

If John were a medically inclined person, he would call Rodney McKay a cancer or a virus - something that takes you over, something that even radiation doesn’t always kill. But John’s a soldier so he thinks of Rodney as Caligula or Nero or Napoleon, one of the more obsessively egoistic characters in the history of world domination. Rodney dominates things, whether it’s using his intellect to lord over his staff of scientists until they’re so jumpy that they’re practically scared of their own shadows or to forcibly take over John’s mind and set up a nice little imperial camp with a bureaucracy and a militia and a whole line of production all dedicated to Rodney and keeping images of Rodney on John’s mind.

Rodney is an imperialist. He’s a dictator and an enemy of freedom. He should be shot. Except John already tried that and, of course it backfired miserably, because now he has images of how fun it was to shoot Rodney playing all the time. Rodney’s like Greek Fire, he’s like a chemical burn, you try to pour water on it and you only make it worse.

On the Rodney Channel, late night, there’s an incredibly popular show. It’s better than Saturday Night Live, better than Conan even, and it’s more pornographic than Howard Stern. On Rodney, Late Night, the man is dirtier than the dirtiest he’s seen in Playboy or Hustler or even in the clubs in Bangkok. He’s wanton and loud and he talks dirty. He has a devilish tongue that does all sorts of impossible superfeats that they really should show and Ripley’s Believe It or Not or maybe Fearfactor. John always wanted to be on Fearfactor – he could totally kick ass.

Anyhow, on the Rodney Show that’s even better than whatever porno channel he can get all fuzzy and out of focus with his bootleg cable, Rodney doesn’t just use his tongue for licking and kissing and fucking, but he uses it for talking. He says things that Rodney-mark-one would never say in real life, like ‘oh God, John, so good’ or ‘fuck me’ or his personal favorite ‘I love you, not get down on all fours and let me fuck you hard and fast and no I’m not saying please.’

He does things too, and John doubts if the real Rodney is that flexible, and if he is, he’d surely complain about his back or he knee or his spleen or oh . . . his right ear. One thing that this Rodney – who’s a damned good actor even if most of what he does is moaning – that’s the same as the real Rodney is his nipples, they’re just a perky and noticeable beneath all the skin tight spandex on the Rodney Channel as they are in real life. Only in real life they’re better because they’re 3rd and close and John can stare at them and change the angle at will. He feels dangerous doing it – especially during briefings. Sometimes he wonders if there’s anyone who has a John Sheppard Channel in their brains and if it does if he’s a secret agent. He always wanted to be a secret agent, but he has a feeling he’s not debonair, whatever the fuck that means, enough to be a Bond and he sure as hell does not have a sexy British accent.

John hates the tv execs on the Rodney Channel the same way he does the ones in real life. He’s not just pissed off at the ones in his head for canceling Star Trek, though. He’s pissed of at them because they cowtow to the damn laws of supply and demand that John never really understood anyway by increasing late night Rodney to times during the day when they only used to play Rodney Bakes or Rodney Snarks or Everybody Loves Rodney. He thinks its got to be disturbing to children – about as disturbing as the whole Naked Chef idea – to see that kind of thing during the middle of their Rodney the Anime Character with a Big Sword cartoons. There should be some law against that – because, though he never plans to have any, John’s all for protecting the kids and moralistic stuff like that, because he’s a good man – or at least he tries to be.

But all the TV people care about these days is ratings, and the Rodney gets Naked and Dirty (not just with cooking supplies, though that can be fun) Show is certainly the highest rated. After all, it has several parts of the body – a whole new demographic – standing up and paying attention and hey, he can’t really blame the guys in charge, because he certainly takes notice.

Of course, it’s not the most convenient thing to have going in the puddlejumper or in the Gateroom or in a meeting with Weir. No . . . definitely not. The first time it happened he thought it was an episode of the Twilight Zone (with Rodney narrating of course) in which everyone just sort of suddenly gets naked (only Rodney was the only one naked) and the narrator says something about different cultures or something – like the one with the lady who was having her face operated on and was actually amazingly gorgeous. But it only too two fingers up his ass and a couple of moans for John to realize that it was not, in fact The Twilight Zone, but just RodneyPorn the daytime version, which was better than Soaps in the very least, because the thought of Rodney running off to have Teyla’s baby and raise it with Kavanagh was really starting to make John jealous. It was also better than the international hour where Rodney and Zelenka yelled at each other in Czech – not that real Rodney would ever lower himself to the level of learning Czech, even if it meant he could understand what Zelenka was always mumbling about him beneath his breath.

Of course, it’s not as though John had a problem with more RodneyPorn, just the timing. John had problems enough with Rodney and timing as it was . . .

“John?”

“Mmmm . . .” He liked the way Rodney said John.

“Major Sheppard, if you would please pay attention to my very brilliant and possibly life-saving findings, and stop thinking about space bimbos in silver bikinis, I would . . . well, you should just pay attention. This is usefull and if I have to repeat it to you again while we’re getting shot at by some ridiculously superstitious oddly dressed aliens with bows and arrows I will . . .”

“Jesus Rodney, I’m paying attention, okay? Like you don’t space out every once and a while.”

“Actually, I happen to be blessed with a level of focus that your puny brain couldn’t even possibly comprehend, so, no, major.”

“Hey! I saw you . . .”

“Gentlemen, please. Rodney, if you would continue.”

“Of course, Elizabeth . . .” The smug Rodney Show was back on, It was I Love Rodney with Elizabeth as Ricky with a Spanish accent and Rodney with bright red hair, always coming up with schemes to get Elizabeth to let him buy a dress or a new toy or something. Only Rodney spends a lot more time naked than Lucille Ball did. Oh . . . Rodney naked in a vat of wine, stomping grabes by gyrating his hips . . .

“Major?”

“Hmmm?”

“What were you thinking about during that briefing?”

“Oh, nothing. Just how much I miss watching TV.”

‘Sure you were,” Rodney smirked moving in close to practically whisper it in John’s ear. “Chess tonight?”

“Sure,” John smiled. All Rodney, all the time.

FIN