Notes: Mogie here! There is absolutely nothing I can do or say to make up for this. I can't even offer an explanation. Only my sincere apology for any offense anyone takes. I got this weird idea and tried to push twenty pounds of stereotype into a ten pound sack, much like the outfit du jour for a certain someone in this particular story. We can just chalk this up to delirium, because that's the only reason this really happened. And maybe because Jenn and Nikki told me to. Enjoy this one Grace, get your helmet on now. Thanks to Jenn and Jodi for betaing.

Disclaimer: This is what happens, and you guys actually WANT me to own Castle? I didn't think so. Thank god they belong to Marlowe and ABC.

Katie slammed the door shut and slung her purse across the room toward the couch - it managed to snag a half empty beer bottle and send it tumbling and to the ground before landing. She ignored the smashed bottle and the liquid running back towards her across the floor.

"RICHARD CASTLE!"

The man in question stumbled into the room trying to fix his greasy green plaid shirt. "What do you want, woman?"

"Oh, I'm gonna 'woman' you in a minute!" she yelled before launching herself at him. He had just enough time to turn away and she landed on his back. "You stupid son of a bitch!" She gripped him tight around the neck with one arm and wrapped her legs securely around his waist.

He crashed his way up the short, narrow hallway of their double-wide trying to dislodge the crazy woman he called a common-law wife. At the first door he passed he tried scraping her off with the doorframe. No such luck, the woman was stuck like glue.

"You bastard!" she spat as she squeezed tighter.

The door across was closed so he proceeded up to the next one, the bathroom. His face was turning the same shade as their Bud Light themed bathroom, and when he caught his reflection in the mirror he fought even harder, dislodging her enough to get her partially stuck in what used to be the taped over hole in their bathroom wall.

"Watch the hair!" Castle hollered as he carefully checked his mullet over in the mirror.

Katie struggled to get her hip free of the binding prison created by the plaster and the sharpie-colored duct tape - yes, through good old American ingenuity they had decided to patch the hole with duct tape and then color it with blue sharpies. "I swear, if you messed up my hair I'll kick your balls so far back up in your body you'll be singing soprano for the next ten years."

"Hey, you attacked me you crazy bitch!"

Katie ripped herself from the hole and shoved him toward the toilet, biting back a laugh as his beer belly struggled to keep up with his movements. She quickly turned back to the mirror to check out her own hair, thankfully every last inch of her bleached-out and beaten-to-Jesus locks were in place. She adjusted the girls in the bra she'd borrowed from their oldest, his daughter really, needless to say the hot-pink and star printed contraption did nothing for her ample bosom. Content with that she stepped back to check the rest of her outfit. The denim cut-offs were a bit too tight, as evidenced by the muffin top, and a bit too short for a mother of six, pregnant pretty much five years straight; the dingy white tank top, also borrowed from the inherited child, did very little to cover her. It left an exposed strip of stretch-marked skin about six inches wide and created a perfect frame for her epic tramp stamp. She was toying with making it a full back piece, but for now she'd just settle for her homage to the Simpsons, her favorite beer, and his favorite brand of smokes.

"Now listen here, you smug S.O.B., I will do whatever I damn well please," she said quietly, turning and advancing on him.

He backed up and effectively wedged his impressive bulk in the tiny space between the shower and the makeshift linen closet - in reality it held four hand towels, three raggedy washcloths, six beach towels, a stack, at least ten deep, of Christmas and Halloween washcloths, a half empty bottle of Jack, an entire shelf of Aquanet, several hair brushes and combs, five bottles of shampoo and conditioner, an unopened jar of mayonnaise, and two mini-bar pilfered vodka bottles.

"You and your God-forsaken DICK," she growled, stepping forward and poking him in the chest, hard. "Got me pregnant. AGAIN!"