Fan Fiction Friday: The Truck at the 4077
Alton Brown fan fiction crossover index
A new series begins for Fan Fiction Friday -a story across several stories with one theme: What would happen if Alton Brown and M*A*S*H were to mix?
[EXT. DUSTY ROAD OUTSIDE THE 4077th — MORNING]
A pale winter sun hangs over the hills. The 4077th sits where it always sits: equal parts ingenuity and improvisation, stitched together with canvas, cots, and habit.
In the distance, an engine growls. Not a jeep. Not an ambulance.
[A MILITARY TRUCK CRESTS THE LAST RISE]
It’s larger than anything that usually rumbles into camp. It kicks up a rooster tail of dust like it’s announcing itself to the whole war.
At the wheel: ALTON BROWN, wearing a USO jacket that looks just a little too clean for this place.
[EXT. 4077th CAMP ENTRANCE — CONTINUOUS]
CORPORAL KLINGER steps out of the Admin area, clipboard in hand, hat at an angle that says “official business” while everything else says “I’ve seen too much.”
KLINGER (calling out)
Hold it right there! This is a medical unit. We don’t just take deliveries—
Alton kills the engine. The truck settles with a heavy sigh. He climbs down slowly, like the ground might have opinions.
ALTON
Corporal Klinger?
KLINGER
Depends who’s asking. If you’re selling vacuum cleaners, I already bought three.
ALTON (pleasant, steady)
Alton Brown. USO. I’m here for… a morale program.
Klinger squints. He circles the truck, eyes tracking the locks, the canvas, the way the rear doors are sealed like they’re hiding something valuable—or dangerous.
KLINGER
“Morale program,” huh? That what we’re calling it now?
ALTON
That’s what it says on the paperwork.
Klinger holds out a hand. Alton produces a crisp folder. Klinger flips pages with the intensity of a man who has forged documents for less, and therefore knows what forged documents look like.
KLINGER (muttering)
Stamped… countersigned… “Approved”… I don’t like when things are approved.
Alton watches him read, then glances up at the camp like he’s taking inventory. People are already looking. A few nurses pause. A couple of enlisted men drift closer, curious.
KLINGER (eyes narrowing)
Okay, USO. Fine. What’s in the truck?
Alton’s smile remains, but something behind it hardens. Not anger. Not fear. Determination.
ALTON
I’d rather not say out loud.
KLINGER
You’d rather not say out loud…
Klinger looks around. The onlookers are closer now. Somebody whistles. Somebody else calls, “Is it a piano?”
Alton steps in half a pace, voice low.
ALTON
Corporal. I need two MPs. For guard duty. Right now.
KLINGER (offended)
Guard duty? This is a hospital, not Fort Knox!
ALTON
Just humor me.
Klinger hesitates—then snaps his fingers at a passing orderly.
KLINGER
Hey! Go find a couple MPs. Tell ‘em I said it’s urgent. And tell ‘em if they ask questions, the answer is “paperwork.”
The orderly runs off.
Klinger folds his arms. He tries to look unimpressed, but his eyes keep darting to the truck’s sealed doors.
KLINGER
You know, I’ve seen a lot of things come through this camp. Jeeps. Generals. A goat that outranked me for three days. But I have never—
ALTON
I also need the commanding officer.
KLINGER
Oh, now you want the commanding officer. Sure. Why not? Maybe he can explain why you’re treating that truck like it’s carrying the crown jewels.
Klinger turns and bellows toward headquarters.
KLINGER (calling)
Colonel Potter! Colonel! You’ve got… company!
[A BEAT. THEN THE FLAP OPENS.]
COLONEL POTTER emerges in a robe and slippers, hair tousled, face creased with sleep—and yet somehow he carries himself like he’s about to inspect a parade.
Potter squints at the truck. Then his expression changes.
Not confusion. Not suspicion.
Delight.
POTTER (brightening, to himself)
Oh goodie!
Klinger freezes.
KLINGER
Sir?
Potter strides forward in slippers like he’s wearing boots. He stops beside Alton, looks him up and down, then at the truck.
POTTER
You’re right on time.
ALTON (relieved)
Colonel Potter. Thank you for having me.
KLINGER
Sir, with respect—who is this guy and why is he bringing a guarded mystery box to our front gate?
Potter waves a hand like he’s swatting a fly.
POTTER
Klinger, give him whatever he needs.
KLINGER
Whatever he needs?
POTTER
Whatever. He. Needs.
Klinger looks like someone just told him the war is optional.
KLINGER
Sir… that’s a pretty wide authorization.
POTTER (cheerful)
That’s the point.
Two MPs arrive at a jog, slightly annoyed at being interrupted and immediately curious about why they’re running toward a truck instead of away from an officer.
MP #1
Corporal. You said urgent.
KLINGER (gesturing at the truck)
Guard it. Don’t touch it. Don’t open it. Don’t sniff it—
ALTON (calmly)
Sniffing is probably unavoidable.
The MPs exchange a look that says, we absolutely will sniff it now.
MP #2
Sir, what’s in the truck?
Alton’s eyes flick briefly to Potter. Potter’s face says: Not here.
ALTON
Classified morale supplies.
MP #1
Morale can be classified?
POTTER (pleasant, firm)
It can today. Guard the truck.
The MPs snap to it.
[EXT. MESS TENT EXTERIOR — LATER]
The camp has adjusted around the truck like it’s always been there. That’s the 4077th’s real superpower.
Klinger hustles, arranging space, calling for benches, coordinating a small staging area near the mess tent where a “USO show” might actually happen.
Potter pulls Klinger aside.
POTTER
Oh—and give the cook a two-week pass.
KLINGER
Sir?!
POTTER (dead serious)
Two. Weeks.
Klinger blinks. Then, because he is Klinger, he salutes as if saluting might somehow make it make sense.
KLINGER
Yes, sir.
[EXT. TRUCK — MOMENTS LATER]
Klinger approaches Alton again, quieter now. The crowd’s attention has shifted to the novelty of a cook getting a vacation in the middle of a war.
KLINGER
Alright. I got you your MPs. I got you space. I got you Potter’s blessing, which is basically a miracle. I even got you a two-week pass for a man who doesn’t deserve two hours.
He leans in.
KLINGER
I gotta know what’s in there.
Alton glances around. Once. Twice. Like he’s checking corners even though the camp doesn’t really have corners.
Then he leans in close enough that Klinger can smell coffee on his breath.
ALTON (a whisper)
Food.
Klinger pulls back, offended.
KLINGER
Food? That’s the big deal about—
He stops mid-sentence.
Because Alton isn’t smiling anymore. Alton’s expression is intense in a way that makes “food” sound like a secret weapon.
KLINGER (lowering his voice)
Wait… you mean actual—
ALTON (quickly, shushing)
Shh!!
Klinger’s eyes widen. A lifetime of supply runs, ration cans, and powdered mysteries flashes across his face.
KLINGER
You mean… not from a can.
Alton gives a tiny, solemn nod.
KLINGER (dawning awe)
Oh… you’re dangerous.
ALTON (matter-of-fact)
I’ve been told.
[A BUGLE CALLS SOMEWHERE. SOMEONE LAUGHS. THE WAR CONTINUES.]
But for the first time all day, the camp is thinking about something other than blood, cold, and distance.
It’s thinking about dinner.
[Alton puts a hand on the truck’s latch—then stops.]
Not yet.
[FADE OUT.]
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