Tuesday, September 04, 2007

The Therapists Win

0945 hrs. Fort Braggart, East Carolina. Downtown.
I parked as far away as I could without having to walk far enough to get me sweaty. The southern summer heat was stifling, and the last thing I needed was my mustache wax running when I was embarrassed to be here anyway.
The sign on the building said it all. Odd Horizons. Recovery for Addicts and Rage-aholics.
According to my court-ordered assessment I was both the former and the latter, with a bit of "sexual delusions" thrown in for good measure. Shows how much the liberal justice system knows.
I'd been doing just fine drinking Zima all day, settling personal vendettas with a urine-filled watergun, and demanding marriage from chicks I'd come to know only by intensive stalking. The only reason I had to come here at all was because of the damned incident with the ostrich, which I don't care to go into right now. Suffice it to say, my probation demanded this "treatment," and I wasn't going to jail again after what happened last time.
I put the "Black-Owned Business" sign on the windshield of my mom's car to keep it safe, and shuffled reluctantly towards Odd Horizons.

1000 hrs. Odd Horizons.
Someone tried to hug me as soon as I opened the door to room 219.
"Welcome," he said. "Welcome home!" I pushed him away with a move I learned from Hardcore Self-Defense 3: When Well-Meaning People Attack.
"You must be Randy," someone else said, and I stepped into the room to face him. He sat in the open end of the semi-circle formed by the chairs laid out for the participants. "Don't mind Trevor," the man added. "He was touch-deprived as a child and he's just trying to make you feel loved."
I gave Trevor another shove towards an empty chair and addressed what appeared to be the leader. "Let's just keep Trevor touch deprived," I said. "I didn't come here to catch gay."
"Oh, Randy," the leader chuckled, "you have a lot to learn!" He indicated an empty seat (luckily not next to Trevor), and I sat down, joining the group of five or so. The leader stroked his mustache (a Saddam mustache, I noted, not a Magnum P.I. mustache like an American would wear), and addressed us.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome," he said in an accent I couldn't quite place. "For our newcomer, I would like to introduce myself. I am Doctor Hamas al-Shiznit. I know you will wonder about my name," he added, "and yes-- I am Persian." He beamed at me, his teeth white like tracer rounds against the night sky.
"Pear-shaped?" I asked.
"Per-sian. I am from Iran." So. We had us a Mexican on our hands.
"Let us please now to introduce ourselves to this newcomer," he said, and gestured towards a fat red-haired guy in the corner.
"I'm Bo. I've been here three weeks and my drug of choice is pork rinds."
"Hi, Bo!" Everyone said as one.
"I'm Toby," another guy said. "I've been here seventy-five times and my drug of choice is alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, pills, ecstasy, unprotected sex--"
"Yes, Toby, very good," Dr. Shiznit said. "Next?"
"I'm Ed. Ed Undy." He looked around the room with dead blue eyes, like the eyes of a shark whose eyes were both dead and blue. "I'm here because...Because Mother made me come." He paused. "Mother makes me do things."
"Hi, Ed!"
"Very good, Ed," Dr. Shiznit said. "You're communicating. Next?"
A couple of more feebs introduced themselves and then it was my turn.
"I'm McFab. Randy McFab. Mercenary, private investigator, bean-man at Taco Bell until I was fired without cause. I'm here because the U.S. justice system has been co-opted by liberals and a real patriot can't get a fair shake anymore. Especially when an ostrich is involved."
"Oh, Randy," the doctor laughed, "don't worry about what you've done. Here all are welcome, no matter how sickening or unnatural their crimes may be. Ashalam, my friend."
I didn't bother pointing out that I had plead nolo on the ostrich thing, so technically I wasn't guilty. It was the ashalam bit that had me worried. This Mexican was speaking terrorist.
"Now, " Dr. Shiznit continued, "I would like us please to direct our attentions to today's handout from the 'big book.' " He began passing out papers.
"Woah there buddy," I said. "I ain't no Muslim. I read the Bible, not the Korean."
"Oh, no, Randy. This is not the Holy Koran. It is the 'big book,' the book of Drunks Incognito."
I'd heard of D.I. They went to meetings, talked about God, and tried to interfere with each others' drinking. Not my cup of tea, but at least it wasn't the Korean. I'd play along.
"I will read first, " Dr. Shiznit said. "'Today's reflection: I don't have to puke today...'"

1130 hrs. Room 219.
I had zoned out during most of the "reflection," and went into my backpack for some refreshment to keep me awake.
"Mr. Randy," Shiznit said, "Please to put away the Zima. There is no drinking in group."
No drinking. Where had I seen that rule before? Oh, that's right. The Taliban. I took a long swig of the Zima and tucked it back in my rucksack.
"Thank you Randy. Now, we will each share what is on top of our minds. Any thoughts of using the alcohol or drugs...Randy?"
"I don't do drugs, Ayatollah Touchy-Feely. I'm an American."
"Hey, I'm an American!" Toby said, and slumped over in his chair. "Oh, wait..." he mumbled.
"Alcohol is a drug, " Shiznit said. "And you must accept that you're an alcoholic, Randy."
"How many alcoholics just drink Zima?" I demanded.
"He's got a point, doc," someone piped in. "He might just be a pussy."
"No, no," the doctor laughed. "It doesn't matter what you drink. It is why, and how much. Our friend Mr. McFab is an alcoholic and a pussy."
"No one calls me an alcoholic!" I snarled. If I'd had my urine-filled watergun with me, this raghead doctor would be crying for a pre-moistened towelette right about now.
"Someone needs a hug," Trevor said, but my look put him back in his seat.
"It is okay," Dr. Shiznit said. "Randy is in denial. We can skip your alcoholism for now, until you are ready, in'shallah." He kept sneaking his Muslim talk in there, kind of like...like Osama Bin Laden!
"I see what you're doing, doctor--if you're even really a doctor."
"I am trying to help," Shiznit said, "and no, I am not a real doctor."
"You're trying to prey on these losers and convert them to Muslim. Then you're gonna send them out to do your bidding like trout."
"Like trout, Randy?"
"If you were Aquaman, and they were trout. Yes. Just like that."
"Randy, you are not thinking clearly," Shiznit said. "Aquaman lives in the ocean. Trout are freshwater creatures."
"There's sea trout," I said. "And you know it."
"Aquaman talked to a dog once," someone said. "But the dog was in the ocean at the time, so..."
"Enough about Aquaman! Randy, please..." Shiznit gestured for me to sit back down. "Open your mind, friend. We are only trying to help you with your problems. We are not trying to convert you to anything."
I sat, reluctantly.
"Now," Shiznit said, "what does the Prophet teach us about marijuana?"
I lunged at him, and then everything went black.

2300 hrs. Odd Horizons.
I rolled over, trying to get comfortable. You'd think a padded cell would have more padding.
When I had come to after the injection Shiznit gave me, I'd tried to tell the staff what he was doing to the impressionable feebs under his control. They didn't believe me, and underscored the point by placing me under 72-hour suicide watch. It wasn't me I wanted to kill.
I'd be out eventually, and that terrorist bastard Shiznit would find out what happens when you cross an American mercenary. You get prank calls, that's what. Even late at night.
"Is your refrigerator running?" I whispered into the darkness of my cell.