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Arryn Connolly · (05-17-2014)

Date: 03/05/2014 (DD/MM/YYYY)
Time: 16:57
Location: Dr. Marx’s Office

Dr. Marx certainly lived up to his unconfirmed ancestry; that much was certain. A square, white banner with a crimson fist hung from the wall behind the Lazy Boy recliner he lounged in as patients confided the deepest, darkest thoughts in their heads. He really made himself at home in his office, that much was somehow even more obvious than his Communist leanings. Probably because his “office” was actually the living room of his one story home in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa.

Currently sitting on Dr. Marx’s tacky, floral printed couch pouring his heart all over the floor was redneck and the town’s resident mechanic, Cleetus. His last name isn’t important, just like Dr. Marx’s first name is much of the same.

Cleetus: “I dunno, Doc. I think these sessions is workin’, but then when I get home ‘n I sees her I can’t help m’self.”

Leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the recliner’s footrest, Dr. Marx puts his clipboard up to block his face. Shaking his head, our friendly neighborhood psychiatrist scribbles the words “no progress” on the form in the front of the pile of papers clipped to the board and then lays it down on his lap.

Marx: “I see; I see. Now, has your sister done anything to indicate that your advances are welcome, in any way?”

Cleetus: “Well yeah Doc! All of ‘em!”

Marx (under his breath): “Of course…”

Cleetus: “What was that Doc? Ya know my hearin’ ain’t too good.”

Marx: “Nothing, Cleetus.”

The good doctor looks over at the clock resting on the TV tray right next to his chair to see that this session would finish in under a minute. Sighing, he pushes a few buttons on the bottom of the device and sure enough, the whistling noise of the clock’s alarm penetrates (heyo!) the awkward silence that arose from the reveal of the source of Cleetus’ repeated relapses into incestuous behavior.

Marx: “Time's up! I feel this has been a very, productive, session. Same time next week?”

Cleetus: “Of course Doc.”

Cleetus gets up off the couch and fixes one of the straps on his denim overalls before slinging it back over his left shoulder. He reaches into the front pocket of the overalls (his only clothing, sans his dried mud caked boots) and pulls out a tattered $100 bill. Walking to the door, he drops the note on the armrest of the chair and makes his exit. Once outside on the deck of the house, he bumps shoulders (more accurately: elbow to shoulder) with a woman he’s never seen before: a stranger, new in town likely. The woman, dressed in a black hoodie and a pair of denim shorts that left as much to the imagination as a Michael Bay movie, glares up at the man she ran into. He returns the look, smiling a wide grin that revealed his missing front teeth.

Cleetus: “Well excuse me, little lady.”

Woman: “I’m not your fucking sister, you hillbilly fuck!”

As if her choice in words when dealing with our good friend and recreational (habitual) performer of the incest arts wasn’t enough to display her apparent disdain for him, the borderline shouting way she said the words was loud enough for good ol’ Dr. Marx to hear from inside his house. Cleetus, dejected, continues his walk back to his big ass truck with his head hung low.

The woman on the other hand, allowed her previous scowl to turn into a bright eyed smile as she pushed on the screen ragged screen door that led into Dr. Marx’s humble, propaganda laden abode.

Marx: “Well hello, Mr. and Mrs. – who are you?”

Woman: “Walk in.”

Marx: “Normally, I wouldn’t have an issue with a walk in, but I have patients that have this time reser-“

That’s about the time when this new woman lifts her hand up and points right out the window behind Dr. Marx. He turns his head to look out it, to see Mr. and Mrs. Porter, the scheduled patients for this timeslot, who are currently scrambling for their beaten up minivan. They make it in, running as fast as their fat, stubby little legs can muster and peel out of his driveway and down the street back to their place. A drive that literally took all of fifteen seconds, which the pair watched from Marx’s window. The fact that those two didn’t just walk is part of the reason the couple is as fat as they are.

Woman: “Don’t know about you, but I’m thinking they might’ve cancelled.”

Marx: “Very well; I must warn you however; walk ins cost extra.”

Woman: “I can assure you, money is not an issue, Dr. Marx.”

Marx: “You know my name?”

Woman: “The rude people who decided to cancel at the last second told me.”

Marx: “Well, okay. Can I get your name, y’know, for reference?”

Woman: “Arryn Connolly.”

Dr. Marx takes one of the papers from the bottom of his pile on the board and puts it on the top, scribbling “Erin Conly” on the top of the page. He turns the clipboard around and pushes it his patient’s face.

Marx: “This right?”

Arryn’s eyes scan the two words for half a second, lighting up further in unspoken delight.

Arryn: “Perfect.”

Marx: “Alrighty then. Take a seat over there, and we can start.”

Smiling, she makes her way across the small room and lays down on the couch; resting her head on the arm rest as if it were a pillow.

Arryn: “Can I smoke in here?”

Marx: “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

As if she didn’t hear what he just said, Arryn pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of her shorts and opens it up before taking out one of the remaining three cancer sticks left in it. From there, she drops the box beside her on the couch and pulls a lighter out of her jacket pocket and lights it, placing the flame to the end of the cigarette and putting the other end in her mouth. She takes a long drag and blows the smoke Marx’s way.

Arryn: “Thanks. I’ve been dying for one all day, but the person I’m riding with doesn’t want me smoking in his car.”

Marx: “I said I’d prefer it if you didn’t-“

Arryn: “But you didn’t say no.”

Marx: “Whatever. (After a few seconds of silence) So, tell me a bit about yourself.”

Arryn: “Well, I’m lying on a couch in some rathole town in the Midwest while some overqualified shrink stares at my tits. That’s what I’m doing with my life.”

Marx: “Sarcastic, eh? Looks like I already found the diagnosis: 20 something white girl syndrome. Symptoms include but are not limited to: sarcasm and a generally bitchy attitude, inflated sense of self-worth, the uncanny ability to be 300% done, and also a high statistical probability of suffering from “can’t even” at some point in your life. The quickest, most guaranteed way to fix such a severe issue is a bullet in the brain.”

Arryn: “Noted. Now, as for answering your question seriously; care to be a bit more specific than that? I mean; I doubt you’ll really give a shit if I tell you my favorite color or something equally as fucking irrelevant. Am I right there?”

Marx tilts his head to the side, seemingly in deep thought about this question, before ultimately nodding in agreeance.

Marx: “You aren’t planning on making this a regular thing, I take it?”

Arryn: “Nah. Not staying here too long anyway. Even if I wanted to.”

Marx: “Then no, I don’t need that information. Tell me what made you come in today; what made you feel like you needed serious psychiatric help?”

Arryn: “Well, for starters, I’m a gun toting menace to society. When I’m not that, I fancy scotch and English girls, though I’m too terribly picky about either. And when I’m not either of those; I tend to slip into concentrated thoughts about the universe existing solely in my own head. So, in reality I don’t even know what made me stop here.”

Marx’s smiling, albeit uncaring disposition twists into a wide eyed, shocked glare at his patient.

Arryn: “What?”

Marx: “Gun toting menace to society?”

Arryn: “Uh-huh.”

Marx: “Like a criminal?”

Arryn: “Yes. Gun toting menace to society sounds much cooler though.”

Marx scribbles “nutcase” right under the coincidentally misspelled name of his newest patient before looking back up to see her depositing the ashes of her cigarette right onto his couch.

Marx: “Well, that’s a development.”

Arryn: “It is? Seriously? I figured I was par for the course here, seeing that this is a shrink’s office after all.”

Marx: “I’m a shrink in the Midwest! I deal with people stuck in the closet, depression, and a goddamn Sister fucker!”

Arryn: “Seriously? Wait, was it the guy in the over-“

Marx: “Yes.”

Arryn bursts out into laughter for a few brief moments before choking on the smoke from her cigarette and commencing a wicked coughing fit. After settling down a bit, she takes a deep breath and looks over at Marx, who’s currently scribbling something on the piece of paper.

Arryn: “So, onto the whole gun toting menace to society thing?”

Marx: “Sure.”

His face tells the whole story: his expression practically screams the phrase "I'm going to regret this," over and over again as he tries to cover up all visible signs of his anxiety. Putting it bluntly, it isn't going so well for him.

Arryn: “Well, let me tell you a little story about my first robbery; the statute of limitations has passed by I think, so it isn’t like you can turn me in for it or anything.”

And thus began the recounting of this not so epic tale of friendship, overcoming the odds, and the very high probability of someone getting shot in the ass.

Literally.

Full on bullet to asscheek action.

But that's a tale for a time that isn't right now! Tune in next time; same time (not really), same channel (possibly)!

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Those Who Don't Learn From History... (Part One: Shrink Wrapped) (RP 1)
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