Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is not mine. I don't own it in any way. So, um... No lawsuits, please.
Author's Note: This lovely idea was previously used by my sister and I in another story (which, sadly, remains unfinished) in which we psychoanalyzed the characters from Phantom of the Opera. So yea, I can take credit, at least partially, for this idea. So there.
And now, let the story begin.
"Dr. Madeleine
Psychologist, Psychiatrist, Pharmacist
Have a problem? We can't fix it.
But we can help.
For a first consultation (relatively free of charge) please call:
1-800-INEEDHELP
Or send us an email at:
drmadeleine(at)icouldn'tthinkofagoodwebsitename.biz
Remember, when you fall down in life, we'll be right there to help you back up.
And to trip you and make you fall again! Hahaha! (Joking)"
- x - x - x -
There was quite a gathering inside the office of Dr. Madeleine. Normally the doctor received little business, but on this blustery winter evening a fairly large crowd had formed inside the waiting room. Where these people could have come from, it was hard to say. To someone who had no taste in movies whatsoever, they were about the dirtiest, meanest, silliest group that could ever exist. However, to us Pirates of the Caribbean-crazed fangirls/boys (Do fanboys even exist? I've always wondered), this was a dream come true. Seated in the waiting room was the cast of Pirates of the Caribbean.
How was this possible? you may ask.
Don't ask questions, I answer.
The room was painfully silent. Not a single word came from anyone, and hardly a sound could be heard. A clock ticked menacingly from its place high on the wall. A phone rang from somewhere inside another room.
"Squawwwk! Thar she blows!"
A parrot screeched.
"Just what I was wonderin', Cotton," a man grumbled angrily. It was Mr. Gibbs, the aging, sideburned drunk who seemed unusually sober.
A few chairs down, a thin, spindly man rubbed his wooden eye and turned to his grumpy-looking friend.
"Wot did 'e say?"
"He said," interrupted our favorite rum-obsessed pirate captain, speaking with a clear tone of annoyance, "he's wondering what we're all doing here."
"Well, that's what I would like to know," growled an angry Will Turner.
"There's probably a good explanation for all of this, I'm sure." Elizabeth was forced to be the rational one. "I mean, there has to be."
"There'd better be." Ex-Commodore Norrington seemed dreadfully unhappy. And not just about having lost his job.
"Oh, there is."
All heads turned to face the new speaker, someone that none of them could recognize. A fairly young woman had entered the room. Looking no more than fifteen years old, she was dressed very nicely in a black skirt and white collared shirt. On her nose rested a pair of glasses giving her a somewhat sophisicated look. Her hair, dirty-blonde in color, was pulled up in a bun, a few thin strands hanging by her cheeks. In her hands was a clipboard, which she held against her chest with one arm while the other hung by her side. She gave the expectant crowd a half-smile, enjoying the confused looks on their faces.
Glancing to her clipboard, she spoke in a very offical, let's-get-down-to-business kind of voice.
"I suppose why you're wondering why I called you all here this evening."
Will nearly exploded. "Did you not just hear our conversation?"
The girl started a bit, her greyish-blue eyes giving the young man a surprised stare. But in an instant her shocked looked turned to anger.
"I've always wanted to be able to say that, so shut your mouth."
Will opened his mouth to argue -
"Shut it!" yelled the girl, pointing at him for dramatic emphasis. Will complied.
"Anyway, let me start by saying that -"
"Ow! Goddammit, Barbossa, could you do something about that bloody monkey!" Jack bellowed as the primate cut short its ripping-out of Jack's hair. The monkey screeched and darted behind the girl's feet.
Barbossa began to reply but was cut short by the girl, now more angry than ever.
"Stop!" she practically shrieked, the monkey clambering up to her shoulder where it chattered and pointed at Jack tauntingly. "Now, if we're through with the interruptions, I -"
"Um, Miss?" An uncomfortable Lord Beckett lifted his hand, preparing to continue with whatever thought he may have had, but was silenced by a bone-chilling death glare from the girl.
"Was there something you wished to say, Mr. Beckett?" she seethed, clutching her clipboard as though prepared to use it as a weapon.
The man shook his head, shrinking back in his chair.
"Now," she went on, now rather flustered, "as I was saying." She paused momentarily, sweeping another room with another frightful stare to prevent any more interruptions. "I believe we can now start our therapy sessions."
"Therapy!" exclaimed a shocked Elizabeth Swann.
"We don't need any bloody therapy!" Captain Sparrow fumed.
"Swab the deck!" screeched Cotton's parrot, also outraged by such an idea.
"Yes," the girl said with a lift of her chin. "Therapy. "Now, I'd like to get started, so if we all could -"
"And who are you," began Lord Beckett sitting up and looking at the girl very snootily, "to decide that we need therapy?"
The girl looked affronted. She blinked once or twice before calmly giving her answer. "I'm Dr. Madeleine, that's who. And when I say you need therapy, you need therapy, COMPRENDE!" Her voice grew gradually louder and louder with each word until she was nearly screaming. "Now, if you would be so kind, Mr. Beckett, as to stop INTERRUPTING ME -" once more her voice grew louder before returning to a more tolerable noise level, "- we can all get through this quickly and painlessly."
Madeleine glanced around the room, pleased to hear only silence save for the monotonous ticking of the clock.
"Now that we're all on the same page, I would like to call in my first victim - Er, I mean... Patient. Yes." She stepped backwards, opening a door in the back of the room and motioning inside. "Mr. Cotton, please step into my office."
Mr. Cotton rose from his chair and started towards the open door.
"Good luck, mate," Mr. Gibbs murmured as Cotton disappeared inside the other room.