Your challenge is to write crossover fanfiction combining Fraiser and Scooby Doo. The story should use alcoholism as a plot device!
At least he'd gotten him over his eating disorder, Fraiser reminded himself as he flipped through his notes. He still couldn't believe no one had turned the man in sooner; he hadn't had a proper adress in eight years, he'd been at the scene of numerous pety crimes, he once told an entire village he'd turned into a werewolf, and now he thought his dog was talking to him. That had been the straw that had broken the camel's back - and his friends' patience.
"So, when did your dog-" Fraiser began, before the young man sitting across from him interupted.
"Scooby Doo." Mr. Rogers corrected.
"Yes, Scooby Doo. When did he begin talking to you?" Fraiser asked.
"Why, he's been talkin' to me for years, man. Since we were little! He was jus' a pup and I was jus' a baby!" Rogers exclaimed, stroking his goatee as fond memories rushed back to him.
"And how old are you, Mr. Rogers?" Fraiser's voice was calm and slightly warm, as usual. He was so very glad this young man's friends had finally sought help for him.
"Like, 24 man."
"Yes, and how old is Scooby Doo?" Often, simple logic questions like this would snap the patient out of it, make them realize their flawed logic.
"Like, 24, I guess. I don't know, man." Rogers shrugged his shoulders; he didn't seem to see anything unusual about his dog's age.
"And that's very, very old for a dog, especially a big one like Scooby. Your friend, Mr. Jones, said you found the dog three years ago. Is that true?" The doctor asked as he crossed one leg over the other, absent mindedly fixing the cuff of his pants.
"No man, it isn't true. I've had that dog like, forever." Rogers grumbled.
"I see. Your friend also says you've been drinking lately?" Fraiser offered kindly.
"Just a little, man. Just a little. Like, one, two beers a night."
"No more than that?"
"No, man, no."
"You're sure?"
"No, maybe a bit more, when Scooby's really, like, talkative."
"So, Scooby drinks with you?" Fraiser raised an eyebrow. This wasn't the first "talking pet" he'd dealt with, and certainly not the most bizarre. He'd once dealt with a teenage boy who brought in a shark. But, the cases always got to him. He sometimes wondered what made a person act like this, behave so irrationally.
"No, never. Dogs don't drink, man. Ain't healthy for 'em."
"Good, good. Why do you drink, Norville?" Fraiser asked.
"Call me Shaggy, okay?" Rogers barked back.
"Alright, 'Shaggy'."
"But I drink, because when I drink, Scooby talks so much more, man. And he's so funny! Zoinks, the other day, he said this-"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers, I really am. But we're out of time. Have Freddy and Velma bring you back here this time next week, okay?" Fraiser said politely. He was glad the session was over; Mr. Rogers made him nervous, especially once he learned about his uncle's mysterious death. The doctor stood and waited for his patient to do the same before fatherly wrapping his arm around the boy's skinny neck and escorting him out.
The man's friends were still in the waiting room, as always. The pretty girl - he hadn't gotten her name - escorted Rogers out of the building, walking him to their spastically painted van, while the other two waited to talk to him out of earshot.
"Do you think he'll be alright, Doctor?" Dinkley asked.
"Well, I think so. Are you sure you can't get rid of the dog? That might help him." Fraiser sighed.
"We can't get rid of it, man. It's his life." Jones barked.
"Alright, alright. Just make sure he takes his pills and no more adventures, okay?"
"Jenkies, mister. I don't know if we can do that! Adventures always find us!" The girl shouted.
"Well, just try not letting them, okay?" Fraiser said calmly as the two youngsters left. One day, he was sure that they'd all be on the news. Probably for killing someone. He just hoped it wouldn't be him.