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Chapter 7: Dick Session
The room was painted in cool, calming blues and greens. Shelves of books wrapped around and where the books allowed, art, plaques and certificates dotted the walls. The air hinted of sandalwood incense. Leafy green plants sat on the floor in three corners. Subtle wire art dangled from the ceiling.
Dr. Timothy Dickman sat in the high backed office chair with his spiral bound notepad. He should have been taking notes on his PearPad but he just couldn't get the hang of it. When he listened he wanted no distraction, no barriers that prevented him from engaging them, hearing them, taking in all the levels of communication that were presented by his patients.
Patients like Samantha Puckett, the young woman seated on his office sofa. Her body language was closed. Legs and arms crossed, eyes down avoiding contact. She was immobile, sullen, sunken into the couch. He reviewed his notes from previous sessions. In terms of transactional analysis she operated out of the child, an angry three or four-year-old was his best guess. Her network of issues included but were not limited to: anger management, low self-esteem, food as comfort, parental neglect/abandonment (the troubled mother remained the father walked out, the notes were not clear at what age). Her last visit here at Troubled Waters was months ago. He looked at the timer on his desk. He had an hour. An hour to make a difference.
"Welcome back," he said to her.
She leveled her morose gaze at him, "Listen Dick, I didn't come back here because I liked it."
His estimation of her was coming back to him. She called him Dick, a truncation of his last name. Like his classmates did in school so long ago. Acerbic commentary was part of her impressive defense mechanisms. Somehow he had failed to record that aspect of their exchanges so he added a notation about her relentless resistance to any kind of authority even authorities that could help her.
"But here you are," he said with sunlight in his voice. She was not here by court order, she had requested an appointment. That spoke volumes. He would not ask why she was here on a school day. He had to be careful about engaging her. Aggression was a powerful mode of expression for her. Much of his job involved negotiation.
"Yeah, here I am. Why does your office always smell?"
"The incense is intended to be calming. Some people I see are tense."
She looked at him tensely, gaging whether he was making fun of her.
"How can I help?" the sunniness in his tone was undimmed.
"I can't pay for this," she stated outright, challenging him to throw her out and confirm her lack of faith in systems and the people who run them. She was aware she needed help but understood the ground she was walking on. She hated rules but she understood them. Dickman remembered how much he came to respect her after only a handful of encounters.
"I'll take my reward in heaven."
"You believe in that?" there was something in her voice that measured him.
"In heaven?"
"Yeah, life after death, that stuff."
"Personally, yes, I do. Are you thinking about death?"
"No, I mean, kind of, but that's not what I'm here for," she shook her head and her golden hair fluffed.
"So what brings you here?"
"The bus."
He smiled. Her wit was sharp. She managed her substantial baggage with aggression, food and her creativity. There was probably a paper in her relationship with food. She had a curious, undeniable nobility.
Without looking at him she said, "OK, I don't want all the questions about my parents and stuff that happened in my past, I mean I need help today," her finger stabbed down. "What happened yesterday doesn't matter."
He smiled at that, "Well, why don't you start by telling me what's on your mind."
She sucked in her lower lip with perfect white teeth. "I got angry." She paused to let that settle in. "The angriest I've ever been. I was afraid I was going to do something bad."
"To yourself?"
"What? No! To someone else. Who hurts themselves if they get mad? That's nuts!" She looked at the door remembering the residents in the rooms down the long, bright hall, "Oh, yeah, sorry."
He shifted in his seat, "When we lash out in anger, even if we direct our anger at someone to hurt them, we ultimately hurt ourselves."
"Like karma."
He cocked an eyebrow, "That's one definition, yes. How do you understand karma?"
She leaned back, clearly pleased at being asked a question that suggested she knew something. "My favorite book, The Return of Boogie Bear, it's written for lots of different readers but what I got out of it was that what you put out there returns to you. You put out good, good comes back, you put out hurt, hurt comes back. That's what the 'Return' means in The Return of Boogie Bear."
"Well put. That's karma all right," he made a note. "So what made you angry?"
Her physical reaction as she summoned up the memory was intense; she made a revolted face like she had bitten into something and then saw it was encysted with undulating worms.
"I don't know how to explain it," she said with disgust.
Dickman said nothing. His pen moved to a kind of starter's position on the spiral pad as if he expected her to continue.
"A bunch of stuff has happened," she continued, she looked around the room, her eyes coming to rest on a thick green plant growing very slowly in the corner. "You remember why I came here?"
"Yes, you found yourself attracted to a longtime acquaintance."
"Yeah, a longtime acquaintance—Freddie Benson, a guy I thought I hated."
"So what happened with that?"
She brightened, "You didn't hear? He came here and got me."
He was tempted to joke about a white horse but knew that joking with her was not part of an effective therapeutic approach. Her return meant she trusted him; he could not jeopardize that trust.
"I didn't hear. What happened?"
Something seemed to descend on her or maybe surface out of her, it reminded him of an agnostic whose prayers had been answered, "He… he came here to get me out so we could do the show. But when I couldn't leave he brought the show out here. Freddie's smart like that."
"The show?"
"iCarly, the web show we do. Real popular with kids and even old people like you."
"Oh yes, that's right, I did go out and watch it. Very energetic." Dickman had watched the show but found most of the humor to be adolescent and predictable. Much of it seemed focused on humiliation of one form or another. A series of journal articles could be authored on the "Gibby" character. "So he came out for the show?"
"No," her tone was corrective, like a teacher showing an errant pupil the right answer, "He came out for me, he and Carly because they were worried about me."
"Sounds like you have good friends."
"The best," her mood heightened visibly as she said it. "So we're doing the show and Carly has the viewers chat in," she stopped, apparently recalling it. Dickman noted that her arms unfolded and legs uncrossed. "She asked our fans if they wanted me and Freddie to date."
Dickman suppressed his appalled reaction to the idea.
"I'm like, 'It's crazy, I'm crazy, no way, you know?"
Dickman nodded, he was still trying to get his mind around the implications of social networking in the Internet age.
"I was really fighting it. It was the usual stuff, part of me was irritated by Freddie, his niceness, his good looks, his brains, but some other Sam, some nutty chick in the same shoes has always wanted him to pay attention to me. That chick was really trying to take over."
Dickman's pen moved on the pad with a scratchy sound.
"So then Freddie says that no has asked him how he feels, so I get ready, right? He's gonna lay the smackdown on me, I mean, I've done stuff to him, treated him bad for years. Geez, I've done things that were funny but were definitely harsh, sometimes I wince when I think about what I did to him. But Freddie he, what he did…" She stopped and the room flooded with silence as the memory seemed to carry her away.
"Tell me about what he did," Dickman suggested.
She tensed, something about the memory had enormous power, "No one has ever done that, in my life people don't come for you. They…He…, what he did…it was..." she went silent.
"You didn't like it?" he baited her out.
"Are you nuts? I was in the middle of telling him to let me have it, I deserved it, I expected this was gonna be payback, and he, that dork, he…" her lip was trembling, she was on the verge of tears but offering her the tissues early would shut her down. She was highly resistant to crying, to displays of emotion other than anger. They were things she desperately needed but rejected because of her mother's abuse of healthy affection patterns.
"What did he do?"
"He kissed me," she paused, there was a wonder on her face, as if she had looked into the eyes of something angelic on the other side of the stars. "The kiss at the lock-in, that was me, I did that. He didn't kiss me back, he just froze. I figured he hated me, that I had thrown a bearing for even doing it so I came here. But his kiss, when he kissed me that night. It was.."
She froze. The light in her expression was almost tangible.
"It was what?"
"Amazing," her voice was soft like a child's prayer. "I've never felt… he, Freddie was my first kiss, and that was something, but this, I didn't know it could be like that."
"Like what?"
She looked away her joy dissolving as if a wave of shame were rolling over her. "That a kiss could make you feel…safe," and she squinted back tears. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. She knew she was crying but he couldn't acknowledge the tears yet. That would shut her down. Without looking he made a note.
"So, what happened after that?"
"That's what I said to him, I said, 'so now what?' So, we started dating, you know, like normal people."
He grinned, but did not challenge her to define "normal."
"Tell me about dating, about getting together with your friend, Freddie."
She hunched over as if the floor had suddenly become remarkable. She was concentrating, swimming in a sea of thought. "It was like looking in some place you've never been before. I mean, Freddie is nice, he's an effin' genius, and good looking even though he doesn't know it." She played with the nail on her right thumb. "He's like Christmas. This big thing you know is gonna happen if you just wait, he's got a future. I'm not dumb, the world belongs to buttholes, beauties, ballplayers and brains like Freddie. Looks and brains—he is gonna take off, and here he was doing this thing that he had no reason to do, he was caring about me and I didn't deserve it. I was so mean to him all the time. He's like that. He's this great guy. I don't know how he does it, why he does it."
"Sounds like he cares about you."
She released an ungraceful snort, "Yeah, right. Not me, I know who I am and what I am."
"Which is what?"
"Trouble. Too much trouble."
"Freddie sees something else, it appears."
She shook her head as if to repel the notion, "Nah, he was just trying to help me out. He does the right thing."
Dickman glanced at the timer. He shifted his focus back to her, "Sam, boys don't kiss girls to help them out."
"Freddie isn't like other boys. He's not… he's not like any boy I've ever known. He's…different. He has to do the right thing."
"Yes, I remember that aspect from a previous session. He seems impossibly altruistic."
Sam slitted her gaze like some apex predator defending her nest, the only thing missing was a growl, "Freddie's the real deal, Dick. I don't think there's anyone else like him anywhere."
Dickman scribbled a note about her defensive reaction as silence settled again like a low hanging fog.
Aware of the time, Dickman pressed her, "What happened after you started dating?"
"It was bad and it was good." We fought about everything. About my helping him, about his being cheap, about whose mom is freakier, you know, stuff. We were awkward together. We'd spent years being mean to each other, we weren't so good at being nice to each other."
"That sounds like the bad, what was good?"
She smiled, "A lot. More than I ever thought. I always have fun with Freddie. He makes me laugh, he calls me on stuff. He knows how I am but he hangs, he treats me better than… better than I treat him. It's like he sees me as I am, accepts it, but makes me want to be better. Sometimes I think he sees somebody that I could be, somebody that isn't there yet. Crazy right?"
"Not at all."
"Anyway he makes me try; I don't know how to explain it. He, he's my best guy friend. He was, anyway," her jaw cocked into a hard frown.
"Something changed?"
"We broke up."
"Why?"
She exhaled powerfully making a gale wind sound as her head tipped onto the sofa back. She said nothing just looking up at the ceiling. She appeared to be wrestling something inside.
He waited.
Silence.
Finally, he risked pushing her, "Why did you and Freddie break-up, Sam?"
Her voice was small, a little girl caught doing something forbidden. "I did something."
He nodded thoughtfully; when he spoke his kindness seemed to surround her like a warm blanket, "What was that?"
She sat up. "I did one of those stupid things that I told myself I'd never do."
Silence.
With the hour slipping away Dickman asked, "What did you do, Sam?"
"Don't look at me like that. I didn't cheat or anything. It was… worse."
Silence.
Then gently, "What exactly did you do?"
"I set a trap."
"A trap?"
"Yeah, you know, one of those things when you talk. You know where you say something to someone because you already know their answer? You say what you say because it makes them say what you want to hear."
If this were a story Dickman could go back and read that again, but it wasn't so he had to get her to explain more clearly.
"What was the trap? What did you say?"
"Garrrgh!" Sam burst off the sofa and seemed poised to storm out, and then she halted, closed her eyes and dropped back on the sofa.
"Stupid. So stupid," she groaned. "Okay, we overheard our friend Carly talking to her brother about this girl he was dating and Carly was explaining what a good relationship is, and how they didn't have one. That they were trying to take some connection they had and make it into a boyfriend/girlfriend thing."
"I don't see the trap."
"I'm GETTING to it!" she snarled. "So, me and Freddie get on the elevator and I stop it. We'd been kinda trying to get into each other's hobbies and interests and that wasn't working out so good. When we heard Carly's speech we both thought maybe that's us. I wanted to hear him say that we were okay."
"Did he?"
"Kinda, he said, 'She wasn't talking about us,' and I pushed it, I asked if we were taking our connection and making it into something more. I don't remember everything we said, but at some point I said it." She looked into the upper corner of the room then down, her lips a tight line, her small body drawing itself taut as her legs came up and she sat in a ball. He noted the fetal position.
Dickman waited, watched her fidget and rock on the sofa. She found some stain on the sofa cushion and scratched at it, rubbing it aggressively.
"God! That's so stupid! Why did I do it?"
"Sam, what did you say?"
Teeth clenched she spoke, "I said to Freddie:
"I don't know if we click—in that way."
And she erupted upward off the sofa again, "Aaaaaah! Stupid words!"
Dickman watched as the rage ripped across her like a storm front. After a moment she seemed to contract again and settle back on the sofa.
"What was so stupid?" he asked.
"The trap, the test! It was a dumb test! I was sure after all that time, all the stuff we'd made it through that he and I were in the same place, that he'd fight me, tell me I was wrong. I wanted him to come after me. To argue with me, to fight me but he just leaned there. I couldn't believe it."
She kicked her legs out off the sofa, seeming to stare at the inordinately thick heels, "When I asked if we 'just broke up' he was supposed to say, her voice became calm and very logical, 'no Sam, that's crazy, you and I, we've got problems but I like what we are, what we've become,'" Her voice switched, then I'd say, "'me too,' I'm glad I kissed you at the lock-in.'"
"But he didn't respond the way you hoped."
"No."
"What did he do when you asked if you just broke up?"
"He said, 'Sounds like it.'"
"Dork! Stupid dork. Stupid, stupid geeky dork!"
"He asked me if it was mutual. NO! It wasn't dork weed!" she seemed to be shouting at a Freddie only she could see.
"You wanted him to pursue you, as he had done before when he came after you here."
"But he didn't. He didn't come after me this time. He didn't stand up and fight for it. For us. Why didn't he fight for us?"
Then she added, "Why didn't he fight for me?" and her voice was barely above a whisper as she said it.
"So when he asked if it was mutual what was I supposed to say? I agreed it was mutual, when it wasn't."
"Why didn't you tell him it wasn't mutual?"
The look coming out of her eyes was hot and cutting, "Because I got it. I know why he didn't fight. Why he stopped. She looked at her fingernails, "I can think of about a gajillion reasons he wouldn't want to be with me."
"Forget about all the arguments we had since we started dating, (whose Mom is craziest, how much cheese I put on my lasagna,) and stuff that went wrong, like how I took him to see Uncle Carmine in prison who threatened to stab him. Forget how I got him kicked out of his geeky train club, and NERD camp. I know he's mad about NERD camp no matter what Carly says. Why would he stick with me? I'm too much work."
Dickman was silent.
"Then, as we walked out of the elevator, you know what he did?"
Dickman shook his head.
"He told me he loved me. What was up with that? Why would he do that?"
"Perhaps that's how he feels."
She rolled over that statement if she heard it at all, "Y'know what was jank? I told him I loved him too."
"Do you?"
"Yeah," she said it with a pouted lip.
"I love him. I'm pretty sure I got it bad. That's the only thing that can explain how I feel."
"Which is what?"
"Sad, busted up, like I lost something important, something that I…need."
She let out a nervous laugh, "Okay, that wasn't the end. After we broke up then we made out like rabbits in the elevator for a couple of hours—we said we'd break up at midnight but we stayed on each other way past midnight. That boy has so much will power. A couple of times I almost said, 'You wanna try again?' or 'do you really wanna break-up?' but I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Pucketts don't beg," she spat. "Besides, he'd just say, 'No.' It was all I could do to kiss him that night at the lock-in. I couldn't have him all up on me in the elevator, ask him, 'Please? For me?' go all Carly on him, and see that look in his eyes when he said yes but didn't mean it. He said our lock-in kiss was intense and fun but he didn't kiss me back that night. I've never forgotten that. In the elevator I made it real clear what I wanted to do, he said, 'No, not here, not like this.' What am I supposed to do with that?"
"I'm not following you. This is after you broke-up? What happened?"
Sam glared at him, "I was doin' stuff, you know, STUFF, to let him know that I wanted to."
"Wanted to…?"
"Do IT! Have sex! God! You're as thick as he is! Geeks! I'm surrounded by geeks!"
"You don't believe he wanted to sleep with you?"
"He didn't! He said, 'not here, not like this, it has to be right.'" She turned away in disgust. Then she growled at him, "What do you think of a guy who won't do it with a girl because the setting isn't right?"
Dickman looked at her over the top of his glasses, "Honestly?"
"Yeah."
"I hope my daughter meets him."
That glib comment seemed to summon the silence again, and Dickman cursed himself. He was aware of how fragile sessions could be that the wrong response from him, even honest ones could hinder progress.
She started again, some deep pressure driving the words out of her, "There's something else. The sex thing. I know people like their lemons, but… I don't want to talk about it. Not right now. Maybe later. Yeah, gonna have to be later."
"Anyway, breaking up has got plusses. I mean, being Freddie's girlfriend was hard. He doesn't lie, steal, or cheat, or do anything wrong. Even his mistakes are sweet. When he makes up for being mean or cheap, he's even sweeter and more generous than usual. Me? I was satisfied when I stopped hitting him in the face."
"You hit him?"
"Yeah, that goes way back. I, I hit him a lot. I like getting a reaction out of him. I want him to know I'm there. I want him…
"To pay attention to you."
Sam paused, "Yeah, I never thought of it that way. It's like the meaner I am to him the more I want him to know I'm feeling something."
Dickman's pen moved across the pad some more.
"Anyway, I think he dated me because he felt sorry for me. I was just one of his sweet mistakes. When I gave him a door, he walked through it, man, I should not have given him the door. I always knew he wanted out."
"You view the break up as a mistake?"
"Maybe. I dunno. My mistakes are tough. Freddie pointed out I could have killed whathisname when I put bees in his car. Even when I want to take care of Freddie I mess it up. What was I thinking when I kissed him that night? I love someone that I'm no good for. I can't throw myself at him. That's Pam's style and I'm not going there. Except I DID go there and that didn't work. Wow. What a loser I am."
Dickman made a note about the mother and wanted to ask about the bees, but saw she was clearly being driven to continue.
"Then, right after we broke up I saw him at the Groovy Smoothie with Janice Bruckner and her shoulder boulders." Sam's face was flushed, her body language a twisting bundle of knots. Dickman anticipated her punching the wall.
"Clearly, the break-up is an unresolved issue for you."
"Ya think? How much did you pay for your doctor paper?" she pointed at the diploma on the wall. "I dunno, we weren't like us when we were together. I can't explain how awkward it was. I just want to go back to the way it was."
"Going back might work in some poorly told story but it's rarely an option in real human relationships. Forward is usually the only available course. So, Freddie rebounded very quickly with this other young woman?"
"Yeah, when I saw them it was like someone was touching my stuff, y'know? For a minute I even thought he lied, that he had her waiting for him, but I know him. He wouldn't do that. I know him. I know him so well it's kinda scary."
"So what did you do?"
"I left before they could see me. I wasn't sure I could stop myself from tearing their heads off."
Dickman rocked back in his chair "You could have made a spectacular bid for his attention. The fact that you chose not to act out is what you should be proudest of. That was your adult taking charge. Brava."
"Whatever."
"So tell me about the sex thing," he said.
Sam's eyes lifted up and locked on his, "What?"
"Earlier you said, he glanced down at his pad, "'The sex thing. People like their lemons, but it's gonna have to be later.' I want to understand how you feel about sex."
"I, I haven't done it yet. Freddie and I did stuff, but not, you know, that."
"But you wanted to."
"Yeah, with him. Only with him. It wasn't like…"
"Like what you've seen with your mother."
She looked at him with the optical equivalent of a punch to the stomach.
"Sam, I know you don't want to talk about the past, but your mother has sent you some messages about sex that need to be sorted out. Sex is a critical part of being human. As I understand it, you offered yourself to Freddie and felt rejected when he declined. Is that accurate?"
"Yeah, I guess, I mean, isn't that what all guys want? To, get, y'know, a piece?"
"I understand how you can come to that conclusion, but in fact, it sounds to me like Freddie is behaving in an exceptionally adult and affectionate manner."
"Yeah, that would be him, Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing," her voice was mildly mocking as she rolled her eyes, but Dickman saw a kind of awe in them as they moved.
"You aren't used to men behaving in that manner, are you?"
She shook her head.
"Your mother has brought lots of men home, hasn't she?"
Her gaze focused hard on the therapist and his eyes held her look.
"Yeah," Sam confirmed, and some rodent thing in her memory scurried into the dark. "A couple of 'em, tried to," she shivered. "Nothing happened, but they, they…"
"Behaved inappropriately where you were concerned."
Sam's eyebrow flicked up and down, "Yeah, inappropriate—nice word. I didn't let anything bad happen with them, but I saw how they were. In most cases Mom gave them what they wanted and then they were gone. Not all of 'em but most."
"That's what you saw at home, your mother would give sex to men and then they would leave?"
"Yeah, 'cause that's how guys are."
"But not Freddie," he added.
She snorted, "Then I have this guy I've known my whole life and I somehow end up dating him, liking him, liking him enough that even if we aren't right together I want to do it with him, and he, he…."
"Rejected you. This boy you care deeply enough to give yourself to told you, 'no.'"
"Yeah, I tried to give him… God, couldn't he see what I wanted… Hell yes, he saw what I wanted but he said, and she altered her voice again to sound cool and logical, 'No, Sam, not here, not like this. It has to be right.' Her voice returned to normal. "Whatever, I know what he was saying."
Dickman looked at her but she wasn't facing him, "Which was what?" he asked.
"Huh?"
"What was he saying by not having sex with you?"
"That what we had, what I thought we had wasn't real. His 'I love you' was different than mine. That I'm just his buddy or something."
Dickman put his hands together and leaned forward. "Sam, listen to what I have to say here. What you feel is totally normal. Sex between consenting adults is natural and wonderful, but it is one of the most complicated experiences for human beings. Be patient with yourself and your friend. Whoever he really is, you clearly respect and care about him, and he seems to have your best interests at heart. Give each other some time to be friends."
"We should just be friends?"
"To start with, yes. There seems to be some chemistry at work here. Who knows where that chemistry will lead? My wife is my best friend in the whole world. Plus your friendship prior to being a couple was, uh, unconventional. You have some ground to cover. Focus on being his friend, and see where things go. One day at a time as our Twelve Step colleagues teach us."
She had a look on her face that someone might judge as hopeful. It wasn't a fireworks exhibition of joy; instead it was a kind of flickering of possibility.
Dickman looked at the timer,"Oh and Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"At some point you are going to have to talk to Freddie."
She made a sour face, "And tell him what?"
"Whatever is on your mind. Don't think about his reaction or worry about the outcome. I suspect there has been a lack of clarity in your relationship with Freddie. The goal here is to make sure you state where you are at."
"But I don't know where I'm at."
"Then he deserves to know that."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
A low, ethereal chime sounded. That was it. They had barely begun. He doubted he had accomplished much. He was used to that feeling.
"That's our time for today," Dickman said, hiding his disappointment.
Sam made a sound that might have been an acknowledgement or just clearing her throat.
He wanted to do more for her, the odds were not in her favor, he made a final appeal to her aggressive side, "Sam, as a fighter you know that you can't waste an advantage. Your biggest advantage is that you are young, you have time to make mistakes and recover."
Maybe Sam heard that. She nodded and it seemed to Dickman that her usual defenses had relaxed. He looked at her. She didn't appear tough, but quite small and fragile.
"If you want to come back I'd love to know how this plays out," he told her.
"Yeah, it took two busses to get out here. I won't be back." Dickman could almost see her walls erect themselves. Sam Puckett was going back outside. She rose off the sofa and headed for the door that Dickman was holding open for her. As she stepped through she stopped and reached her hand behind her without looking. Dickman took her hand and shook it.
"Thanks," she said, not looking at him.
He gave her hand a friendly squeeze, "Live long and prosper, Sam Puckett."
She shook her head, but a smile cracked across her face, "Geeks own the effin' world," she said and walked out into the hall toward the future, shouldering the familiar, heavy weight of all her yesterdays.
Dickman waited as the next patient entered the room. The tall, gaunt figure with wide, dancing eyes took a seat on the sofa placing his hands on his knees and stared straight ahead.
"Hello Caleb," Dickman said opening the fat manila folder.
"Hello Dr. Dickman. You did Mrs. Benson a lot of good just now."
Dickman set the timer and got set for another round of tales from tomorrow.
"I'm surprised Caleb, your memory is usually quite astounding. That former resident's name is not Benson."
"Not yet," said the mental patient who thought he was from the future.
A/N
Chapter eight will be me trying to get behind the eyes of our star crossed couple in the episodes that follow "iLove You." Chapter eight will be delayed as I finish the one-shot for The Cabal's Valentine's Day mass posting on February 11th. As previously noted, many Cabal members will be putting up new material. The working title for mine is: "iValentine Sometime." It's set in the iApuckettlypse future and is a response to those of you who would like to see me write a happy Freddie. It will post on Saturday February 11th in the evening. Some of you will like it, some will say, "WTF?"
Oh yeah, it might be rated M, 'cause it's got some citrus—hey, it's a Valentine story.
Nothin' but love for ya, WK.
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