Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

Spoilers: If you don't know the potential spoilers yet, go back to the prologue and read them six or seven times. 'Kay? Good.

Warnings and Pairings: Eh, general warning for continued insanity and scary therapists. A brief bit or two can be interpreted as leaning toward slight Candy/Carrion if you wish.

Notes: A thousand apologies for my laziness! I humbly bow to all of you who continue to follow CCTA. Your patience is far greater than my own, I believe. Hopefully you'll have fun with this (finally!) update. I know our dear Carrion will, seeing as I did anger management research especially for him. (snigger) The websites which I have pulled quotes from are listed in my bio, to give credit where credit is due. And I later realized that I inadvertently implied that the writers of these articles are insane. I mean no offense!

This Chapter Dedicated To…everyone who's kept reading and reviewing, but especially to Kendra Martin for making me feel simultaneously very very guilty and very very flattered. Thanks to her for finally getting me motivated again. Enjoy, my friends!


Chapter Six: In Which Carrion has Issues with Anger and Ink

Journal Entry Seven: Day 10

Despite having only two and a half days to prepare for That Idiot's arrival, I have compiled my notes and ideas into a viable – in fact, brilliant – plan of attack. The Girl and That Idiot won't know what hit them.

As much as it would be appropriate to gloat for a while over this accomplishment, the one key element of my plot must first be achieved. It will be a most loathsome and debasing process, but a key one nonetheless. Fate is a cruel thing, one which often laughs in the faces of mere mortals…

-.-.-.-

Christopher Carrion stared at the words, dark ink stark against pale paper, and grimaced. Having it down in writing brought home the realization that he really was stooping lower than he had in a long time – perhaps ever – for help. Deciding that it could be put off no longer, Carrion shut the journal, set it aside, and stood. He stalked over to the couch, trying to retain as much dignity as possible, and said in commanding tones, "Cat."

The kitten looked up from its place on the arm of the couch (where it was having its early afternoon wash) with a quizzical expression.

"I understand perfectly that you were put here in order to either murder me or drive me insane," Carrion stated in his best superior and intimidating royalty voice, something every ruler cultivated. "I hope you understand equally clearly that I only refrain from killing you in order to preserve my life and sanity. However, it has become apparent to me that the insane therapist is a greater threat to both of us. In light of this shared danger, I wish to propose a temporary alliance, the terms of which are as follows: on every fifth day, during the duration of Friendly's presence here, neither of us will attempt to harm the other. Instead, we will work – together," he managed to choke out, "to drive away That Idiot, or at least prevent him from attacking either of us, and protect each other from his dire influence." Carrion paused to see if the kitten followed this. "What say you?"

-.-.-.-

The kitten, frankly, was amazed. Only twice before had he heard Snarl speak for so long. The first time had been after he'd eaten that delicious fruit, and the second after the Nice Girl had brought in the water and nasty-smelling liquid and stuff to clean away Leech's ink. (He still felt pretty bad about causing so much work for Snarl, but when he'd tried to help out Snarl had gotten even more upset.) On both occasions, Snarl had been particularly enraged, but now his tone, though stiffly formal, was civil.

Through his understandable surprise, the kitten focused on Snarl's speech with single-minded intensity. Luckily for him, Snarl had recently begun muttering aloud to himself when distracted, and careful study of these slip-ups allowed the tarrie-kit to interpret much of what Snarl said now.

After giving up on the long, complicated words and listening instead for the ones he knew and the nuances to Snarl's voice, the meaning of it all was so simple and un-Snarl-like that the kit was dumbstruck.

It was a message he'd often seen exchanged between his siblings when they were all younger – basically, I know we fought and I really don't wanna embarrass myself by asking for your help, but sister's annoying us both and I think we should team up for a little while to get back at her.

So stunned was the kit by this sudden understanding of Snarl on the same level as his brothers and sisters that he almost missed the cue for his response. Snarl had gone quiet, a tense, expectant set to his shoulders, and the kit knew he was waiting for an answer.

-.-.-.-

To Carrion's utter surprise, the tarrie let out a loud, pleased purr. It looked almost…thrilled. Carrion deftly sidestepped both the possible implications of this reaction and the sudden thought that he was talking to That cursed Thing like it understood again, and instead nodded sharply before launching into a succinct explanation of what the cat was supposed to do today – mostly, stay out of the way unless cued. There was some extra stuff too, but nothing complicated. The complicated stuff would come when and if Carrion was certain he could rely on the animal to carry out orders.

The kitten listened avidly, and, as the Lord of Midnight concluded the brief outline of his plot, he wondered whether it could understand after all.

…And if it could, Lordy Lou was that Friendly in for a shock!

He smirked at the thought, and man and tarrie exchanged smugly confident glances. With a devious kitten and the Prince of Darkness himself working in tandem, what could stand in their way?

Someone knocked on the door. Their enemy had arrived.

Carrion and the cat stalked into the kitchen to meet him.

-.-.-.-

Candy ran into the station behind the kitchen mirror. "Haven't missed anything, have I?"

"No. Doctor Friendly has yet to arrive," Jimothi answered.

"Are Malingo and Deaux-Deaux coming over?" she asked, settling down between Jimothi and Finnegan (who was also there to watch the entertainment).

"Of course! Too bad we couldn't convince Geneva and Mischief to come along. Wouldn't miss this for all the Abarat!" a cheerful voice replied – Deaux-Deaux, followed by Malingo.

"Although you missed something very interesting," the geshrat added. At three questioning looks from his friends, he obligingly elaborated. "Well you remember Deaux-Deaux and I were scheduled to keep an eye on our guest at the living room station this morning, and we saw something very - unusual."

"Do tell," Finnegan drawled.

Malingo grinned. "The former Prince of Midnight was talking to the cat."

Three identical expressions of disbelief spread across the faces of Candy, Jimothi, and Hob. Deaux-Deaux and Malingo exchanged smug looks. It had quickly become a common pastime for all those involved with Carrion's "rehabilitation" to exchange the latest tales of Carrion's trials. After the first few days, a prize system had been set up for awarding the most interesting anecdotes. (This was the reason why nobody wanted to take shifts behind the bedroom mirror; all the interesting stuff happened in the kitchen or living room.) Anyway, if it weren't for the fact that the therapist might provide even more amusing stories, the geshrat and the Sea-Skipper were certain they'd have easily had the best one of the day.

"You're joking," Finnegan insisted,

"Not at all," Deaux-Deaux retorted. "He stood there and talked at it, waited for it to respond, and kept talking! Like they were having a conversation!"

While the four male occupants of the room discussed this strange, inexplicable phenomenon, Candy smiled quietly to herself. Maybe her rehab plan could work after all…

Then they faintly heard a knock on the door to Carrion's quarters, and all five of them quickly turned to the kitchen mirror in eager anticipation of the entertainment sure to come.

-.-.-.-

Carrion stalked imperiously into the hall, signaling to the kitten with the flick of a wrist that it was to remain in the kitchen for the moment. He waited for the knock to sound again before calling out boredly, "Enter."

The door swung open and Carrion had to resist the impulse to shade his eyes against the neon brightness of Friendly's grin. The therapist looked just the same as he had during their first encounter, although this time he wore a shirt of cheerful, sunny yellow, and it immediately put Carrion in a vindictive mood. He hated cheerful, sunny yellow.

"Good afternoon, Mister Carrion!" Friendly said brightly.

"It is certainly not 'good' as long as I am cursed by your presence," Carrion responded politely. "Additionally, I believe we have already discussed the fact that you may not, under any circumstances, refer to me as 'Mister' Carrion."

"Christopher it is then!" Friendly said cheerfully, sounding thrilled. "Or perhaps Chris? And you, of course, may call me Barney. I do cherish being on first-names terms with my patients! Otherwise it's so horribly formal and just not friendly at-"

"Absolutely not," Carrion growled, the use of his first name effectively ruining his calm exterior. A sharp movement of one hand beckoned the tarrie. He couldn't afford to be caught up in fury just yet, and needed a distraction to compose himself.

-.-.-.-

The kitten trotted innocently into the hall at Snarl's summons, wearing the sweet and adorable oh-I'm-so-irresistibly-small-and-cute-and-helpless look used by young animals everywhere to get their way or disarm their enemies.

He heard Leech squeal with joy and cringed. Ooh, Snarl had better be able to pull off his plan or-

His thoughts (and air) were cut off when Leech swept him into a crushing embrace. Horror threatened to overwhelm him, but he clung to the memory of Snarl's earlier crisp, calm tones until he was back in Devious Revenge Mode instead of Total Panic Mode. He twisted his neck painfully around till he could see Snarl. The man nodded.

The kitten smirked back, then followed Snarl's previously issued instructions and went into Fake Total Panic Mode. First, he let out a shrill, piercing yowl. Leech's grip loosened in surprise, and the kitten began clawing, biting, yowling, and writhing like an eel simultaneously.

It was a great deal of fun.

Leech yelped in shocked pain and dropped him, and the tarrie galloped across the hall to hide behind Snarl. Leech looked sadly at his bleeding hands, and Snarl gave him a smug nod of approval. The kitten's chest swelled with pride.

-.-.-.-

A sense of triumph soothed Carrion's fury to a manageable level, and he eyed the therapist's bloody hands with a certain sadistic pleasure, considering it payment for the raw condition of his own hands after a good hour or more spent scrubbing that thrice-cursed ink away.

"Dear me," Carrion murmured, not bothering to hide a smirk. "It seems That Thing has no interest in your fawning attention. Perhaps we should adjourn to the kitchen?"

That said, Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc., reached down, picked up the kitten by the scruff of its neck, settled it in the crook of his arm, and walked – almost strolled – into the kitchen.

He tapped twice on the mirror above the sink as Friendly followed dejectedly, nursing his injuries, and suggested imperiously, "You may wish to send the vet down. My esteemed guests have had a small altercation." Carrion turned away from the mirror to indulge in a moment of smug satisfaction, then walked over to sit at the table. He'd moved the chairs earlier into strategic positions opposite each other: one faced the hall, the other faced the mirror. He sat in the chair facing the mirror and set the kitten down on the floor. It sat out of sight under the table to fastidiously lick the blood from its claws, ready and waiting for its next cue. (Carrion knew it was a risk, giving them a view of his face instead of merely the back of his head, but having Friendly's back to the mirror was more important.) The shell-shocked therapist took the other seat absently, still staring in disbelief at the injuries caused by the fuzzy li'l kitty.

Carrion glanced at the floor, meeting the tarrie's amber eyes, and the allies nodded at each other.

Thus far, all was going according to plan.

-.-.-.-

Behind the mirror, there was an atmosphere of lingering surprise. Because there wasn't a wall dividing the kitchen from the hall, the group had been awarded a perfect view of the dramatic battle between the kitten and the therapist. (Little did they realize that Carrion had studied the line of sight from the mirror just to make sure they would, and had accordingly set the stage to get Friendly in the best possible viewing position.)

"The kitten attacked the therapist…" Jimothi said bemusedly, unaware that his young charge could be so vicious without apparent provocation.

"…But it let Carrion pick it up," Deaux-Deaux finished, sounding incredulous. "And hold it!"

Malingo shook his head wordlessly, and Finnegan looked stunned into silent immobility. Even Candy was clearly surprised, though she was the only one who was smiling.

"Guess we'd better call Tev up here before Doctor Friendly loses too much blood," she said lightly, pressing a blue button on the small console under the mirror, and nodded to herself.

Thus far, all was going according to plan.

-.-.-.-

It was silent in the kitchen.

Carrion counted the passing seconds absently. Even he hadn't anticipated the complete lack of response from Friendly. The man looked forlorn, betrayed… It was a sight far more disgusting than a plate of crickets, but it meant that Carrion had guessed even more accurately than he'd hoped. The kitten could easily be the therapist's weakest spot.

The Prince of Darkness allowed himself the time to gloat inwardly, but it was a cautious gloating. Carrion had learned early on that sensible people don't gloat until all is said and done, for even the most perfect plans (read: even Carrion's plans) can't take into account every possibility and can end up hinging on the least-suspected, most trivial detail.

"How are you feeling, hm?" he asked in falsely solicitous tones, finally breaking the silence.

Friendly heaved a despondent sigh.

Carrion quirked an eyebrow and gave up on getting a response from the therapist. He was rescued from potential boredom by a brisk rap on the door. Carrion and the cat exchanged knowing looks. Both of them had become expert at identifying visitors by the knock, and this was Tev's. Carrion nodded slightly and the kitten trotted happily off to greet the vet, who strode into the kitchen a moment later.

"Afternoon, vet," Carrion drawled without turning. In light of his first triumph since being locked up after the war, he was feeling almost – well – friendly. Carrion smirked.

"Afternoon," Tev replied without missing a beat, pausing a few feet from the table and narrowing his eyes first at the therapist's bloody hands, then at Carrion (who held up blameless scratch-free ones), and finally at the smug-looking kitten. "Well, that's new," he muttered with an inquiring glance at Carrion (prompting an innocent shrug which Tev scoffed disbelievingly at) before turning to address Friendly in his typical brusque manner. "What'd you do to the kit?"

Tev's direct nature finally did the trick and produced a response.

"I did nothing!" the therapist whispered brokenly, staring at his hands in something liked pained disbelief. (Carrion wondered with a detached curiosity whether he was coming out of a state of real shock.) "I merely…greeted him."

Here the tarrie interjected with a sarcastic mew.

Tev turned a disapproving look on him. "Be polite." The disapproving look shifted to Carrion. "You're rubbing off on him. He's an impressionable young kit and you oughta watch your behavior more carefully."

Carrion pasted an expression of bemused how-could-you-possibly-accuse-me innocence on his face. Tev rolled his dark eyes in an expressive response to the idea that the Lord of Midnight could be innocent, controlling a sudden urge to laugh as he stooped to give the tarrie a quick examination. For, though he almost certainly didn't realize it, Carrion's newly minted innocent look was a close imitation of the kitten's.

"Now then," the vet continued, patting the cat on the head and standing upright, "how deep are those scratches, Doctor?"

"Very deep," Friendly murmured despairingly, staring at his hands in something like aggrieved incredulity. "The wounds on my heart may bleed eternally."

Tev pursed his lips, looking mildly annoyed. Needless theatrics grated on his practical nature as much as they did Carrion's unsympathetic one. "I mean your injured hands, Doctor, not your injured feelings. There's no need for such melodrama." To himself, he muttered, "Yet another reason why I am a doctor of animals and not people."

Friendly was still staring blankly, but at least now he was staring blankly in Tev's general direction. The vet heaved an exasperated sigh, plunked his worn brown case down on the table, and pulled out the supplies Carrion had become all too familiar with – soap, bandages, towel, and antiseptic cream. He and the kitten settled back to watch the show while the vet tried to clean and bandage the therapist's injuries. (This was somewhat difficult, as Friendly came to life at the first contact of water on skin and immediately began dancing and wriggling with pain, his erratic movements punctuated with exclamations such as "ooh" and "eep" and "ack.")

It was with a look of distaste that Tev none-too-gently shoved the shorter man into his chair and began swiftly applying cream and bandages to the (lightly) wounded hands. The entire process done in less than three minutes, Tev quickly packed up, snapped his case shut, and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and faced Carrion.

"I don't like to say it – Hereafter only knows your ego doesn't need inflating – but quite frankly I much prefer you as a patient if I must treat humans than that idiot. You, at least, remain silent."

"I am flattered," Carrion replied, only the barest hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "Unless it's really only because I'm the one you can blackmail? Yes, I am touched."

This time a quiet huff of laughter escaped the vet. "Don't let it go to your head," he retorted with an almost-smile, then rubbed the tarrie behind the ears and strode out the door.

-.-.-.-

"Are you…certain that this therapist has the…well, credentials and experience to handle Carrion?" Jimothi asked Candy hesitantly.

"Trust me," the girl responded, the picture of bland innocence, "he's just what our guest needs."

Jimothi sighed and murmured under his breath, "Perhaps. Though I notice you didn't actually answer my question.

Candy favored him with an oddly Carrion-esque smile and remained silent.

-.-.-.-

The absence of pain and blood from his hands appeared to have restored Friendly's good humor. Carrion, though disappointed, was unsurprised when the man began to launch into an enthusiastic explanation of the session's activities. The Lord of Gorgossium interrupted almost before he could begin.

"Excuse me," he said smoothly, "but may I get a glass of water?"

So taken aback by Carrion's almost polite tone was the therapist that he merely nodded soundlessly. Carrion stood, nodded slightly to an inquiring look from the kitten, and walked to the sink. As he filled a glass with ice cold water, Friendly began digging through his hideous bag (somehow he'd had the presence of mind to bring it in despite his injuries). Carrion turned off the water, turned around, and turned the glass upside-down over Friendly's head.

"Dear me. My apologies. I tripped," Carrion said, polite tone masking the desire to laugh maniacally at the soaked therapist.

"Oh, it's quite all right," Friendly reassured him, wiping water away from his eyes. "Have you a towel or cloth of some sort?"

"No, I'm afraid not." (The towel Tev had given him over a week ago lay innocently on the bathroom sink.)

The therapist sighed, the kitten smirked, and Carrion refilled his glass.

Once again, he upended it over Friendly's already sopping wet head.

"Dear me. Tripped again," Carrion explained pleasantly.

"Quite all right," the therapist repeated, though he sounded rather unhappy about it this time, and he used the slightly less wet end of his coat to dry his face while Carrion again filled up his glass.

Just as Friendly dropped the corner of his coat, Carrion poured out the water again.

"Goodness. I am clumsy today," he reflected, enjoying himself immensely (and resolutely not thinking about the fact that he'd been reduced to glasses of water after years of magic and nightmares and various other sophisticated tortures).

Friendly muttered something unintelligible under his breath and the Prince of Darkness smirked.

Thrice more Carrion dumped water on the therapist. The kitten, who had to keep shifting out of the way of a growing lake of water, tried desperately not to snicker. Finally it became too much for the therapist to endure.

"Why don't you wait until later to get a drink?" Friendly suggested, staring unhappily at the water dripping from him. "If you trip so easily, you might want to consult a doctor of the physical body as well as one of the mind."

Carrion shrugged and set the glass down, one question (how far will That Idiot let me push him?) answered. "Might as well. I wasn't all that thirsty in the first place."

-.-.-.-

"What in all the Abarat was that?" Deaux-Deaux asked, looking more than a little confused.

"One of the few things he can do without repercussions," Jimothi pointed out.

"His actions don't seem to have a purpose," Finnegan speculated, continuing with a hint of hopefulness to his voice. "Do you think he's finally lost it?"

"No," said Candy decisively. "If he ever actually loses his mind, it'll be a lot more dramatic – and destructive – than pouring water on people."

"Then are you sure it's wise to push him so far?" Malingo asked a little nervously.

"He's resilient," Candy answered. "If he were less adaptive, I'd be worried, but he'll get through this sane – and might even learn something in the process."

"You sound very sure of him," Finnegan commented, voice and expression carefully neutral.

"I am," was all Candy said, just as calmly as the dragon hunter. And they turned back to the mirror.

-.-.-.-

Carrion sat down at the table. For a moment, therapist and patient merely stared at each other. Finally, despite his damp state, Friendly pulled himself together enough to give Carrion one of his trademark neon smiles. Carrion winced.

"Well, let's get on with it, shall we?" the therapist said cheerfully. "I'm beginning to get a very good idea how to help you, but I'm not quite sure of all your needs yet so I thought we might begin where we left off!" He pulled a full ream of paper (miraculously untouched by water) out of the garish bag and set it down on a dry section of the table. It was followed by two full jars of ink, one bright orange and the other pale lilac. "I thought you might like a change of color," Friendly leaned forward to say in a confidential manner, eyes twinkling as he pushed the ink jars to the middle of the table.

Carrion froze at the sight of the paper, but when Friendly brought out the bottles of brilliantly colored ink, something within him twanged like a broken harp string. Images of ink blots, ink spatters, ink paw prints, Commexo Carpet Cleaner, and Candy's grin flashed in rapid succession before his eyes, and were then drowned out by a surge of all the pent-up fury he'd been forced to contain over the past ten days. Before he knew what exactly he was doing, Carrion had leapt up (sending his abused chair floating gracefully into the entrance hall where it crashed less gracefully into the bedroom wall), grabbed the ink bottles in one hand, and thrown them at the opposite wall – all in one smooth, seamless, lightning-fast motion.

The bottles hit the wall above the mirror. Some of the ink flew outward, spattering the sink, counter, floor, and therapist, while the rest poured down the wall and began dripping down the mirror.

-.-.-.-

Behind the mirror, the five observers gaped. Even Candy had not quite anticipated such a violent reaction over two jars of ink.

"You're certain we aren't pushing it?" Malingo asked.

"Well…yes…" Candy's reply was only slightly less sure than it had been several minutes previously.

"I hope so," Jimothi murmured, casting an anxious eye about for a sight of the kitten as streaks of orange and lilac painted thin bars on the mirror.

-.-.-.-

The scene in the kitchen was a frozen one. Friendly's brown eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. Carrion was standing, still as a statue but for shoulders trembling faintly from a mix of remaining adrenaline, anger, and slight shock. He was also trying to puzzle out how this minor act of violence would affect his plans and where exactly his chair was.

After a few minutes, the kitten dared to let out a quiet, plaintive mew to ask if everything was all right. Carrion unconsciously nodded a yes. If he'd realized he'd not only understood the cat, but responded as well, he would've been appalled.

Luckily, he was distracted by sudden comprehension of the probable location of his chair. Carrion mechanically walked over, picked it up, and returned it to its place at the table. It wasn't broken – an astonishing feat for a chair that had been thrown about all over the kitchen and now the hall as well. He sat reluctantly back down, and this seemed to bring Friendly back to life.

He took out his notepad and, after a moment of rapid scribbling, said quietly and seriously, "Mister Carrion, I am sorry to inform you that you appear to suffer from serious anger management issues."

It took all of Christopher Carrion's considerable strength of will not to drop his head into his hands and let out a long, loud groan. His nerves were shot, his plan was shot… But no. He was Gorgossium's ruler and heir of Midnight and he was not about to allow The Girl and That Idiot to humiliate him or keep him from his rightful place. (It did not occur to him that he'd forgotten to include That Thing in his list.) So, he responded with merely a dry "Is that so?"

"Indeed it is!" Friendly answered, wide-eyed with the urgent need to help his patient heal. "Excessive, uncontrolled anger is very dangerous to one's physical and mental health. Uncontrolled anger has long-term physical and emotional effects on our body, such as injury, increased adrenalin surges, high blood pressure, and increased heart rate - possibly producing stroke - and heart attacks, in addition to intense guilt, feelings of failure, depression, constant agitation, violent rage, and possibly suicide."

"Is that so?" Carrion repeated with an air of boredom, though inwardly he was on alert. Of course! That Idiot was inadvertently telling him precisely what The Girl and her supporters expected from this torture by animal! Injury, check; constant agitation, check; and violent rage, another check. It was becoming clear now…

"You see, the angry mind is a deluded one," the therapist explained, drawing himself up and entering Patient Teaching Mode. "It exaggerates faults and unpleasant circumstances. One must accept suffering peacefully and patiently, and then unhappy thoughts cannot gain a hold in one's mind! Patience is the key!"

Carrion stared, staggered in spite of himself by this fountain of idiocy. "Anyone who accepts suffering is an imbecile," he retorted, "and I don't think I'll even start on patience."

"But patience prevents anger," Friendly argued. "Being patient means to welcome wholeheartedly whatever arises, having given up the idea that things should be other than what they are. It is always possible to be patient; there is no situation so bad that it cannot be accepted patiently, with an open, accommodating, and peaceful heart."

Carrion paused a moment to thank whatever deity existed that he hadn't actually kept a glass of water to drink. He'd have choked on it. "You're quoting that from someone as insane as you are."

"If we practice the patience of voluntarily accepting suffering, we can maintain a peaceful mind even when experiencing suffering and pain," Friendly continued, ignoring Carrion's unkind (if true) statement.

"Do tell me," Carrion said through gritted teeth, "why I should accept suffering, particularly suffering through confinement with That blasted Thing for another three weeks."

"If it is completely impossible to remedy the situation or to fulfill one's wishes, there is no reason to get upset, for how will becoming unhappy help?" Friendly quoted sagely.

"Being pleased about it won't exactly help either," Carrion growled. It was so annoying how That accursed Idiot could get under his skin so easily without even trying. His plan would be torn to smaller pieces if he lost control of things, and it looked like the session was headed that way.

"Ah, I see now," Friendly said with an air of wisdom, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands benevolently over his slightly pudgy stomach. "You don't believe you are able to control your anger, do you?" he asked, offering his patient a smile of understanding and kindness.

Carrion hissed something luckily unintelligible under his breath, and the therapist now leaned forward again in earnest, speaking out strongly in an effort to make his patient understand – believe – that living without uncontrolled anger was possible!

"You can learn anger management techniques, regardless of the cause of your anger. Admitting the fact that your anger is out-of-control is essential to tackling the problem. Uncontrolled anger results in added troubles to your life. But you can control your anger! Controlling your anger is a choice you can make!"

"Is that so?" the Prince of Darkness (and suffering and anger and impatience) asked scathingly.

"Indeed," the therapist replied with all the fervor of a fanatic. "Anger is a very strong emotion. Uncontrolled anger is a life-long pattern. It is not easy to overcome anger; it requires determined commitment. It requires honesty, courage, and tremendous inner strength. It also requires help from others."

Carrion openly scoffed at that nonsense, but Friendly ignored him and leaned forward over the table. "I can help you, Mister Carrion. I have had other patients like you before and helped them, too! It's a program of four sessions and so will fit easily in the time we have together. What do you think?"

"I think you are the one who is in need of therapy," Carrion bit out. He was trying to listen to That Idiot in order to determine any threats from him while attempting to salvage any remaining possibility of his plot's success. It was giving him a headache.

"The first session – that'll be this one – is quite simple," Friendly explained, ignoring the comment. "Today, we will focus on the identification of the mistaken attitudes and convictions that predispose us to being excessively angry in the first place!"

"I have no mistaken attitudes!" Carrion snarled, and the therapist blinked, somewhat startled by his vehemence.

"I see we'll have to start with the basics," sighed Friendly as he dug haphazardly through his garish bag, pulling out a bright pink piece of paper with bold black words: "Five Steps to Overcome Anger!" He slid the paper across the table to Carrion with a bright smile. "These steps will help you in the individual situations you feel anger, whereas our sessions focus on your entire life!" he explained, sounding very proud of himself. Against his better judgment, Carrion glanced at the list of steps and their descriptions, which made the Lord of Midnight roll his eyes in utter exasperation.

Consciously determine to be calm. As if anyone forced to endure an evil cat, a devious girl, and an insane therapist could! Communicate. With whom about what? If any one of them listened to a thing he said, he'd kiss the kitten. Remove yourself from the scene until you can respond without anger. And how was that possible for him, hm? He hadn't left these four cursed rooms in over a week and won't for another three! Frequently take time for yourself. Hah! Ditto. What was he supposed to do, lock himself in the bathroom for hours on end? Look for the positives.

"Look for the positives!" Carrion barked aloud. He couldn't help it. The list was so ridiculous that this last bit of idiocy was too much. Unfortunately, Friendly interpreted it as an honest question.

"Don't dwell on the negatives. Learn to be forgiving. This is difficult, but we need to start by learning to forgive ourselves! Choose to!" the man chirped, quoting the description of the step from memory.

And that was the final straw for Carrion. Forget the plan. He couldn't stand another second of That Idiot if his life depended on it. "Out," Carrion whispered, quietly but with great force.

"Pardon?"

"Out. Now."

"But I-"

"Get out or your head will go the same way as the ink bottles!" roared Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc.. Even the kitten, with the knowledge that Carrion was furious with Friendly, not him, and wouldn't harm his temporary ally anyway, cowered reflexively under the table.

Friendly stared, gulped, snatched up his bag, and started hurriedly for the door. "Analyze your angry reaction and use the 'Five Steps to Overcome Anger' to plan a way you could have overcome it for our next session – identifying factors from your childhood that prevent the appropriate expression of anger!" the therapist said over his shoulder, sounding a little high-pitched, as he ran out the door.

Carrion stared at the offending paper so fiercely that it burst into flame and turned to ash in seconds. That done, he slowly stood up, leveled one long, furious, powerful glare at the people he knew were watching behind the mirror (which he knew he'd be forced to clean later), and stalked out of the kitchen.

-.-.-.-

Perhaps I overreacted slightly.

All right, possibly more than slightly. But I can't say that I care. That Idiot had it coming, and his thrice-cursed "anger management" theories are a good enough outlet for my irritation as any. Thankfully That Thing has remained subdued and out of my way for the day. It cooperated well, I must admit, and I believe one of the best ways to attack That (censored) Idiot is through That Thing. He seems to have a disgusting fondness for it… Five days to plan. I must get started.

If That Idiot honestly thinks I will be talking about my childhood he is an even greater idiot than I thought.