Standard Apology. This came to me during a bout of insomnia.
The Therapy Session
Armand Bruno Aikanaka Kurohoshi del Rio de Sangre, alias The Merovingian, lord of the criminal underworld of the Matrix, husband of Persephone and master of about 2,000 minions of various "talents," slumped petulantly in the back of his stretch Escalade limo. It had been Persephone's idea for him to endure the help of a therapist after several startling episodes where in a stress-induced rage he had shot at a handful of his henchpeople. Not having the right ammunition for the job he had not actually killed them, but still these bouts of uncharacteristic violence were disturbing. In the back of his mind The Merovingian thought that perhaps therapy would be a good idea, but he would never admit out loud, for he knew that Persephone would hold it over his head for months.
As the limo slogged through the midday traffic towards the therapist's building, The Merovingian wondered what this therapist would be like. From what he had been told, the man was very experienced in treating all manner of psychiatric annoyances, and he assured the utmost confidence. "He had better," he thought, "I would hate to have to kill such a purportedly skilled doctor over a breach in doctor-patient trust."
Ten minutes later The Merovingian arrived in front of the office building. He was led in by an attractive secretary ("Blast! I do not have any pastries with me!" he thought ruefully) and was told to wait while the doctor finished up with another patient. While he waited, Armand (which I will be calling him from now on because it's getting annoying to write in the whole title) took the time to assess the doctor's taste. "Not bad, he almost has as much style as me..." His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and a smooth voice said, "Ah, Mr. ... Merovingian. Forgive my lateness, but my last patient was being... difficult. Shall we begin?"
The doctor had arrived. He was rather nondescript and slightly bald, but he also possessed an apparently expensive taste in clothes. There was a small red stain on the doctor's otherwise immaculate white shirt, but this surely wasn't any of Armand's business.
"Certainly, Dr. Fell."
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Author's notes: So shall I continue? If anyone reads this maybe I'll write a second chapter. What would "Dr. Fell" and The Merovingian (nee Armand) talk about, anyway?
The Therapy Session
Armand Bruno Aikanaka Kurohoshi del Rio de Sangre, alias The Merovingian, lord of the criminal underworld of the Matrix, husband of Persephone and master of about 2,000 minions of various "talents," slumped petulantly in the back of his stretch Escalade limo. It had been Persephone's idea for him to endure the help of a therapist after several startling episodes where in a stress-induced rage he had shot at a handful of his henchpeople. Not having the right ammunition for the job he had not actually killed them, but still these bouts of uncharacteristic violence were disturbing. In the back of his mind The Merovingian thought that perhaps therapy would be a good idea, but he would never admit out loud, for he knew that Persephone would hold it over his head for months.
As the limo slogged through the midday traffic towards the therapist's building, The Merovingian wondered what this therapist would be like. From what he had been told, the man was very experienced in treating all manner of psychiatric annoyances, and he assured the utmost confidence. "He had better," he thought, "I would hate to have to kill such a purportedly skilled doctor over a breach in doctor-patient trust."
Ten minutes later The Merovingian arrived in front of the office building. He was led in by an attractive secretary ("Blast! I do not have any pastries with me!" he thought ruefully) and was told to wait while the doctor finished up with another patient. While he waited, Armand (which I will be calling him from now on because it's getting annoying to write in the whole title) took the time to assess the doctor's taste. "Not bad, he almost has as much style as me..." His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and a smooth voice said, "Ah, Mr. ... Merovingian. Forgive my lateness, but my last patient was being... difficult. Shall we begin?"
The doctor had arrived. He was rather nondescript and slightly bald, but he also possessed an apparently expensive taste in clothes. There was a small red stain on the doctor's otherwise immaculate white shirt, but this surely wasn't any of Armand's business.
"Certainly, Dr. Fell."
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Author's notes: So shall I continue? If anyone reads this maybe I'll write a second chapter. What would "Dr. Fell" and The Merovingian (nee Armand) talk about, anyway?