I don't own Weiss, I don't own Schwartz, and I don't own anything else I allude to… In fact I don't even know if I own myself…strange little voices in my head….hmmm…
PS: Thank you to my reviewers! You know who you are! :)
PPS: Anyone feel like Beta-ing? I don't think that it is too bad, but I am sure I miss some things...
Psychiatric Help?
The carer sighed and regarded the white haired man that was sitting opposite him in the car. Another Clinic was refusing to allow them back. His list of places that hadn't heard of his charge and of his strange ways was becoming ever shorter. If this kept up they would have to change locations again. He didn't appreciate that thought. It was always so disturbing for them all, particularly the youngest. He always detested moving schools.
The tall one sighed again and before reassessing the road in front of him. He knew the correct way to and from the clinic without having to even look at the road, that was the sort of driver and indeed, sort of person he was. He had memorized the route form a road map before he had even brought the insane one to the clinic for the first time and he had also planned the fastest route to and from their residence that was possible. He did consider, however, that he had best keep an eye on the other people around him. He was sure none of them were as steadfast as he in their driving duties.
He sighed again, contemplating the problem of his charge, his problem, in his mind. Really, he didn't understand why his employers insisted on his visiting the psychiatrists. Psychiatrists were for people who knew they were unwell, who knew that their problem was upsetting for the outside world. The insane one simply didn't care. If anything, he seemed to consider himself normal. It was the rest of the world that wasn't cooperating with his ideal way of living.
The white haired man was amusing himself by attempting to dismantle the car door using only his fingers. He currently was working at ripping off the soft leather upholstery that covered the metal structure to get at the workings of the door handle from the inside. He was making good headway and had a manically bemused look on his face as if he wasn't even sure if he knew why he was doing this. He didn't even seem to be aware of the other mans presence, but the carer knew that the insane one was well aware of him. He did, in fact have a fair amount of the insane one's attention at any given moment. The psychotic always watched carefully those who watched him.
This was one of the things that made him so dangerous, mused the carer. He was able to concentrate on many things at one time; he was really a genius at multi-tasking, an expert at dividing his attention. There was only a few things that could totally rivet his attention and they were all…well… gory, to say the least. And if they were not gory, then they were just plain out strange. Take the obsession with blenders, for instance…
That was probably why he did it so often, considered the carer. 'It' being the rampages and the orgies of complete destruction that the insane one so enjoyed indulging in. The thrill of pure focus for a brain that was a quagmire of differing personalities, objectives, morals and reasoning must be a unique feeling, to say the least. It was also the reason that the psychiatry wouldn't work. The man wished the insanity to continue. He needed it.
They arrived at their residence, and the insane one climbed lithely from the vehicle to stretch up high as soon as his feet were properly aligned with the ground. He then relaxed down into a casually tense stance to await being let into the house. The carer opened the door using two keys and an oddly shaped electronic device. He knew that as soon as he opened the door, the insane one would go straight to him room. Not because he had any particular preference for his room as apposed to anywhere else in his house, but because he wanted to check on his only true possessions. His precious collection of knives, daggers, needles and pointains. Everything else around him wasn't truly his, the carer considered. He did not care about the clothes that they gave him or the bed where he slept. How could it be his if he didn't care?
The carer walked from the garage into the kitchen.
"So how was it this week?" piped up a nasal voice.
"Did he manage to knock another one of those quacks for a six?"
The carer merely regarded the man for a few moments then decided to ignore him as the menace to general society that he was and left the room to lock the door to the cell that was the insane one's quarters. And he was insane, medically, clinically, psychotically. He seemed to almost revel in the situation, in the freedoms that came into being when classed as little better than a dumb animal with useful homicidal tendencies. Of course, his state of mind meant that he lost a lot of respect in some ways and that he never gained many friends, but what would that matter to him? In his opinion 'friends' were people that you cut up more slowly because you appreciated their screams more than you would ordinary people.
It was the carers considered opinion that the insane one enjoyed being criminally psychotic. He was in his true element and he was vamping it up. There were times when he could appear completely normal. Hell, there was time when he was completely normal. He could even have pure and proper conversations, and if you could keep him calm enough (usually with the help of drugs) his discourse and evidence on the sins of God was fascinating. If he cared to stop and write them down, he would have a dissertation worthy of a university Masters work. The carer knew that if the insane on wanted, it was with in his power to become 'well', to lead a 'normal existence'.
The carer approached the cell and glanced in at the man that was sitting on the padded floor of the interior, carefully counting out the knives that were sitting in a box in front of him. The carer regarded him silently for a few moments, watching the graceful way in which his scarred and ragged fingers danced over every handle then caressed every blade. After observing for awhile with a strange sort of sadness in his heart the carer locked the door behind him and walked away.
It was after all, he thought, all a matter of priorities.
A/N: Could someone tell me if Farf really does have an obsession with the blender in the series, or is it just something that someone thought up, and everyone else has adopted because it semms so very farf-like?
PS: Thank you to my reviewers! You know who you are! :)
PPS: Anyone feel like Beta-ing? I don't think that it is too bad, but I am sure I miss some things...
Psychiatric Help?
The carer sighed and regarded the white haired man that was sitting opposite him in the car. Another Clinic was refusing to allow them back. His list of places that hadn't heard of his charge and of his strange ways was becoming ever shorter. If this kept up they would have to change locations again. He didn't appreciate that thought. It was always so disturbing for them all, particularly the youngest. He always detested moving schools.
The tall one sighed again and before reassessing the road in front of him. He knew the correct way to and from the clinic without having to even look at the road, that was the sort of driver and indeed, sort of person he was. He had memorized the route form a road map before he had even brought the insane one to the clinic for the first time and he had also planned the fastest route to and from their residence that was possible. He did consider, however, that he had best keep an eye on the other people around him. He was sure none of them were as steadfast as he in their driving duties.
He sighed again, contemplating the problem of his charge, his problem, in his mind. Really, he didn't understand why his employers insisted on his visiting the psychiatrists. Psychiatrists were for people who knew they were unwell, who knew that their problem was upsetting for the outside world. The insane one simply didn't care. If anything, he seemed to consider himself normal. It was the rest of the world that wasn't cooperating with his ideal way of living.
The white haired man was amusing himself by attempting to dismantle the car door using only his fingers. He currently was working at ripping off the soft leather upholstery that covered the metal structure to get at the workings of the door handle from the inside. He was making good headway and had a manically bemused look on his face as if he wasn't even sure if he knew why he was doing this. He didn't even seem to be aware of the other mans presence, but the carer knew that the insane one was well aware of him. He did, in fact have a fair amount of the insane one's attention at any given moment. The psychotic always watched carefully those who watched him.
This was one of the things that made him so dangerous, mused the carer. He was able to concentrate on many things at one time; he was really a genius at multi-tasking, an expert at dividing his attention. There was only a few things that could totally rivet his attention and they were all…well… gory, to say the least. And if they were not gory, then they were just plain out strange. Take the obsession with blenders, for instance…
That was probably why he did it so often, considered the carer. 'It' being the rampages and the orgies of complete destruction that the insane one so enjoyed indulging in. The thrill of pure focus for a brain that was a quagmire of differing personalities, objectives, morals and reasoning must be a unique feeling, to say the least. It was also the reason that the psychiatry wouldn't work. The man wished the insanity to continue. He needed it.
They arrived at their residence, and the insane one climbed lithely from the vehicle to stretch up high as soon as his feet were properly aligned with the ground. He then relaxed down into a casually tense stance to await being let into the house. The carer opened the door using two keys and an oddly shaped electronic device. He knew that as soon as he opened the door, the insane one would go straight to him room. Not because he had any particular preference for his room as apposed to anywhere else in his house, but because he wanted to check on his only true possessions. His precious collection of knives, daggers, needles and pointains. Everything else around him wasn't truly his, the carer considered. He did not care about the clothes that they gave him or the bed where he slept. How could it be his if he didn't care?
The carer walked from the garage into the kitchen.
"So how was it this week?" piped up a nasal voice.
"Did he manage to knock another one of those quacks for a six?"
The carer merely regarded the man for a few moments then decided to ignore him as the menace to general society that he was and left the room to lock the door to the cell that was the insane one's quarters. And he was insane, medically, clinically, psychotically. He seemed to almost revel in the situation, in the freedoms that came into being when classed as little better than a dumb animal with useful homicidal tendencies. Of course, his state of mind meant that he lost a lot of respect in some ways and that he never gained many friends, but what would that matter to him? In his opinion 'friends' were people that you cut up more slowly because you appreciated their screams more than you would ordinary people.
It was the carers considered opinion that the insane one enjoyed being criminally psychotic. He was in his true element and he was vamping it up. There were times when he could appear completely normal. Hell, there was time when he was completely normal. He could even have pure and proper conversations, and if you could keep him calm enough (usually with the help of drugs) his discourse and evidence on the sins of God was fascinating. If he cared to stop and write them down, he would have a dissertation worthy of a university Masters work. The carer knew that if the insane on wanted, it was with in his power to become 'well', to lead a 'normal existence'.
The carer approached the cell and glanced in at the man that was sitting on the padded floor of the interior, carefully counting out the knives that were sitting in a box in front of him. The carer regarded him silently for a few moments, watching the graceful way in which his scarred and ragged fingers danced over every handle then caressed every blade. After observing for awhile with a strange sort of sadness in his heart the carer locked the door behind him and walked away.
It was after all, he thought, all a matter of priorities.
A/N: Could someone tell me if Farf really does have an obsession with the blender in the series, or is it just something that someone thought up, and everyone else has adopted because it semms so very farf-like?