DISCLAIMER: Well, you know the drill.
Author's Note: Ahem! Review!
~~Chapter Two~~
Wednesday morning I arrived at my office a little later than usual. I think I was trying to postpone my meeting with my new client as much as humanly possible. I quickly retrieved my schedule from Martha and retreated to the safety of my chenille-pillowed, leather-smelling, orderly office.
I take great pride in my office. Everything in there is neat as a pin. Every evening I take great care to replace my pens and labels in their correct positions so that when I return to them the next morning they await me with the professional aura of organization. I laid my briefcase upon my desk and had just begun to sort through my papers when my intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Higgenbotham?" her voice sounded...giggly.
"Yes, Martha?"
"Your...client...is here." Another giggle.
"Well show him in."
"Yes, Mr. Higgenbotham." Now she was positively dying with tittering. There was a few moment's pause as she jumped up to escort my client the five feet to my office door, and as she opened the door, I noticed a crimson blush staining her cheeks. She quickly shut the door behind the client.
I was so puzzled about her behavior that at first I failed to notice my new patient. But when I laid eyes on him, I nearly backed through a window. It was a young man, about six feet tall, appearing to be about twenty years of age. And he was the most handsome person I had seen in my entire life. He had wavy, chestnut-brown hair and emerald green eyes. His skin was smoothed to perfection. Not a single freckle blemished his flawless face. His body was lean, but strong. He possessed a slight dimple in his left cheek, which, judging from Martha's behavior would simply take a woman's breath away. However, he wore the strangest attire, silver armor so shiny it seemed to have been made of chrome, a crimson red cloak, and a jewel encrusted sword rested at his side...atop a white horse. But strangest of all, he was not smiling.
I stood, flat against the wall, blinking for a few moments as my mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to produce words. At long last I mastered a simple, "Hi."
"Hello," the young man said in a mournful tone.
I stepped forward slightly to reach up and shake his hand and squeaked, "I'm Dr. Daniel Higgenbotham. You are?"
He did not take my hand but bowed deeply, making me wonder how he kept hi seat, "Prince Charming of Grimm at your service."
I lowered my hand and pretended to brush some lint off my jacket to hide my gesture. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that? What was your name again?"
"Charming, Prince Charming," he repeated.
If there was ever a moment to be nonplused, this was it. I stood there dumb for a moment and tried to form rational sentences from my incoherent thoughts. At last the professional side of my brain took over.
"Well, your highness, do you have your file?"
"Yes," he handed me a manila envelope.
"You do understand that you are entitled to a fifty minute hour, and that your fee will be paid in full by your superiors?" I asked automatically, still looking up at him.
"Yes, I do."
"All right then, let's get started. You may take a seat anywhere. There is a sofa available if you choose to lay down. Or if you are more comfortable up there..."
"Thank you," the Prince dismounted and asked, "Where may I tie Samson up?"
As my barn resembled nothing of a stable I was not quite sure how to answer this question but decided to jump in head first, "Um, I think that floor lamp will do just fine."
The Prince knotted his horse's reigns around the slim floor lamp and crossed the room to collapse on the sofa, his armor clanking as he walked. I opened the manila envelope and began to examine its contents. Sure enough, there was his photo, nothing short of a glamour shot, revealing his pearly white teeth. And his name WAS listed as: Prince Charming. His age: 21. He was six foot tall, weighing 140 lbs, with brown hair and green eyes. His case file listed is issue as depression.
"Well, Mr. Prince, your records describe you as, "Debonair, suave, intelligent, witty, romantic, gentile, chivalrous, and gallant. What have you to say for that?"
He looked gloomy; "It's true. Did you know I can also boil water faster than any man alive? And that I have no trouble distinguishing between black and navy blue?"
"Your chart also describes you as a victim of chronic depression."
"Yes, I would have to agree with that."
"Can you tell me why you agree?"
"Because I feel so stressed out lately. Everyone has these demands. I've fought 38 dragons in the past month, and rescued 43 princesses, all with no zits or perspiration. I just can't deal with this anymore!" the Prince burst into sobs and covered his face with a pillow.
"Why can't you sweat?" I asked with curiosity.
"Because the ladies don't like it. And I have to be perfect."
"No one has to be perfect..."
"I do! I'm Prince Charming!" he cried as his horse neighed and stamped his feet on my delicate Persian rug. I winced.
"Let's work with the dragon issue first. How many did you say?"
"Thirty eight, in the last month."
"Ah, yes, that is quite a few."
"And I'm worn out. I have to rub five facial cremes on my face every night before bed so I don't suffer any lasting damage from the heat!"
Oh boy. "Why do you feel you must fight these dragons?"
"They tell me too."
"Who does?"
"The Brothers' Grim. It's my job. They're the ones who sent me to you after the 'incident' last week."
"The 'incident'?" So, it was the Brothers' Grimm behind this whole thing.
"I had a nervous breakdown," said the Prince quietly, as though mortified by the very thought.
"Would you like to tell me about it?" I asked, scribbling on my legal pad.
"I don't think you want to hear."
"Of course I want to hear," I said genially, "I'm your doctor!"
"It involves a hedgehog and a gallon of Hawaiian Punch."
"Maybe it would be best for you to meditate on that by yourself," I said quickly and looked down. I glanced at my watch, 9:00. Still twenty minutes left. This had to be the longest fifty-minute-hour of my life.
I sat very quietly for a moment, trying to think of what to say. I watched as the Prince twiddled his thumbs and his stallion began chewing on my copy of, "A Horse's Tail". I guess he had no liking for Mr. Mark Twain.
"Well," I said, finally, "What about the ladies Mr. Prince? How go things in that department?"
Again, he began to sob into my chenille pillows. "Horriable! As soon as I rescue one from her tower, another needs to be kissed! It's a nightmare! I can't take it anymore! And they all want to marry me! Every last one of them begs me to stay and marry her! I'm only one man!"
How awful, I thought privately in a sarcastic tone. There wasn't a man in this world that wouldn't KILL for that kind of feminine attention. Still, I played along, "And I suppose that rescuing princesses is part of your job description as well?"
"Sadly, yes."
"Out of curiosity, do you get to kiss them after you've saved them from the fiery pits of doom?"
"Oh yes, it's one of the perks." Then he lowered his voice, "I'm actually quite good."
"I'll take your word for it," 9:15. Finally.
"Well, I have a little homework assignment for you. I want you to take the week off. Don't fight any dragons, don't rescue any princesses. The only thing I want you to do is chill and scope out women."
"Scope out women?" the Prince asked in an unsure tone.
"Yes, I want you to find a woman you like, and woo her. Wine and dine, send flowers, the whole she-bang. Just one though. I don't want you over taxing yourself."
"Ok." He got up from the sofa and untied his stallion. He mounted and as he turned his noble, paperback chewing steed towards the door, called, "Thanks, Doc!" and galloped off down the hall to the elevators.
Martha was still blushing slightly when I approached her desk. "Is it going to be like this from now on?"
"I hope not," she said, "Although he did have a very tight butt."
Author's Note: Ahem! Review!
~~Chapter Two~~
Wednesday morning I arrived at my office a little later than usual. I think I was trying to postpone my meeting with my new client as much as humanly possible. I quickly retrieved my schedule from Martha and retreated to the safety of my chenille-pillowed, leather-smelling, orderly office.
I take great pride in my office. Everything in there is neat as a pin. Every evening I take great care to replace my pens and labels in their correct positions so that when I return to them the next morning they await me with the professional aura of organization. I laid my briefcase upon my desk and had just begun to sort through my papers when my intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Higgenbotham?" her voice sounded...giggly.
"Yes, Martha?"
"Your...client...is here." Another giggle.
"Well show him in."
"Yes, Mr. Higgenbotham." Now she was positively dying with tittering. There was a few moment's pause as she jumped up to escort my client the five feet to my office door, and as she opened the door, I noticed a crimson blush staining her cheeks. She quickly shut the door behind the client.
I was so puzzled about her behavior that at first I failed to notice my new patient. But when I laid eyes on him, I nearly backed through a window. It was a young man, about six feet tall, appearing to be about twenty years of age. And he was the most handsome person I had seen in my entire life. He had wavy, chestnut-brown hair and emerald green eyes. His skin was smoothed to perfection. Not a single freckle blemished his flawless face. His body was lean, but strong. He possessed a slight dimple in his left cheek, which, judging from Martha's behavior would simply take a woman's breath away. However, he wore the strangest attire, silver armor so shiny it seemed to have been made of chrome, a crimson red cloak, and a jewel encrusted sword rested at his side...atop a white horse. But strangest of all, he was not smiling.
I stood, flat against the wall, blinking for a few moments as my mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to produce words. At long last I mastered a simple, "Hi."
"Hello," the young man said in a mournful tone.
I stepped forward slightly to reach up and shake his hand and squeaked, "I'm Dr. Daniel Higgenbotham. You are?"
He did not take my hand but bowed deeply, making me wonder how he kept hi seat, "Prince Charming of Grimm at your service."
I lowered my hand and pretended to brush some lint off my jacket to hide my gesture. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that? What was your name again?"
"Charming, Prince Charming," he repeated.
If there was ever a moment to be nonplused, this was it. I stood there dumb for a moment and tried to form rational sentences from my incoherent thoughts. At last the professional side of my brain took over.
"Well, your highness, do you have your file?"
"Yes," he handed me a manila envelope.
"You do understand that you are entitled to a fifty minute hour, and that your fee will be paid in full by your superiors?" I asked automatically, still looking up at him.
"Yes, I do."
"All right then, let's get started. You may take a seat anywhere. There is a sofa available if you choose to lay down. Or if you are more comfortable up there..."
"Thank you," the Prince dismounted and asked, "Where may I tie Samson up?"
As my barn resembled nothing of a stable I was not quite sure how to answer this question but decided to jump in head first, "Um, I think that floor lamp will do just fine."
The Prince knotted his horse's reigns around the slim floor lamp and crossed the room to collapse on the sofa, his armor clanking as he walked. I opened the manila envelope and began to examine its contents. Sure enough, there was his photo, nothing short of a glamour shot, revealing his pearly white teeth. And his name WAS listed as: Prince Charming. His age: 21. He was six foot tall, weighing 140 lbs, with brown hair and green eyes. His case file listed is issue as depression.
"Well, Mr. Prince, your records describe you as, "Debonair, suave, intelligent, witty, romantic, gentile, chivalrous, and gallant. What have you to say for that?"
He looked gloomy; "It's true. Did you know I can also boil water faster than any man alive? And that I have no trouble distinguishing between black and navy blue?"
"Your chart also describes you as a victim of chronic depression."
"Yes, I would have to agree with that."
"Can you tell me why you agree?"
"Because I feel so stressed out lately. Everyone has these demands. I've fought 38 dragons in the past month, and rescued 43 princesses, all with no zits or perspiration. I just can't deal with this anymore!" the Prince burst into sobs and covered his face with a pillow.
"Why can't you sweat?" I asked with curiosity.
"Because the ladies don't like it. And I have to be perfect."
"No one has to be perfect..."
"I do! I'm Prince Charming!" he cried as his horse neighed and stamped his feet on my delicate Persian rug. I winced.
"Let's work with the dragon issue first. How many did you say?"
"Thirty eight, in the last month."
"Ah, yes, that is quite a few."
"And I'm worn out. I have to rub five facial cremes on my face every night before bed so I don't suffer any lasting damage from the heat!"
Oh boy. "Why do you feel you must fight these dragons?"
"They tell me too."
"Who does?"
"The Brothers' Grim. It's my job. They're the ones who sent me to you after the 'incident' last week."
"The 'incident'?" So, it was the Brothers' Grimm behind this whole thing.
"I had a nervous breakdown," said the Prince quietly, as though mortified by the very thought.
"Would you like to tell me about it?" I asked, scribbling on my legal pad.
"I don't think you want to hear."
"Of course I want to hear," I said genially, "I'm your doctor!"
"It involves a hedgehog and a gallon of Hawaiian Punch."
"Maybe it would be best for you to meditate on that by yourself," I said quickly and looked down. I glanced at my watch, 9:00. Still twenty minutes left. This had to be the longest fifty-minute-hour of my life.
I sat very quietly for a moment, trying to think of what to say. I watched as the Prince twiddled his thumbs and his stallion began chewing on my copy of, "A Horse's Tail". I guess he had no liking for Mr. Mark Twain.
"Well," I said, finally, "What about the ladies Mr. Prince? How go things in that department?"
Again, he began to sob into my chenille pillows. "Horriable! As soon as I rescue one from her tower, another needs to be kissed! It's a nightmare! I can't take it anymore! And they all want to marry me! Every last one of them begs me to stay and marry her! I'm only one man!"
How awful, I thought privately in a sarcastic tone. There wasn't a man in this world that wouldn't KILL for that kind of feminine attention. Still, I played along, "And I suppose that rescuing princesses is part of your job description as well?"
"Sadly, yes."
"Out of curiosity, do you get to kiss them after you've saved them from the fiery pits of doom?"
"Oh yes, it's one of the perks." Then he lowered his voice, "I'm actually quite good."
"I'll take your word for it," 9:15. Finally.
"Well, I have a little homework assignment for you. I want you to take the week off. Don't fight any dragons, don't rescue any princesses. The only thing I want you to do is chill and scope out women."
"Scope out women?" the Prince asked in an unsure tone.
"Yes, I want you to find a woman you like, and woo her. Wine and dine, send flowers, the whole she-bang. Just one though. I don't want you over taxing yourself."
"Ok." He got up from the sofa and untied his stallion. He mounted and as he turned his noble, paperback chewing steed towards the door, called, "Thanks, Doc!" and galloped off down the hall to the elevators.
Martha was still blushing slightly when I approached her desk. "Is it going to be like this from now on?"
"I hope not," she said, "Although he did have a very tight butt."