The Therapist's Couch
I have recently watched Once Upon a Time in Mexico and found Sands really funny, so I came up with this idea. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1: The Problem Patient
Summary: This is a comedy about Agent Sands recovering from his case in Mexico. Take one insecure counselor and one psychotic member of the CIA and stir.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Swearing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Agent Sands but I do own Dr. Sanderson.
One year after Agent Sands' action packed little trip to Mexico, he was sitting on the couch of Dr. J. T. Sanderson, in an impressive looking building on 52nd and 8th. Dr Sanderson was one of the country's finest therapists; Sands had been referred to him by the CIA after the loss of his eyes gave the special agent a couple of unfortunate traits. Dr Sanderson had managed to make some headway with Sands' new obsession with rubber gloves (not cotton lined), but was at a loss about the man's refusal to wash his hair. The mysterious eye-twitch was also very worrying, and something which he had never before seen in somebody with no eyes. Most disturbing of all was the Sands' insistence on shooting anybody carrying a guitar and/or small dog, and he was completely at a loss. Nervously, he watched the agent's hands explore his gun, as if he was preparing to use it.
"Would… would you like to talk about it?" Dr Sanderson asked for the twenty-seventh time that month. Yes, he was counting. It helped to have something to focus on.
"No I would not," replied Sands. "What I would like is for you to tell me again what exactly my employers are paying you for. Are they under the impression that you are some sort of counselor?"
"Yes, maybe," replied the doctor wistfully. He yearned for the times when he could have fully grown men in floods of tears after one session, crying about how they had never felt loved by their mother/guinea pig/transsexual S&M partner (tick as preferred). Those were the days…
Suddenly, the polyphonic ring of a cell phone startled him out of his reverie. Sands tutted, before unzipping his flies and pulling out his phone. Dr Sanderson did not bat an eyelid, for nothing about this man could surprise him anymore.
"Who the hell is this?!" Sands roared into the mouthpiece. "Yeah?! Well you can stick it up your ass!! I don't care… UP YOURS!!!" Slamming the phone onto the nearby coffee table and giving it several whacks with the barrel of his gun, he cursed at the top of his voice. "STUPID!! ASSHOLE!! MOTHER-F-"
"Who was that?" Dr Sanderson interjected eagerly. "An ex-girlfriend? An estranged wife? A highly camp but heartbreakingly gorgeous boyfriend?" Perhaps it was not too late to make Sands cry after all!
"My anger management counselor."
"Oh. You're seeing somebody else?" The doctor felt more betrayed than he had ever been in his life. "How long has this been going on?"
"Oh, I only saw him a coupla times. It meant nothing. It was only about my rage."
"Aha. And was he… was he better than me?"
"No! I'm sorry, I swear, it was just that the receptionist mentioned him when I was on the way out the other week, and… you know… it was new and exciting."
"Hang on… he works in this building?!"
"I'm so sorry, doctor, I-"
"Just tell me one thing… did you see him in this room?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"You did it on my couch?!" Sands said nothing. Dr Sanderson bit his lip to prevent the tears, which he knew would be so undignified. "Just go!" He choked. "I just need to not be around you at the moment."
"Ok. I'll call you, doc," Sands said quietly, as he felt his way to the door.
Dr Sanderson's next meeting with Agent Sands was scheduled for the following Wednesday. True to society's expectations of a man snubbed, he had gotten drunk and ended up with a total stranger on the couch. He learned during the wild and carefree drunken counseling session that the patient's name was Mark Marsters and that he had a very severe case of commitment phobia/ obsessive compulsive disorder and/or intimacy issues (tick as preferred). Come Wednesday, the doctor had made an attempt at playing hard to get. He put on his best suit, polished his shoes and styled his hair, all the while practicing his derogatory sneer and I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass-that-you-betrayed-me-because-I'm-so-totally-over-you-and-can-barely-remember-your-name-let-alone-your-phone-number-and-by-the-way-that-drunk-sounding-guy-calling-your-crotch-dwelling-cell-phone-at-four-in-the-morning-was-not-me-it-was-my-identical-sounding-twin blank expression, all the while, of course, forgetting that Sands was blind.
As the black-attired agent swaggered casually into his office, the doctor's resolve melted. Sands was just so appealingly challenging, and Dr Sanderson liked a challenge. Clearing his throat and self consciously rearranging some of the papers on his cluttered desk, he watched Sands slump unceremoniously onto the couch. He thinks he can just waltz back in here after he did the dirty on me… thought Dr Sanderson, but he remembered that he was over that. He was going to be aloof, he decided.
"Well, Agent Sands," he started, shrilly, knocking the documents off his desk as he stood up. "I've decided to take a new direction with this therapy, get you cured once and for all."
"Are you alright?" Sands asked. "You're sounding particularly anal today."' "I'm fine!" Dr Sanderson squeaked. "Now then. How many suggestions have I made to you over the many months we've spent together?"
"Ten months. And which suggestions do you mean? The ones where you actually sounded like you knew what you were talking about or the ones where you actually sounded like you were talking outta your ass?"
"Both."
"The number of suggestions you made where you actually sounded like you knew what you were talking about is zero, and the rest- maybe thirteen, including taking the time to be thankful for the trees, cutting all wheat out of my diet and taking a short break."
"Hey!" Dr Sanderson was indignant. "Taking a short break is a legitimate solution to an internal struggle! It says so in my beginner's handbook, I'll show ya!"
"It is clearly defined as a solution to a love or personal related matter. Then after the person has spent their requisite two weeks in the country or mountains or small tribal village just off the banks of the Mississippi, he or she will be fetched back home by a formerly little-noticed but wise acquaintance who will kindly inform them that running away does not solve anything."
"I see," the doctor answered. "So it would seem that you think you know everything."
"Not everything. Just quite a lot of stuff. So what was this new direction you were talking about?"
"Well I'm not going to tell you if you're just going to sniff at it," replied Dr Sanderson, knocked off course.
"Aw, come on, doctor…" Sands tempted. "You know you want to…"
"Well… ok then. My theory is that you still have so much emotion inside you that you haven't dealt with. I think what you need to do is bring those emotions to the surface, face them and conquer your inner-"
"Ok, ok, get to the point!"
"I think… you should have a party!"
"Oh boy," Sands sighed. "What would I do without you?"
"Hear me out! I think you should have a party and invite everybody involved in your Mexican adventure!"
"Hey, you know what? That is a good idea!" Sands exclaimed, his voice awash with sarcasm. "I could invite El Mariachi, the guy who prides himself in his solitude and being oh so mysterious, Agent Ajedrez, the chick who tried to kill me- oh, hang on a minute, she's dead- Lorenzo and his fellow guitar-playing buddy, the little boy selling chewing gum- or chicle chico, as I like to call him-"
"Yes!"
"Take a walk."
Agent Sands left the doctor that week with the same feeling of annoyance as ever. The irritating thing was that Dr Sanderson pestered him with calls for the next few days. He really seemed to think that this new approach of his would work. Maybe he was trying to get rid of him, thought Sands, offended. He knew he shouldn't have told the counselor about his anger management specialist, but he wasn't thinking clearly at the time. After the one-hundred-and-eighty-seventh phone call, Sands finally decided to throw the party just to get the doctor off his back. Dr Sanderson had promised to get in touch with all the invitees himself, and told Sands to take it easy, buy canapés and wine and hang balloons up. In a clear example of his own personality, he had told the doctor to do something unspeakable with the canapés, but made no further objections.
Please review and look out for the next chapter, which I will be posting up soon!