A/N: As I said, you are probably not going to know who this person is, so brace yourself for some disappointment.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4: Shrink

Two men were sitting in opposite chairs in a big, roomy kind of room. One was kind of old and was listening intently to the other one, while the other man was dressed in a brown suit and looked extremely nervous.

"Natalie's threatening about the pay again, and I'm having trouble with the new case," the brown-suited man said, looking at the floor intently.

"Really?" the old man asked. The brown-suit man nodded.

"I'm not that used to doing serial killer cases because… well… I haven't done any serial killer cases. At least—none that have actually been serial killer cases. The Six-Way Killer wasn't actually a serial killer."

"I'm sure you can do it, Adrian. You're a very good detective."

"Yes, but—this person doesn't leave any clues to their identity. And I can't understand how anyone could be killed that brutally without there being any finger prints, it just doesn't make any sense—and Natalie needs to stop complaining, her pay is more than Sherona's was— excuse me—" the man stood up and walked over to spot he had been staring at and picked up a dog hair. "You really need to get a better maid."

Just then, the doors of the room were swung open and a sopping wet, tall and thin man barged in. "Which one of you is the shrink?" he asked, looking at the pair of them with a peculiar face. "An eleven-year-old with a big head told me to see one because the Chinese fortune cookie wasn't good enough so I couldn't live with him anymore. And I don't think he liked the screwdriver either. I didn't even get to see the alien! The whole thing was a waste of my god damn time!" the man was fuming now, and dripping water all over the floor.

Adrian was looking at the water with a horrified look on his face, and was already planning out cleaning methods to get it out of the carpet. "Doctor Kroger," he hissed, anxiety marking his face.

Doctor Kroger understood immediately. "Sir, you can't just come barging in here, you need an appointment."

The man glared. "I wasn't barging."

"Yes you were. You're going to have to wait until this session is over before you can make an appointment."

The man looked hard at Doctor Kroger, deciding what to do. Finally, he turned swiftly on his heels and marched out the door.

Dr. Kroger slowly let out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. Adrian Monk tapped his shoulder. "Do you have any mops?"

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After the session with Monk was over, Dr. Kroger stood up and walked over to the waiting room to see if the strange man was still there.

He was.

In fact, he had found a way to entertain himself as well. He was balancing every magazine in the magazine rack on his head while reading one of the Nickelodeon Magazines. In fact, the way he was reading and balancing, it was almost as if he didn't even know the magazines were there. On his head.

"No no no no no no no no! What are you doing? Doctor Kroger hates it when you mix up his magazines! Now I'm going to have to put them all back!" Monk said exasperatedly, picking up the magazine's off the man's head one by one and putting them back in the exact same position they were last, without almost any hesitation.

The man looked up dangerously at Monk. "Is Doctor Kroger your mother?" he hissed. "Quit complaining." Then he shook the Nick Magazine again and continued his reading.

Monk stopped and twitched a little. "No— no, um, he isn't my mother. You see, he's a man and men can't be mothers because—"

"Shut up."

"That's enough, you two!" Doctor Kroger said impatiently. "Adrian, go home. What's you're name?" he asked the man, who was still reading the magazine with other magazines stacked on his head.

"Knee," the man replied without looking up. He turned a page of his magazine uninterestedly.

Dr. Kroger stopped. "How do you spell that?" he asked.

Knee looked up, confused. (All the magazines slid off his head and onto the ground.) "It's spelt how it sounds."

Dr. Kroger shrugged and wrote down on a piece of paper the word Knee. "When do want to start?" he asked.

Knee tilted his head. "Um… now?"

Dr. Kroger sighed and looked at his watch. "I suppose I have some free time. Alright, follow me."

After the pair of them had gotten settled in the two chairs, Dr. Kroger took out the paper once again. "Now, what's the problem?" he asked, as kindly as he could.

"I'm very crazy," Knee replied, with a completely straight face.

Dr. Kroger paused. "How do you know?"

"PBS told me so. PBS doesn't lie."

"Uh huh… Well, there are many different kinds of crazy, Knee. What kind do you think you are?" Kroger asked.

Knee responded by taking out a little piece of paper out of his hair. "I haaaaaaaaaaaaave… psychosis, bipolar disorder, severe schizophrenia, paranoia…"

One hour later…

"… eretophobia, Insomnia, and several emotional disorders including manic depression."

Dr. Kroger looked at him, shocked. "Um… Bipolar disorder and manic depression are the same thing."

"NO IT'S NOT!" Knee shrieked, chucking the little piece of paper at Dr. Kroger's head. "But anyway," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "That's not the problem."

"But I thought you said—"

"OH, sure, it contributes to the problem, but it's not the actual problem. I'm not cold yet."

"… do you want me to turn the AC on?" Dr. Kroger asked. He was getting more confused by the second.

"NO! The OTHER kind of cold! YAAAAAAAAAAAH!" he screamed, and ran out of the office waving his arms crazily.

Dr. Kroger sat there, not exactly sure about what had happened.

Then Knee came walking back in and sat back down in his chair. "So anyway, I can't be cold. And I can't kill myself because I think Satan would be really pissed at me if I did. And Squee would get molested. That's bad, you know," he added offhandedly.

Dr. Kroger sat there, mouth hanging open. There were only three words going through his head at the moment. And they were: What the HELL?!

"How long is each session?" Knee asked.

"Um… an hour."

"Well, its already been one hour, one minute and forty three seconds. Just to let you know."

They spent the next three minutes looking at each other blankly.

"Um, are you going to leave?" Dr. Kroger asked uncertainly.

"Leave where?"

"Home."

"…"

"Go home, Knee."

"I can't go home, though!" he said indignantly. "Not yet! I've just begun! I've only thus far seen the tip of the iceberg of my unfeeling innards!"

"Unfeeling innards…?"

"YES! EXACTLY! YAAAAAAAAAAH!" then he ran out again, screaming his head off.

"Oh, whatever," muttered Dr. Kroger, and prepared for the next patient.

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Monk was in his house. Cleaning. Again. It was raining pretty heavily outside, which he realized when he left Dr. Kroger's office. Just then, there was a knock at the door. Monk stopped dusting the ceiling and turned. Who would be knocking at this hour? He went over to open the door uncertainly.

"…yes?"

He was greeted by a roaring clap of thunder and lightning. The thin figure on the doorstep put his foot in the door and clawed at the doorway. "I LIVE HERE NOOOOOOOOW…" he hissed demonically. Monk screamed and slammed the door as hard as he could, running far, far away.

"FUCK!" he heard the someone from Dr. Kroger's office (Monk has awesome memory, for those of you who don't know him) scream from his closet. Almost instantly, the door was thrust open and the man was hissing angrily, his hands and feet throbbing. He was holding a chair from the kitchen high above his head, about to strike. Then it all went black.

----------------------------

Monk groaned, rubbing his head. This really wasn't his day. He found himself stapled a wall, with the words KICK ME painted in red on his shirt. No… wait… that wasn't paint…

"I see you're up," someone said cheerfully, walking into the kitchen (Monk realized he was stapled to the kitchen wall, so he must be in the kitchen. He's such a smart little thing.) "You fainted before I could smash your head in."

The thin man from Dr. Kroger's office was leaning against a wall, cheerfully smiling at him. He was eating oatmeal.

"Wh—what do you want??" Monk asked tentatively.

"Actually, I hoping to pour the bowl of oatmeal on your head for hurting my fingers, but I think I'll just let you off on a warning if you let me stay here."

Monk fidgeted. "Here's the thing— I don't do well with people staying at my house."

The man's expression darkened. "Why?"

"I have this thing; it's a gift… and a curse."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKIN' CURSES!!" the man kicked Monk in the stomach—hard.

"Eep!" Monk squeaked. This guy was REALLY strong. Then he poured the oatmeal on Monk's head anyway and left, slamming the front door.

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"Okay, Knee, tell me something good that happened today."

"Nothing good happened. Nothing good ever happens."

"Of course good stuff happens! Think back to sometime in your life that something good happened, and tell me about it."

"…"

"Yes?"

"……………………………………"

"How about this, Knee. You go out tonight and have some fun. And while you're having fun, take a picture of yourself you can remember yourself having this fun, and show them to me, okay?"

"…you aren't going to like the pictures."

"Of course I will, Knee!"

"Really? Okay! I'll see you tomorrow." Then he skipped outta there, looking cheerful as can be.

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Monk was dying of hunger. He had been all alone in his house all day long, stapled to the wall. Just when he thought he was going to faint, Natalie Teeger, his assistant, came inside.

"Oh my God, Mr. Monk, all you alright?!" she gasped, running to his aide.

"Muuuh…"

Natalie began to pull out the staples with great difficulty. There were some that were really tall, and she had to reach all the way over Monk to get them. Just then, someone opened the front door.

He was grinning manically and holding a knife in one hand and a camera in the other. Then he saw Natalie was all on top of Monk. "EW!!" he screamed, and shut the door again.

"Natalie…" Monk wheezed. "Natalie… he's the guy."

"The serial killer guy? How do you know?"

Monk gave her this look that said "I am amazing don't question my amazingness".

"We need to call the captain, quick, before he hurts anyone else!" Natalie said, and rushed to the phone.

----------------------

Knee walked into Dr. Kroger's office, splashed all over with something red. He was smiling from ear to ear. "I have the pictures," he said.

He handed them to Dr. Kroger, still grinning. "There's me burning that one prostitute... There's me holding that one jock's head... and OH! OH! That was a FUNNY one!" he laughed, pointing to a picture a guy's mutilated ass. Dr. Kroger turned slightly green and looked up at Knee in absolute horror.

"I was gunna do that one Monk guy, too," he continued happilly, "but he was--"

Just then, The entire San Francisco police department barged through the doors, all pointing guns at Knee.

"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!!"

Knee turned around, furious. Dr. Kroger was whimpering on the floor. "What, you think I'm actually going to give into you brain parasites? My mission for coldness has only—"

Someone pulled the trigger and shot a hole through his head, and another through his chest.

Knee fell over, his face permanently frozen in a look of pure pissy-ness.

Dead.

----

Betcha didn't see that one coming, eh?

And yes, he really is dead.

Okay, this chapter could have been better, but I'm really tired and I really wanted to get it over with. And Monk was also really starting to bug me. And to everyone shocked out of their minds that I actually killed off Knee and are already spamming me with hate mail and flames, just to let you know, this isn't the end. I had to do this in order for the next couple of chapters to work.

So just think of it as one overly-shocking cliffhanger.

…review or die.