From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:
Patient: Mr. Gold
Session Five Notes
Before the Session:
Feel like I should be asking my crickets things. You see, notes, I had the strangest dream last night – you were involved – where for some reason, all I had done for weeks was write my most lurid and … um, "kinky" dreams in you. My notes. They all involved crickets somehow – I don't remember exactly – but I feel as though you know.
Tell me, notes. Tell me your secrets.
….. Ahem.
Well, as you may have guessed, notes of mine, I am doing these at …. Eight fifty-eight at night. Hence, I am quite slap-happy and should definitely be in bed by now. Perhaps I will take my beloved Pongo and we shall share our bed together for the first time in months.
Why doesn't Pongo love me like he used to, Notes? Do you know? You seem to know everything these days, with your little M.D. after your name and your 'Doctor' before your bloody stereotypical English name.
Archibald. Your parents must have hated you to bits.
After the Session:
I have determined that I am, in fact, quite homosexual.
Mr. Gold. Stop writing in my notes. It's a serious breach of my privacy, and if you wanted to see what I wrote about you, I would be glad to show you IF YOU ASKED.
And I am not 'homosexual,' you nineteenth century fiend.
And I did not write 'lurid dreams' in my notes. My notes are sacred to me.
And Pongo and I ARE NOT-
… You know what, I know a certain pawnbroker who's doing dream journals now, just for that. Have fun, you friggin Scottish loon.
Jeez.
Goodnight, notes.
-Archie Hopper, M.D. And Mr. Gold (prick).