DISCLAIMER: The only things I don't own here are a couple of the
characters.
Author's Note: Hey, I'm back! Please remember to REVIEW! Have fun!
~~Chapter One~~
I am a very rational man. I like reason and logic to create order and stability in my life. I am not overly emotional. I much prefer a peaceful life to a wild and daring existence. I am a quiet middle-aged man, 53, balding, with a pepper-and-salt beard and mustache, bifocals, and a slight pudginess about the middle.
It has long been my greatest ambition to save up enough money to buy a small cottage in Bermuda and spend my mornings writing poetry about the sunrise. I own a small, private, counseling office in an office in New York City, where I am a psychotherapist. It is around this practice that my story revolves.
It was a balmy Tuesday morning that this all began. I was walking along 82nd street, savoring the smell of coffee and bagels emitting from a small white paper bag I carried in my left hand, and pleasantly humming a tune while considering that I needed to clean out my rain gutters when I went home that evening.
I don't know what it is about Tuesdays, but those are the days when everything bad seems to happen. I suppose Mondays are the return to routine. Wednesdays provide comfort in that during the middle of the week you are completely immersed in your work. Thursdays you tidy things up and look forward to Friday, which marks the end of the workweek. And Saturday is to relax before Sunday church and cleaning. It is Tuesdays that are so void of significance that they attract troubles like a Starbucks draws bleary eyed business clerks. Suffice to say, it was a Tuesday. And Tuesdays always mean trouble.
My easy mood was quickly ended upon arrival at my secretary's desk. Now let me say that none of this was my secretary's fault. She is the picture of order. The mother of efficiency. Ms. Washington is a cheery, empathetic woman in her late fifties, pleasantly plump, with silver streaked hair and reading glasses which she wears on small chains around her neck. The chains vary from day to day according to her apparel and mood. She is never without a smile, and frequently takes her lunch breaks in her office with a brown bag lunch of the same consistency as those I used to bring to school in my boyhood days. The poor woman's name, I am sad to say, is Martha. Martha Washington. She enjoys the oddity of the name however, claiming that she is proud to be linked with such a courageous, kindhearted woman.
But back to the subject at hand. I approached my Martha and she handed me my daily schedule. I thanked her for her kindness and complimented her on her lovely new yellow pantsuit with matching gold spectacle chain. Before I could escape she lightly touched my arm to hold me back.
"Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"Before you go in...there are a couple of men in your office who wish to speak to you. They didn't seem too happy. I thought you might want to know."
"Thank you Martha," I said and strolled through my office door to greet the two gentlemen.
I soon became aware of a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. My hairs were standing up. The two "gentlemen" were African-American, dressed in suits of absolute black, with mirrored sunglasses over their eyes and baldheads.
"Good morning gentlemen," I said, trying to recover from the initial shock of these two characters.
"Good morning Mr. Higginbotham."
"What can I do for you two fellows?" I sat my briefcase down on top of my desk and seated myself in a leather, revolving office chair, placing the desk between myself and these two burly men.
"We understand that you operate this counseling service."
"I have for 22 years now," I replied with pride.
"We have a request. You see, our 'boss' has some 'people' that need psychological help, and we feel that you could be of assistance."
"Who is your 'boss'?"
"All you need to know is that he is 'the boss'. We can offer you great compensation for your services."
I thought for a moment. I wanted to politely decline without angering these two men whom appeared to each have played linebacker for Notre Dame. "I'm afraid that my schedule is rather full at the moment gentlemen. I'm sorry, but I cannot be of service at this time. My I recommend the names of a few other therapists I know for your convenience?"
"No sir, I'm afraid we specifically wanted you."
"Why is that?"
"Your case record. You have helped such people as Viggo Mortenson, Rob Reiner, and Robin McKinley."
"Well, Viggo thought he was a Middle Earth King and kept carrying around a sword. Rob was completely stressed from making both 'The Princess Bride' and 'Spinal Tap', and Robin couldn't shake the feeling that she could talk to animals. Very unusual cases."
"Yes, but the nature of our clients is...unusual. We are prepared to offer you one million dollars in cash and a free potted plant if you help us. If you refuse...well...you'll be sleeping with the fishes." The mirrored sunglasses flashed and they sat quite still.
I thought about it for a moment. There WAS a free potted plant involved. "What kind of characters are these?"
"Oh just that Mr. Higgenbotham...characters," said the men, as they rose from their chairs. "You're first client will be here tomorrow morning."
Author's Note: Hey, I'm back! Please remember to REVIEW! Have fun!
~~Chapter One~~
I am a very rational man. I like reason and logic to create order and stability in my life. I am not overly emotional. I much prefer a peaceful life to a wild and daring existence. I am a quiet middle-aged man, 53, balding, with a pepper-and-salt beard and mustache, bifocals, and a slight pudginess about the middle.
It has long been my greatest ambition to save up enough money to buy a small cottage in Bermuda and spend my mornings writing poetry about the sunrise. I own a small, private, counseling office in an office in New York City, where I am a psychotherapist. It is around this practice that my story revolves.
It was a balmy Tuesday morning that this all began. I was walking along 82nd street, savoring the smell of coffee and bagels emitting from a small white paper bag I carried in my left hand, and pleasantly humming a tune while considering that I needed to clean out my rain gutters when I went home that evening.
I don't know what it is about Tuesdays, but those are the days when everything bad seems to happen. I suppose Mondays are the return to routine. Wednesdays provide comfort in that during the middle of the week you are completely immersed in your work. Thursdays you tidy things up and look forward to Friday, which marks the end of the workweek. And Saturday is to relax before Sunday church and cleaning. It is Tuesdays that are so void of significance that they attract troubles like a Starbucks draws bleary eyed business clerks. Suffice to say, it was a Tuesday. And Tuesdays always mean trouble.
My easy mood was quickly ended upon arrival at my secretary's desk. Now let me say that none of this was my secretary's fault. She is the picture of order. The mother of efficiency. Ms. Washington is a cheery, empathetic woman in her late fifties, pleasantly plump, with silver streaked hair and reading glasses which she wears on small chains around her neck. The chains vary from day to day according to her apparel and mood. She is never without a smile, and frequently takes her lunch breaks in her office with a brown bag lunch of the same consistency as those I used to bring to school in my boyhood days. The poor woman's name, I am sad to say, is Martha. Martha Washington. She enjoys the oddity of the name however, claiming that she is proud to be linked with such a courageous, kindhearted woman.
But back to the subject at hand. I approached my Martha and she handed me my daily schedule. I thanked her for her kindness and complimented her on her lovely new yellow pantsuit with matching gold spectacle chain. Before I could escape she lightly touched my arm to hold me back.
"Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"Before you go in...there are a couple of men in your office who wish to speak to you. They didn't seem too happy. I thought you might want to know."
"Thank you Martha," I said and strolled through my office door to greet the two gentlemen.
I soon became aware of a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. My hairs were standing up. The two "gentlemen" were African-American, dressed in suits of absolute black, with mirrored sunglasses over their eyes and baldheads.
"Good morning gentlemen," I said, trying to recover from the initial shock of these two characters.
"Good morning Mr. Higginbotham."
"What can I do for you two fellows?" I sat my briefcase down on top of my desk and seated myself in a leather, revolving office chair, placing the desk between myself and these two burly men.
"We understand that you operate this counseling service."
"I have for 22 years now," I replied with pride.
"We have a request. You see, our 'boss' has some 'people' that need psychological help, and we feel that you could be of assistance."
"Who is your 'boss'?"
"All you need to know is that he is 'the boss'. We can offer you great compensation for your services."
I thought for a moment. I wanted to politely decline without angering these two men whom appeared to each have played linebacker for Notre Dame. "I'm afraid that my schedule is rather full at the moment gentlemen. I'm sorry, but I cannot be of service at this time. My I recommend the names of a few other therapists I know for your convenience?"
"No sir, I'm afraid we specifically wanted you."
"Why is that?"
"Your case record. You have helped such people as Viggo Mortenson, Rob Reiner, and Robin McKinley."
"Well, Viggo thought he was a Middle Earth King and kept carrying around a sword. Rob was completely stressed from making both 'The Princess Bride' and 'Spinal Tap', and Robin couldn't shake the feeling that she could talk to animals. Very unusual cases."
"Yes, but the nature of our clients is...unusual. We are prepared to offer you one million dollars in cash and a free potted plant if you help us. If you refuse...well...you'll be sleeping with the fishes." The mirrored sunglasses flashed and they sat quite still.
I thought about it for a moment. There WAS a free potted plant involved. "What kind of characters are these?"
"Oh just that Mr. Higgenbotham...characters," said the men, as they rose from their chairs. "You're first client will be here tomorrow morning."