Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank


<  I Am King

by Paul Combs       Man in the Mirror  >


“I think I’m starting to miss killing people.”

Silence. She taps on her coffee mug with the end of her pen, which I’ve often seen her do when she’s searching for something profound to say. It isn’t a new subject; in the past I’ve brought it up as a way to avoid talking about other things.

At previous meetings Dr. Jenret had suggested that I had never really enjoyed killing people, which was probably true, but rather that the military had given me a sense of belonging to something and that was what I missed. I expect a similar response this time, but don’t really care either way. I’m here as much out of habit as anything else.

While she mulls over a response, I smooth my collar and glance around the office. She has transitioned from a Far Eastern theme to an African one. Tribal drums have replaced statues of the Buddha, and prints of elephants and water buffalo hang where Japanese silk screens previously adorned the walls. Only the incense burners remain, on the small bookcase. It is still more calming than the Aztec / Maya / Inca décor that dominated the room on my first visit. Prints of pyramids are fine, but the ceremonial stone knife on a miniature Aztec sacrificial altar was a bit much.

“I think you have anger management issues,” she says. Now that’s a new direction, one I didn’t see coming.

“I think I should backhand you for that.”

She laughs. Her pale blue eyes sparkle, and it makes her even more attractive than usual. She’s wearing a skirt that displays her shapely, tanned legs, and I briefly consider suggesting again that having sex with her will stimulate my progress. This approach has failed several times over the past year, but I don’t discourage easily.

“You won’t hit me, if for no other reason than the fact that I’m the only therapist in this town who will have anything to do with you.”

She has me there. You dangle one egghead with a Lenin beard over a third-floor balcony railing and word gets out to the psychiatric community pretty quickly. But I have never struck a woman. Shot a few, but never struck one.

“Maybe I’m just depressed. I heard somewhere that anger is often depression turned outward.” See what her massive psychiatric ego does with that one.

“Perhaps,” she replies. “But you have no symptoms of depression. In your case, I think it’s more likely frustration turned outward.”

Frustration? Frustration is trying to casually stand with an erection.

“An interesting thought,” I reply, rising slowly from the chair. “And I’d love to explore it more deeply, but I have to preach in forty-five minutes.” 


published 26 April 2013