(no subject)
Yes, the unfortunate therapist Dr. Darryl is back, and this time he's dealing with a witchfinder sergeant (formerly retired) with a one track mind. Companion ficlet to Finding Shared Ground, Conflict Resolution and Moving Forward.
All that Dr. Darryl Birkett knew about his new client prior to the appointment was that he’d recently received a Community Rehabilitation Order for seventeen counts of sexual harassment and one count of aggravated assault with a pin. He’d taken him on as part of his new Counselling in the Community Initiative: a chance to take therapeutic intervention to those of a lower socio-economic status than his usual paying clients[1]. Six months ago the thought of having to deal with such a person would have filled him with mild dread[2]; but given the nature - or for that matter supernature - of his most recent cases, a dirty old man with a nipple fixation was starting to sound increasingly like light relief.
What he hadn’t reckoned on however was said nipple fixator being Shadwell, or to be more precise, Shadwell’s unshakeable faith in the righteousness of his nipple counting cause.
“But don’t you see,” said Darryl, trying desperately to avoid looking at the boil on the man’s face whilst simultaneously attempting to present an open and welcoming front, “that barging into lingerie stores and trying to conduct a spot inspection of the patrons is not socially appropriate behaviour.”
“Well,” said Shadwell, revealing a set of yellowing false teeth that instantly cause the fastidious doctor to recoil, “I wouldn’t know about this ‘socially appropriate behaviour’ thing that you southern nancy boys like talking about, but I’ve had tae come out of retirement due to all of this phenomena going around.”
“Phenomena?”
A dark look crossed Shadwell’s face. “Aye, phenomena like that yeh wouldnae believe.”
“What sort of phenomena?”
“Talking animals.”
“Talking animals?” said Darryl, utterly perplexed. He’d been told that the man had a bit of trouble delineating fantasy from reality; but not that he was out and out delusional.
“Aye.” Shadwell proceeded to rummage in his pocket. Three scrunched up - and irrefutably used - paper handkerchiefs and a fluff-coated boiled sweet were removed during the early phases of this excavation and placed, much to Darryl’s horror, on the newly polished desk. After what seemed like several minutes of searching, Shadwell finally produced a very creased piece of glossy paper, which had quite obviously been cut from a glossy catalogue. “Take a look at this.”
The last thing that Darryl wanted to do was come into physical contact with anything that had been in Shadwell’s pocket. But both politeness and professionalism dictated that backing away in revulsion wasn’t an option available to him at this moment. He therefore tentatively took the cutting being proffered between the tips of his thumb and middle finger in an attempt to expose as little skin as possible to what was quite probably a laminated breeding ground for all sorts of unpleasant things. For a few moments he stared at the picture thereon. “It’s er…a furby,” he said, still utterly perplexed.
Shadwell nodded. “Imps. Witches familiars. An’ now they’re flauntin ‘em in our faces. Corruptin’ the young. And that’s not the worst of it.”
Darryl, severely disturbed by the sudden fervour in the old mans gaze, found himself attempting to back further into his leather desk chair. “It isn’t?”
“I’ll tell yea what the worst of it is. The worst of it was that witch of a magistrate. She cursed me.”
Darryl swallowed. “Cursed you?” he queried in a small, nervous voice.
“Aye, with an ASBO. A terrible thing it is. I cannae even go to the butchers without her sending her infernal minions after me.”
“Infernal minions? Oh you mean the police.”
“I don’t call them proper police, not with those diabolic ‘taser’ things. Didn’t even have proper truncheons.”
“Well, to be fair you had been arrested after trying to assault a man in a Barney the Dinosaur costume.”
“Exorcising the foul demon, I was.” Shadwell looked with pride at one of his fingers. “I defeated the devil himself once, laddie, didn’t know that did yea?”
“Really?” said Darryl, weakly. A treacherous and rather masochistic part of his mind began to muse that the way things were going it wouldn’t be long before Lucifer himself showed up to unburden himself of emotional baggage. “You er…said that you’ve recently come out of retirement. Why is that?”
“The daughters o’the night are still practising their wicked crafts and my witchfinder private can’t do his job.”
Darryl inwardly groaned. Mr. Shadwell’s privates really weren’t something that he wanted to think about. “Have you gone to see your doctor about the problem? You can get Viagra on prescription these days, you know? Not that I’d er… actually recommend visiting prostitutes, of course.”
Shadwell’s response was one of complete incomprehension. “Yea southern nancy boys talk nea sense at all.”
“What I meant was….”
Much to his relief Darryl’s uncertain elaboration on what he meant was cut off by the sound of a mobile telephone playing the national anthem. Surprisingly the sound was emanating from one of Shadwell’s other coat pockets. Another six or seven crumpled paper handkerchiefs were displaced onto the desk as, muttering something about the tools of the devil, Shadwell fished around for the phone, which, when removed, was covered in almost as much fluff as the boiled sweet. “Wretched machine,” he said, holding the out-of-date phone as if it were about to explode. “Shameless hoor got it for me.”
After making sure that it was understood that the infernal piece of technology was not of his own purchasing, Shadwell grudgingly pressed the answer button and, with a grimace, held it to his ear.
“Aye, tis me,” he said, in a voice so loud that one suspected the caller could hear him without the use of a telephone.
“Neh I cannae stand it…Aye, five tins of condensed milk…Aye…What, yea harlot…Aye, alright then, ten minutes it is.” And with that he, once again regarding the device with deep loathing and suspicion, pressed the ‘end call’ button.
“Urgent call?” said Darryl
“Aye,” said Shadwell, “My painted Jezebel’s makin’ the tea. So I best be going.”
“Oh…er…right.” Darryl tried to hide his heartfelt relief.
“I’ll be back next week then yeh southern dim-wit.”
“See you next week Mr. Shadwell.”
“Oh, and ah saw those four younguns in yer waiting room. One of them’s the antichrist yeh know.”
“Really, Mr. Shadwell, you shouldn’t be so judgemental about the youth of today, I think that if we all learnt to….” Darryl paled as he trailed off. “When…er…you say antichrist, what exactly do you mean?”
Shadwell smiled. It was a rather frightening sight. “Yeh’ll see laddie, yeh’ll see.”
[1] Or depending on whom you asked: a cynical drive to get some good publicity following that highly embarrassing arrest for curb crawling*. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were putting it down in their respective records of small successes.
*He was the first person in the local red light district’s eighty-five years of sordid history to genuinely have been asking for directions to the nearest all night supermarket.
[2] Needless to say Dr. Darryl’s favourite sort of client was the type that was rich, insecure and convinced that they needed a years worth of bi-weekly appointments.
All that Dr. Darryl Birkett knew about his new client prior to the appointment was that he’d recently received a Community Rehabilitation Order for seventeen counts of sexual harassment and one count of aggravated assault with a pin. He’d taken him on as part of his new Counselling in the Community Initiative: a chance to take therapeutic intervention to those of a lower socio-economic status than his usual paying clients[1]. Six months ago the thought of having to deal with such a person would have filled him with mild dread[2]; but given the nature - or for that matter supernature - of his most recent cases, a dirty old man with a nipple fixation was starting to sound increasingly like light relief.
What he hadn’t reckoned on however was said nipple fixator being Shadwell, or to be more precise, Shadwell’s unshakeable faith in the righteousness of his nipple counting cause.
“But don’t you see,” said Darryl, trying desperately to avoid looking at the boil on the man’s face whilst simultaneously attempting to present an open and welcoming front, “that barging into lingerie stores and trying to conduct a spot inspection of the patrons is not socially appropriate behaviour.”
“Well,” said Shadwell, revealing a set of yellowing false teeth that instantly cause the fastidious doctor to recoil, “I wouldn’t know about this ‘socially appropriate behaviour’ thing that you southern nancy boys like talking about, but I’ve had tae come out of retirement due to all of this phenomena going around.”
“Phenomena?”
A dark look crossed Shadwell’s face. “Aye, phenomena like that yeh wouldnae believe.”
“What sort of phenomena?”
“Talking animals.”
“Talking animals?” said Darryl, utterly perplexed. He’d been told that the man had a bit of trouble delineating fantasy from reality; but not that he was out and out delusional.
“Aye.” Shadwell proceeded to rummage in his pocket. Three scrunched up - and irrefutably used - paper handkerchiefs and a fluff-coated boiled sweet were removed during the early phases of this excavation and placed, much to Darryl’s horror, on the newly polished desk. After what seemed like several minutes of searching, Shadwell finally produced a very creased piece of glossy paper, which had quite obviously been cut from a glossy catalogue. “Take a look at this.”
The last thing that Darryl wanted to do was come into physical contact with anything that had been in Shadwell’s pocket. But both politeness and professionalism dictated that backing away in revulsion wasn’t an option available to him at this moment. He therefore tentatively took the cutting being proffered between the tips of his thumb and middle finger in an attempt to expose as little skin as possible to what was quite probably a laminated breeding ground for all sorts of unpleasant things. For a few moments he stared at the picture thereon. “It’s er…a furby,” he said, still utterly perplexed.
Shadwell nodded. “Imps. Witches familiars. An’ now they’re flauntin ‘em in our faces. Corruptin’ the young. And that’s not the worst of it.”
Darryl, severely disturbed by the sudden fervour in the old mans gaze, found himself attempting to back further into his leather desk chair. “It isn’t?”
“I’ll tell yea what the worst of it is. The worst of it was that witch of a magistrate. She cursed me.”
Darryl swallowed. “Cursed you?” he queried in a small, nervous voice.
“Aye, with an ASBO. A terrible thing it is. I cannae even go to the butchers without her sending her infernal minions after me.”
“Infernal minions? Oh you mean the police.”
“I don’t call them proper police, not with those diabolic ‘taser’ things. Didn’t even have proper truncheons.”
“Well, to be fair you had been arrested after trying to assault a man in a Barney the Dinosaur costume.”
“Exorcising the foul demon, I was.” Shadwell looked with pride at one of his fingers. “I defeated the devil himself once, laddie, didn’t know that did yea?”
“Really?” said Darryl, weakly. A treacherous and rather masochistic part of his mind began to muse that the way things were going it wouldn’t be long before Lucifer himself showed up to unburden himself of emotional baggage. “You er…said that you’ve recently come out of retirement. Why is that?”
“The daughters o’the night are still practising their wicked crafts and my witchfinder private can’t do his job.”
Darryl inwardly groaned. Mr. Shadwell’s privates really weren’t something that he wanted to think about. “Have you gone to see your doctor about the problem? You can get Viagra on prescription these days, you know? Not that I’d er… actually recommend visiting prostitutes, of course.”
Shadwell’s response was one of complete incomprehension. “Yea southern nancy boys talk nea sense at all.”
“What I meant was….”
Much to his relief Darryl’s uncertain elaboration on what he meant was cut off by the sound of a mobile telephone playing the national anthem. Surprisingly the sound was emanating from one of Shadwell’s other coat pockets. Another six or seven crumpled paper handkerchiefs were displaced onto the desk as, muttering something about the tools of the devil, Shadwell fished around for the phone, which, when removed, was covered in almost as much fluff as the boiled sweet. “Wretched machine,” he said, holding the out-of-date phone as if it were about to explode. “Shameless hoor got it for me.”
After making sure that it was understood that the infernal piece of technology was not of his own purchasing, Shadwell grudgingly pressed the answer button and, with a grimace, held it to his ear.
“Aye, tis me,” he said, in a voice so loud that one suspected the caller could hear him without the use of a telephone.
“Neh I cannae stand it…Aye, five tins of condensed milk…Aye…What, yea harlot…Aye, alright then, ten minutes it is.” And with that he, once again regarding the device with deep loathing and suspicion, pressed the ‘end call’ button.
“Urgent call?” said Darryl
“Aye,” said Shadwell, “My painted Jezebel’s makin’ the tea. So I best be going.”
“Oh…er…right.” Darryl tried to hide his heartfelt relief.
“I’ll be back next week then yeh southern dim-wit.”
“See you next week Mr. Shadwell.”
“Oh, and ah saw those four younguns in yer waiting room. One of them’s the antichrist yeh know.”
“Really, Mr. Shadwell, you shouldn’t be so judgemental about the youth of today, I think that if we all learnt to….” Darryl paled as he trailed off. “When…er…you say antichrist, what exactly do you mean?”
Shadwell smiled. It was a rather frightening sight. “Yeh’ll see laddie, yeh’ll see.”
[1] Or depending on whom you asked: a cynical drive to get some good publicity following that highly embarrassing arrest for curb crawling*. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were putting it down in their respective records of small successes.
*He was the first person in the local red light district’s eighty-five years of sordid history to genuinely have been asking for directions to the nearest all night supermarket.
[2] Needless to say Dr. Darryl’s favourite sort of client was the type that was rich, insecure and convinced that they needed a years worth of bi-weekly appointments.