She looked me up and down disapprovingly and started scratching on her pad. 

“Whoa there, Doc…” I broke the silence.

“It’s Ms. Primapple, I’m not a doctor,” she retorted.

“What’re you writing there? The only thing I’ve said so far is my name, that certainly doesn’t make me crazy, does it?” I asked, putting her on the defensive right from the start.

“Your…name. I’m writing your name, Mr. Gack,” she replied. “And we typically don’t use the term ‘crazy’ around here.”

“Whew!”

“Unless you’re a whack job,” she finished. “So, Mr. Gack, Judge Meryll T. Bones had concerns…”

I quickly ran through the case in my mind. What does she know…what does she know? Certainly not any of the whack job stuff, I assure myself. I pretty much keep that stuff to myself. Well, myself and Sigmund anyway [Sigmund is one of my personalities who fancies himself a shrink]. But Sigmund is most likely bound by personality-doctor privilege; or something, but I digress. 

“Look here, Doc, I’m sure any claims ole Judge Bones may have made about me are WILDLY exaggerated.” I waved my hands in a wide gesture…ahem…I waved my hands as widely as the shackles allowed to emphasize my point.

“Can you explain these texts right here?” she asked.

“Hey now, a man has to do what he has to do!” I may have blushed a little.

“What?” she asked, her left eyebrow rising slightly.

“What?” I recovered smoothly.

“Uh…which texts were you referring to…exactly?” Smooth, Gack, very smooth.

Doc shifted in her chair and recrossed her legs. “Let’s talk about why you’re here. Your neighbor called 911 about what sounded like a domestic dispute.” She checked her notes, “you were heard shouting ‘why you little frigitty framaglack, I’ll kill you!’ Can you explain that? Who exactly were you threatening?”

“Oh, heh heh, that…” That damnable nosey neighbor, John! Have I ever called the cops on him for that travesty he calls a barbecue? That thing is clearly a crime against humanity!

“Who is Gargelson?” she continued, not waiting for my completely plausible explanation.

“Gargelson? You must mean Benedict Gargleson?  He’s that shiesty fargmackin gnome who has made himself home in my backyard.”

“A gnome? Your back yard?” She asks, scribbling furiously.

I try to inconspicuously peer at her notepad.

“Well, not in my backyard exactly. That probably would seem…crazy?” I answered, raising my left eyebrow slightly.

She paused her scribbles and looked at me.

“He actually lives in a fallout shelter he and his gnome minions, his gnominions if you will, dug in my yard.”

Scribble.

“Uhh, heh heh, where uhh he plies Killian O’Nickerson with whisky [scribble] and interrogates him for his gold.”

Scribble scribble. “O’Nickerson…?”

“Yes, Killian O’Nickerson, a wily drunk leprechaun.”

SCRIBBLE!!!

“Uhhh, heh heh…I…heh… I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong notepad here. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” Did she just scribble ‘whack job?’

She paused her ominous scribbling and leaned forward with sudden interest, and poised her pen again above that notepad in a threatening manner.

It all started quite innocently…

[Strum strum strum, harp chords strummed and the story faded to my backyard]

“First of all,” I began firstly, “All of that ‘Turn around and place your hands on your head’ nonsense was completely unnecessary. I was simply having a minor disagreement with that shiesty gnome about the shady work he had done in my backyard.”

“When the officers arrived, they found no sign of the person your neighbor heard you threaten. But…they did find shovels, picks, and digging implements. That seems…suspicious.”

“The gnomes…”

Scribble…

“…fallout shelter…”

Scribble Scribble…

Maybe she’s just doodling, I crane my neck trying again to glimpse her artwork. 

“Mr. Gack, sit down!” she scolds. 

She’s probably not a very good artist. My curiosity dashed, I returned to my seat.

“Where was I now?”

“Your neighbor said he witnessed you wrapping your hands around a short, bearded guy’s neck and cursing him.”

“Well, I didn’t have anything to hit him with.”

“You…what?”

I seem to be digging myself a hole here, and no gnomes handy to fill it in for me.

“Were you angry with the little guy?” She placed her pen down on the pad and looked at me as if to build drama in some cheesy crime thriller on Netflix.

She had no chill.

“The gnome? Was I angry with him? Of course I was angry with him. He built a fallout shelter in my backyard. Do you think I’d strangle him…slightly…for no reason? I’m not crazy!” I folded my hands in my lap in a conspicuously non-choking fashion and looked at her with my least crazy smile.

“Mr. Gack, would you say you have anger issues?” she redirected, picked her pen back up and waited for my reply. The battle had clearly escalated. I leaned forward slightly, my brows furrowing. She stared me down and moved her pen to the page.

The cuffs jangled around my wrists and my hands opened in a pre-choking gesture. Two large officers on either side of me edged closer.
“I mean,” I started, a non-angry smile on my face, “no, of course not. I have no anger issues whatsoever.” I leaned back in the uncomfortable little seat.

Satisfied with my response…and the proximity of the officers she seemed to relax. She scribbled tauntingly so I added, “Don’t listen to those voices in my head. They lie.”

“Mr. Gack,” she began again, thumbing through papers in a thick manilla folder, “you have been accused of using the word ‘fuck’ in a manner that most normal [read ‘non-crazy’] people would use a comma? That sounds,” she paused, building the Netflix drama “angry.”

I leapt to my feet, my restraints jangling, and shouted “Who the fuck said that! Who said that!”

“I mean,” I continued after being returned to my seat forcefully by the officers, “I mean, don’t be ridiculous. Fuck is obviously used as a conjunction, maybe occasionally as an interjection. How the fuck would you use it as a comma?”

She stared at me, blinking, probably processing my irrefutable logic.

The duel continued for another forty five minutes. I easily countered all the diabolical and true accusations she pulled out of that nasty manilla folder. Just as I began to sense victory, I found myself strapped tightly onto a gurney and rolled briskly to the back of a waiting ambulance. 

Ms. Primapple trotted behind, her shoes clacking against the asphalt as she tried to keep up. The large officers lifted me into the ambulance through the open doors. She shouted encouragement to me, an obvious sign of defeat. “The doctors in Bellevue have some very good group therapy sessions. I think they can really fucking help you.”

Author: Ken Gack

Ken would go on to fight many more wits battles over the next 72 hours, with doctors, in group circle jer…therapy sessions and with other counselors before defeating the final master.