| FREUDIAN PORK The therapist chewed the end of his pencil and cast another questioning glance at the man befre speaking again. "Sir, is this about your mother?" The man snorted. "What?" The thereapist shrugged and looked out of the window. "Maybe you are feeling a primordial instinct to kill your father so you can marry your mother." The man frowned at this statement. He hated the thereapist and his stupid black turtleneck. He hated him and his stupid crackpot questions. But most of all, he hated the stupid looking round glasses he had on that made him look like a glazed robot. "Hmm, no. But sometimes I wake up and I want to kill my son, because he's after my wife and I'm the only thing in his way." He tried to make a straight face. The therapist gave him a glassy stare. "Oops." He broke his pencil between his hands to emphasize the un-expressive tone. "Time's up. Please exit on the right. NEXT!" The fat grumbly man took his advice and walked into the lobby. He stepped over a hypochondriac who was clawing at his hush puppies and screaming about how his obesity and dysentry were tearing him in two. The man peered down over his own large face to the hypochondriac sprawled on the floor and the room became silent. He straightened his tie under his one-was chiseled chin and hissed "Get a real job, screwball," the words peeping out of his head like snakes. He slid into his cadillac and furiously pulled out of the parking lot. He drove straight home, running all four of the red lights he came to. The garage door shut him into the dark and he rolled the car window down to let the sweet carbon dioxide vapors kiss his trachea before laughing. "Not today, not today...!" he told the dark, jauntily hopping out of his car. He stepped into his house. His wife stood at the other end of the hallway, a slender jade dress hugging her curves like a gigantic necklace. He dropped his breifcase and slowly went over to her. His hand delicately took her wrist and he brought it up to his nose, closing his eyes. "You've gotten out of your cage." He said, smiling. She smiled back and leaned in so her face was right next to his ear. "I'll be good this time..." she whispered seductively, sliding out of his fingers. She slinked back into the kitchen and put a pig on a tray with an apple in it's mouth into the oven. "You're not my wife." he chuckled. She did not return his gaze. "Me? Of course not." She turned the oven all the way up and broke the stainless steel knob off with her fist. It bounced twice on the ground, leaving a little pockmark of her blood where it landed. He turned around and made his way up the stairs slowly, going up three steps and then stepping down one. He stepped into his son's room where the boy was double-clicking his way into a permanent culdesac. He slowly saw his father's figure in the doorway and jumped. "Dad! Wha--how long have you been standing there?" he asked, taking his headphones off. The man clenched his fat fists at his side "Marry my wife, eh?" The boy frowned. "What?" "You're going to have to get through me first." |