A Different Kind of Therapist
Whitney York was a thin, blonde haired, blue eyed demon; fashionably dressed in pink. She didn't actually spew hellfire, but she divided the world into sycophants and losers and treated them accordingly. Whitney was the only winner.
If Whitney had been anyone else, karma would have eventually adjusted her attitude; but Whitney was an heiress of the York family. Whitney's family owned several restaurant chains, a major hotel chain, and had controlling interest in several petroleum companies. Whitney's father was widely known to have purchased a senatorial seat for a suitably grateful employee. Under the York family's influence, petty things like Whitney's traffic tickets and disorderly conduct charges simply went away.
So karma took another path and made Whitney famous – not famous for anything in particular, but a celebrity nonetheless – famous for being famous. And famous people waving money around (particularly large sums of money) tended to attract tabloid reporters instead of making them go away. While the York family could tolerate many things, conspicuous public infamy was not one of them.
Whitney sneered as she looked around the waiting room of Victor Mortinson. She had promised her father that she would give the eccentric psychotherapist one session before quitting, but she could already tell, if the other people in the waiting room were any indication of the quality of Mr. Mortinson's patients, that there wouldn't be a second session. It wasn't that any of the patients looked particularly scary: they just didn't look anywhere close to her income bracket. This did not look like the place were a daughter of one of the richest families in the United States should be hanging out. The man wasn't even a real doctor, but only a psychotherapist, for Christ's sake.
And what was with the boob jobs and heavily tailored office wear? Despite all the pencil skirts and shiny black pumps, the place still felt more like a stripper convention before the clothes come off than an office.
The waiting room was packed, but people were sent into the back very quickly, with less than five minutes between them. Whitney began to wonder how many therapists worked here. There was only one name on the door.
When Whitney's turn arrived, the attendant took her into a back room, checked Whitney's blood pressure, and got a medical history. The attendant was very deferential, a nearly ideal sycophant, and Whitney gave her minimal grief during the medical formalities. During the questions, Whitney spotted what looked like a very official medical diploma on the wall, but a closer inspection revealed it was just an honorarium from a solipsist society.
Victor Mortinson was a short, stout, middle aged man with graying black hair combed over and plastered down with some kind of cheap product. To Whitney, his thick build seemed more at home in a butcher's shop than a therapist's office. The attendant looked physically ill when he entered the room before she had finished her medical history, and Whitney downgraded her original assessment of the woman down to loser.
"Solipsism," Whitney said before Victor could introduce himself. "Isn't that the philosophy that says, 'I exist, but I'm not too sure about you'?"
"Something like that," Victor said with a chuckle. "But I tend to follow the Alan Watts holistic approach to the philosophy."
Whitney waved aside the inconsequential details with her hand and asked, "How can you be a solipsist and a psychotherapist? Aren't they mutually exclusive?"
Victor chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "Not at all," he said. "When I take my finger and touch my nose, I don't ask my finger's opinion on the matter. I feel, and you might agree, that it is a part of me. Likewise, if my finger isn't acting the way it should, I neither hate nor love my finger over its behavior: I simply fix it."
"So that is what I am to you, a broken finger in need of fixing?"
"You must understand, I want you to be happy," Victor said. "The distinction between your happiness and mine is maya, a false dichotomy. I don't consider your happiness to be separate from mine."
"You know best," Whitney replied automatically, as her brain struggled to rewrite itself in alignment with what she had been commanded. "So what you are saying is that devoting myself to making you happy will make me happy?" she asked doubtfully.
"Exactly!" Victor said, like a teacher speaking to an exceptionally bright student.
"You know best," Whitney repeated.
"Don't worry," Victor said. "I have a mantra for you. We will schedule daily appointments, billed to your family, of course, and repeat the command every day until it becomes a natural part of your thinking."
"You know best. What is the command?" Whitney asked.
"Doing things that you think Victor will like, like pleasing your family and calming their worries, will make you horny and happy," Victor commanded. "Acknowledgment from me that you have pleased me causes an instant orgasm. Displeasing me causes nausea."
"You know best," Whitney automatically replied, "but I don't think that will work."
"You have no idea how much healthy skepticism pleases me," Victor said.
Whitney instantly collapsed in one of the strongest orgasms she had felt in her life.
"You will get used to those," Victor said with a chuckle. Opening the door, he said to the waiting attendant, "When she comes down, schedule the usual daily appointments for the next week, then we will reevaluate."
"You know best," the attendant replied. Handing Victor a folder, she added, "Your next appointment is in room four."
When Victor snagged the folder for his next appointment, he was surprised to find the contents were blank. Only the first name "Deedee" was written in the name field on the outside of the folder.
Shooting his attendant a confused look, he was surprised to find that she looked pleased, as if she hadn't done anything wrong. The attendant's face fell as she realized she had made a gross mistake.
"If you are going to get sick, dear, I suggest doing it in the bathroom," the patient said. "Victor wouldn't like it if you vomited on his shoes."
The attendant fled the room with one hand over her mouth.
The patent was a tall girl, chubbier than Victor preferred, with dirty blonde hair. When Victor entered the room, he could have sworn there was nothing special about her; but it had to have been some type of ruse. As Victor watched, she wrapped a regal confidence about herself that was nearly on a par with his own.
"Is Deedee your real name, or was that just an alias for my attendant?" Victor asked warily. He only knew of one mind-controller more powerful than himself in San Francisco, but he wasn't willing to bet his free will on that.
"I think you are really wondering which of us is at the helm," Deedee replied instead. "You are ... and yes, my name is really Deedee."
"What can I do for you then, Deedee?" Victor asked. "If I really am the more powerful one, you took a big risk coming to me instead of sending an emissary."
"I want you to make me normal," Deedee said. She gestured vaguely and added "I want you to make all this go away."