2010-05-26: All The Wrong Questions



Date: May 26th, 2010


Nobody wants to walk the dog therapist, but somebody's got to do it.

"All The Wrong Questions"

Gang Hideout

It's been a boring day for the kidnapped today. In fact, many days are boring days. So really, this day is no different. And so it is for Fred, laying atop his pink sheeted single bed in his tiny room, as he stares up at the ceiling, trying not to give too much thought to much of anything. Though, occasionally, his mind does wander. At the moment, it's starting to wander and wonder if he'll ever get a chance to talk to the boss man again, to try and get himself to be a part of the team as opposed to a prisoner being held hear against his will. He hopes, beyond hope, that when the meeting does come, it won't be a repeat of the last time, where the other man had a bit of a psychotic break.

Today is not exactly the day Fred was hoping for, but it does bring with it a certain kind of reprieve — in so much as the door opening. Into the small room lumbers a man much too tall to really look comfortable in it, and the bored, bordering on irritated, expression does little to suggest he's anymore thrilled about this than the prisoner is. "Hey," Roscoe barks, barely giving Fred a glance as he instead surveys the room, twirling the keys to the cell around his forefinger absently. "If you're not dead yet, then get up."

Well, it's like they say, you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you'll find…you get something annoying. Giving a glance toward the man who has entered the room, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up. "You know…you act a lot like a jailer, you know that? What with the twirling of the keys around your finger and the barking out of commands. Have you ever thought of joining the police force instead of working here? I hear they've got got great dental."

Roscoe's stare stops wandering long enough to pin an at first incredulous look that takes little time in tugging up a lip into a wholly unimpressed sneer. Neither company is, then, really happy with the other. But here they are. "You think of that one all by yourself?" The man drawls, strolling further in with the intent to haul Fred bodily to his feet — though not necessarily make sure he's steadily on them. "It's almost like it's totally worth having three fuckin' shrinks whining around here."

Fred tilts his head a little bit. "Don't take that the wrong way. It's really more of a compliment than it is an insult." He says in a mock cheerful voice. He doesn't resist getting to his feet. In fact, he does so all by his lonesome as Roscoe moves to get him up. "Well…you can never have enough shrinks. As they say, 'A shrink here today, your frets will go away.' Or at least that's what I hear people say." He shrugs. "So, what's your boss got for me today? More fun on the band wagon? Maybe a chat with that bear of his?"

"Really? 'Cause it sounded like you were jus' trying to bother me." Finding he doesn't have to exert force, Roscoe instead braces splayed hands against his hands, resting underneath the folds of his champagne jacket in complete casualness. Though his mouth closes around most of his irritation, he can't but help that one twitch in the lip of distaste as Fred goes on and on and on. Taking a step in that puts him looming over the shrink, he leans down slightly, pointing towards the open cell door. "Well. Yer gonna go out there for a lil' bit," he describes, slowly as if for a child, "Then yer gonna come back in here." A pause where he straightens, give it some thought. "I might hit you cause you're annoying and you talk too much."

Fred chuckles. "Me? Trying to bother you? Goodness me, no. I'm just trying to get to know my captures a little bit better. That's all." He says calmly. Standing up straight, he looks at Roscoe, shaking his head. "You know, that big macho, 'I'm stronger than you' stuff? Not gonna work on me." He smiles. "what…am I…gonna do…out there?" He asks, speaking in the same slow tones as Roscoe, as he thumbs toward the door. "I may be annoying, but that doesn't stop the fact that I'm not worried about you punching me." He says with a sly grin. Truly, his self assuredness might just be his downfall around here.

"Yeah, well, the great thing about punchin' people is that they don't gotta be worried for it to happen." Roscoe seems similarly unperturbed by Fred's behavior, choosing instead to grab the edge of the door to open it wide enough for both of them. Rather than go through it, however, he waits for the shrink, puts out a foot, and kicks the guy the rest of the way. "You know," he mentions, casually, thoughtfully poised into the open hallway as he steps aside to let the cell door slam shut, "I think— you're so smart, clearly. You can figure out what you're doin' out here yourself."

Fred raises an eyebrow and grins. "You know, you're not half bad. If only the boss would let me work for him full on, instead of keeping me locked up. We could make quite the team." But why? Why could they make quite the team? He doesn't say, though it doesn't happen that he's kicked out of the room, quite literally. Looking around he says, "Maybe I ain't as smart as you take me for. Ever thought of that? Though…if I wasn't at least half as smart as the boss thinks I am, I probably wouldn't be here. Though I'm sure it helps me that I know lil' Miss Dr. Falkland. But much good that does me. I'm still stuck here. Without a clue as to what you want me to do at the present time."

All it takes is Roscoe's roll of the eyes and short grimace to suggest that yeah, he thought of that. And probably worse. Yet, fading back into neutrality, he only takes a few paces into this adjoining room before twisting and falling into a lean against the nearest wall. His hands stay at his hips, leaving him utterly relaxed as he observes Fred with a not-quite lingering and yet still fully attentive gaze. "I wouldn't peg a lot on the boss' thinking bein; the reasoning, guyshrink, bein' as how he's batshit crazy and all. Couldn' care even less about Blonde Therapist and… whoever else was in there. Ask me, hostages aren't worth the pain in the ass they are."

Fred turns to face the man that would be his watchman. He watches the man carefully. "Oh, the boss man has his own little reasoning, I'm sure." There's a pause for a quick second. "He may or may not be crazy. I haven't spent that much time with him." Just enough time to know, for sure, that the man is off his rocker. Though Fred wouldn't say that out right. "I do agree, hostages can be a waste of time, and you don't want to spend your time babysitting someone, am I right?"

"Well, I say he's crazy," Roscoe announces, delivering it as having more authority than Fred's determination, though not necessarily as that 'crazy' is a particularly bad thing in this case. Since there's just them, the walls, and a few magazines on top of boxes, he often manages to be looking back at Fred, a keener look in his eyes than might be suggested by his tone or posture. To the question, he groans, shifting his weight to one side in order to ruffle about in a jacket pocket. He comes up with an Apollo candy bar that he waves at Fred before bringing in front of them to peel open. "Here's one, guyshrink. Why ask questions that are really fucking obvious?"

"I suppose a person could say that about him. Though, I deal with crazy on a daily basis. Or I did before being…brought here." Fred says thoughtfully. Leaning on opposite wall, he gazes at the man across from him, almost as if judging his character. He shakes his head at the candy bar. "Never been a fan of Apollo candy bars." He says lightly. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours. How come you're not being as forceful and pushy toward me as the other guards?"

A flash of disbelief tugs his eyebrows down, his mouth into a thin line that he draws apart to announce, "I ain't offering it to you, dumbass." Still somewhat shaking his head, Roscoe rips off a generous bite of the candy bar for himself and only himself. The piece, not chewed, is stuffed for safe-keeping into his cheek when he's compelled to respond, "It was re… retor— the point wasn't that it needed answering. I don't do dumb questions." After working on the candy bar some, he gives a satisfied swallow and, chockfull of sarcasm, adds, "Well, shucks, you said the 'macho' thing wasn't gonna work for you, so I just didn't know what to do with myself."

Fred smiles. "No, you were trying to taunt me though, weren't you? Show me that you had something nice and sweet while I had…nothing?" He taps the side of his head. "I'm not a psychologist for nothing." After a short pause, he nods. "Well, the questions aren't so dumb…not if you know the reason for them. Which I've got my own little reasons for. So, even if they seem stupid to you, they're not so stupid to me." He says kindly. "Now, what's the boss want me to do today? Swamp the bathrooms? Psychoanalyze the other psychologists? Perform magic tricks?"

Once again, Roscoe has to take a long moment to just sort of eye Fred as though he is, perhaps, the real crazy one. Or just the other crazy one. "I," he says slowly, "Just wanted a fucking candy bar. Jesus, you shrinks." And he continues to eat at it with a clear and steady dissolving of his patience. The eyes aren't keen anymore, they're wandering for anything else to focus on. Finally, he opts to push away from the wall and wander towards those magazines sitting out. A hand flips a few pages before he just lets the article just slide irresponsibly to the floor. "Oh, you know," he mutters, "You're doing it." Pause. "Or not. I don't actually give a shit."

Fred smiles. "I'm not saying you didn't." He says happily. "Don't you just love how we psychologists like to get into your head?" He says, for the first time, in a real sarcastic tone. "Look, why don't we…talk about something you want to talk about. Like…sports? You like sports? How about comics? Superheroes. People with…abilities! I've got great stories about people with abilities if you wanted to talk about that." A short pause. "Or, you could do all the talking and I could shut up."

"You know," Roscoe offers, leveling a semi-serious look over the top of the boxes at Fred, "You want to get in with batshit boss, you might want to try bein' less of a smartass all the time. Makes people want to put a bullet in ya real good." When sweet bliss is offered, the man is quick to snap his fingers in the air at the therapist and say, "Yeah. You shut up." Grinning contentedly at this image, he strolls a few steps closer to share this expression of affected happiness before pointedly breaking off the next piece of candy bar to eat. In silence. Complete, awesome silence.

Fred crosses his arms and looks at Roscoe just as serious, or semi-serious as the case may be. But he's good at being silent. He's got practice, after all…lots of it. For a few moments, he just stares. It's kinda creepy, really. But, after it seeming like he's bored, he looks toward the magazines. Interesting. Reading material. That's something he doesn't get in his room. But why would he? He's a prisoner. It's not like her works here at all.

The magazines are a couple — something about fishing still on the box, and a news magazine from two years ago that Roscoe already knocked on the floor. The blond man, for his part, could have forgotten Fred existed for all he behaves. Mostly he digs around in his jacket for another candy and only comes up with a flask of what would be some unnamed alcohol. Gurgling a swig of it down, he brushes the back of his hand across his mouth. He gives a few whistling notes. Then, without any warning, he turns on his heels to face Fred with both hands out cheerfully, "Puns!" Random announcement? "I like puns. Give me a pun, smartass."

Fred stares at those magazines as if they were the most interesting things in the world. Which at this moment they could very well be…that is, until Roscoe pulls out a flask. Fred slowly looks back up at the man who stands across from him. He chuckles as he finally asks for a pun. "Okay. Here's a pun for ya! 'A man woke up in a hospital after a serious accident. He shouted, "Doctor, doctor, I can't feel my legs!" The doctor replied, "I know you can't - I've cut off your arms!"'"

There passes a long moment of silence, studied silence where Roscoe only stares at Fred without a single trace of reaction or twitch of anything. He holds remarkably still. But when the time is over, his head jerks back suddenly and he lets out such a bark of laughter it echoes through the narrow room and down a hallway. "I like that!" He declares jovially, reaching out to thump Fred rather heavily on the shoulder. The other hand shakes the flask of alcohol before he pauses to take another swig, brings the hand up again to rub at his chin. In the same voice, though no trace of joking: "Yeah… I should try that sometime."

Fred smiles widely. "Well, I'm glad you liked it!" He says, leaning slightly as he's bumped on the shoulder. He glances down the hallway, almost sure that someone would come their way at the sound of laughter, wondering what was going on in this little corner of the building. "Well, I'm sure there're some thugs that work around here who'd let you experiment on them." He says jokingly.

They may be speaking with more humor, but that doesn't mean Roscoe is at all teasing. He seems completely factual when he shrugs, suggesting, "I don't need permission to cut an Irishman." The area remains clear of other traffic; if anyone heard Roscoe laughing… they knew better than to investigate. Lest they have their arms cut off to test a pun. Capping his flask, the man slides it back into his pocket and then waves his hand dismissive-style towards the door Fred originated from. "Alright. You've been out. Now get back in."

Fred shakes his head. "I don't doubt that." He smiles. "Hey, you guys got a shooting range that you use? I've been horribly out of practice since being cooped up here and I just hate to be rusty when it comes to practicing my aim." He says with a shrug. "You can supervise me all you guys want. I won't steal the gun. I'm smart enough to know you all would shoot me down before I had a chance to." He says with a nod. "Back in my room so soon? Just when we were starting to have fun? Dang." He shrugs. "Well, if you need me, you know where to find me." He says, walking casually back into the room. "Have fun with your other babysitting endeavors!"

"Don't really care what you hate." Strolling in step behind Fred back to the room, Roscoe shakes his head again, though this time with less venom. "You know, bein' cutesy about it ain't gonna get you what you want any better than tryin' to shock and please us with your 'surprise' knowledge of guns or yer little comments about what a well-behaved bootlicker you are. So. Yeah." At the doorway, he brings up a hand to rub at his nose, adding, "Oh yeah," and, with no telling switch of posture to give it away beforehand, he just lets loose with a fist at Fred's face, lobbying for the therapist's nose. "Almost forgot."

Fred shakes his head once more. "I'm not trying to shock anyone. I'm just asking questions. Dumb as they may be. I've got a right to ask as much as the next guy does." But…here comes the punch. Holding his nose up, so it doesn't bleed too badly, he says in a nasal sounding voice, "Yeah, I saw that one comin'. Little too predictable if you ask me." With a wave of his free hand he makes his way his bed and lays down.

"Didn't ask! Still fun." Roscoe grins happily, cracking the knuckles of the hand that made contact as he turns to walk back to the door, whistling happily to himself in a twice better mood than he entered. As he reaches the door, hand gripping the edge as before, he does pause, though, pressing his lips together in thought as he considers, turns. "You know," a finger taps his temple once, then points out into the air, "It ain't the questions, guyshrink. It's your incessant need to follow up with an explanation or insight that reveals you havin' an ulterior motive." His mouth pulls down in an exaggerated ehhh, think about it. His last thought as he crosses the threshold is, "We should do this again sometime. You'll have a new pun, I'll probably punch you again. Nice an' predictable." Door slam.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License