Igor decided to give it a go and looked in the internet for a shrink which wasn’t charging an arm and a leg. He didn’t find any one though so he bought, in recommendation, some black label and sat down in a lumpy easy chair at the window of a hut he had broken into last winter, and which no one had come to claim. Just to be sure though he had his sawed off on the little creaking rickety table which also held his glass and the bottle.
He commenced the work.
He lumped down the first portion, poured a next one and drank it half and commenced to talk to the dead plant he had installed in front of him. He figured that was as good as a shrink since a good shrink much doesn’t say anything as he had read in early Freudian literature of which, as we realize, he was expert.
So… yeah… Im not gonna talk about my mother, nor my father to you, plant. He said. And he drank the rest of the whiskey and poured more. He frowned and grimaced. Fuck that. He said. He wanted to beat the plant up, and realized it was going well. He stood up and walked in a couple of circles and sat down again.
You know, fear, plant? He said. Of course ya don’t. You’re dead. Dead men don’t fear. Dead plants, dead men, all same sausage. He sipped a bit and then was craving all kinds of things all of a sudden and realized, death and sex, they are totally the same if you are partaking in neither. Or whatever. Fuck. He sat down again, man. This time, he meant it.
Whatcha wanna know, plant, he said. So he went on about his childhood. I was born in a shack much like this by all accounts and then I went to school and had a few buddies we used to go and steal candy and hide it in a cut up football and my buddy Bert would toss the ball full of candy to me in the store, and I was scared because if we’d get caught Bert would be fine and Id get a beating before my sisters. But it didn’t happen. Bert was good like that and he mocked me. Have you ever been mocked, plant?