Author: Thalia Poet PM
Another psychiatrist story--but without the angst! Attempted humor story, with a little Ralph/Jack for the humor value. References to the movies (mostly 1963) and book.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor - Words: 3,317 - Reviews: 61 - Favs: 68 - Follows: 11 - Published: 04-08-03 - id: 1298683
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN: This story is dumb. I'm sorry, but it is. TONS of references to the first movie, a few to the second and to the book. Some Jack/Ralph stuff for humor value--and I could swear I'm spelling 'psychiatrist' wrong!! If I am, please tell me! (^_^) Lord of the Flies needs more humor. But don't get me wrong; I respect the meaning. Heck, I LOVE Lord of the Flies. But still...this section of ff.net only has sixteen humor stories, last time I checked--so let's make it seventeen! BTW... this is REALLY dumb. Did I mention that? (Review and I'll love you forever!!)
Therapy (How original!)
The psychiatrist watched as the group--the LARGE group--of boys entered the room.
It was totally quiet and awkward until a tall young man let out a derisive laugh and shook his head at her, gesturing with frustration. "We don't need this--Simon's the one who's insane!"
"Round the bend!"
Finally, everyone stopped, and the psychiatrist swallowed some Advil and smiled at the group. However, another boy jumped to his feet and started screaming in a slightly wigged-out way. "You killed him!! You killed him! How could you talk about him that way?? He was the only one who had any sense!"
"Sit down," said the psychiatrist, faintly amused but mostly alarmed. She gestured to all of the chairs arranged in a circle before her desk. "We can't have this--first we'll have an introduction, and then we can discuss these problems so we won't be labeled 'insane' forever..."
"SHUT UP!" shouted the boy with the fair hair, standing up and stomping a foot. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, shut up shut up!" Everyone went silent, but now the boy seemed to be unable to stop. "Shut... shut up, shut up--shut up--shut... shut..." finally worn down, he took a seat. "I'm Ralph."
The psychiatrist waited.
"Your last name, Ralph?"
"Uh--uh--I dunno." He shrugged. "It's a mystery."
The poor psychiatrist just nodded patiently and turned to the next boys--twins. They'd crammed into the same chair together.
"'n I'm Eric."
The grinned at her in way that made her extremely nervous. She coughed, and the naming went on. There was Robert, Harold, Henry, Maurice, and Bill--then three kids that no one seemed to know very well named Stanley, Wilfred, and Walter. The rest of them had no names--they were just called 'littluns.' Then things got slightly... weird.
"Percival Banana Shoebath."
"Uh--pardon me? Aren't you Percival Wemys Madison?"
"Oh." Percival looked embarrassed and rather weepy. He looked at Roger. "He told me that was my name..."
"That was a dirty trick," muttered Ralph.
The boy with red hair rolled his eyes, stood up and said importantly, "I'm Jack Merridew. I'm chapter chorister, and head boy, and I can sing C sharp, and I'm a chief and I killed a pig and you should've seen the blood!" He rubbed his hands and smiled wickedly. "Wacco!"
"Like a bomb!"
What the hell? thought the psychiatrist blankly, but she said almost automatically, "Okay. I've heard that there is some sort of power struggle going on here--"
Maurice gave a loud cough that sounded suspiciously like, 'understatement.'
"--and I would like to hear about it," finished the psychiatrist pleasantly. "Would anyone like to speak?"
The twins giggled, and the movement caused Sam to crash off his chair and into Roger's lap. Sam shrieked and scrambled away across the room, and Eric followed him. They stood against the wall, clutching each other and shaking madly.
"How about you, Sam and Eric?"
"Samneric," corrected Ralph.
She blinked. "Isn't--isn't that what I just said?"
"Not Sam and Eric. Samneric."
"Okay." She bit back a groan. "So. Sam and Eric--"
"SAMNERIC," repeated Ralph, sounding extremely irritated.
The psychiatrist ignored him. "--what's going on?"
No response. Sam and Eric sniveled, Jack laughed, and Percival brainlessly recited his address.
"Can you at least tell me who the power struggle involves?"
"--yes, and Ralph!"
"Okay!" The psychiatrist felt a twinge of triumph: she was finally getting somewhere! "Ralph, please stand on one side of the room. Jack stand on the other."
The two boys did so.
"Now, anyone on Jack's side, join him. Anyone who is on Ralph's side, get against the wall where he is."
There was a shuffle. Sam and Eric rushed over to Ralph, as did Percival and a bunch of the nameless littluns. Roger stood firmly next to Jack, and so did Bill and Maurice, but the others seemed torn. Then Henry said, "I didn't realize there was a power struggle" and the littluns nodded in agreement.
Ah, the blissfulness of childhood ignorance. The psychiatrist looked at Ralph. "Very well, then, Ralph. Would you like to tell me your side of the story?"
Ralph cleared his throat and began flatly. "I hate Jack--"
"I thought you said you were having an affair--" started Eric, but Ralph glared at him and he stopped.
"I hate Jack," he repeated firmly. "He wrecked the group, let the bloody, bloody, bloody bloody bloody fire out, killed pigs, and killed Piggy--"
Roger flickered a finger in the air. ".....no. Actually..........I killed Piggy..........." he was obviously the silent type. He didn't continue.
"--and I hate him!" Ralph was saying in a yell. "HATE HIM! And he sucks in bed, too."
Sam and Eric gazed at him in shock, Jack turned red, and Percival asked innocently, "What's that mean?"
"Does he SUCK in bed, or does he suck in bed?" said Maurice, wiggling his eyebrows.
Bill glared at him coldly. "That wasn't anywhere near funny."
"I don't get it," Sam muttered.
"It's called 'big boy humor,'" said Ralph, patting him on the shoulder. "You'll understand someday."
The psychiatrist had finally found her voice again. "Excuse me--Ralph, you're twelve years old, and Jack, you're not much older--and you... slept together?"
"What else was there to do?" Then Ralph's eyes widened. "I mean, no!! I'm--uh, I'm the 1990 version Ralph! That means I'm a little older than that--"
"Wasn't James Aubrey fourteen when he filmed?"
"How old was Balthazar Getty?"
"I thought you were the James Aubrey version," said Jack, frowning and looking at himself. "Then why am I Tom Chapin?"
Everyone began to look around, confused, then they started babbling.
"Half the room is in color and half of it is black and white!"
"But the 1990 version sucked!!! I want to be in black and white too!"
"You're lucky you have that option! I wasn't even IN the 1990 version!" said Maurice indignantly.
"SO AM I JAMES AUBREY OR BALTHAZAR GETTY?" shouted Ralph, getting exasperated.
"Balthazar Getty," said Roger.
"James Aubrey," said Samneric, frowning.
Eric looked startled. "Oops, we must be Edward and Andrew Taft--we're speaking at the same time instead of in turn."
"Or are we following the book descriptions?" asked Bill thoughtfully. "I mean, Ralph has FAIR HAIR in the book, but his hair is dark in both movies. And in the book, Simon has black hair. In the 1963 version, he's blonde, and in the 1990 version he has kinda curly brown hair."
"Well, Simon's dead, so it doesn't matter," said Jack.
Abruptly, all of the boys were back on track, and the psychiatrist chose to ignore that weird outburst.
"Because of what you did!" raged Ralph.
"You were in on that dance too!!"
Ralph sputtered for a moment, then stamped his feet angrily.
"You're James Aubrey!" gasped Percival, pointing. "Because James Aubrey does that cute little feet stamping thing when the fire goes out, but Balthazar Getty doesn't!"
"Okay," said Maurice, sounding satisfied. "Ralph is James Aubrey."
"WHO IS JAMES AUBREY?" the psychiatrist exploded finally, throwing up her arms.
They stared at her blankly. "Who?" asked Ralph.
The psychiatrist's eye was twitching now.
"Wait. There's another side to this," said Jack quickly. "Ralph is stupid. He can't sing, or hunt. He just makes up rules and expects us to follow them!"
"Oh. Yes... the--the uh, power struggle." The psychiatrist tried to gather her thoughts again. Then she straightened. "Have any of you ever received major head injuries?"
"PIGGY has," said Jack.
Ralph, screaming like Tarzan, launched himself at Jack but was held back by Sam, Eric, Percival, Bill, and the legion of littluns.
"Head injuries, eh?" said Jack when they'd calmed down. "Nope. Not me."
"I haven't had any," said Ralph.
"Zip. Nil. Naught. Nothing. Nix. Zilch."
"Darn it, Bill, you took all my synonyms for 'none...'"
"I have," said Maurice suddenly. "My mum gave birth to me standing up and I hit my head on the floor, and the doctor tried to pick me up but I was slippery so HE dropped me, then when I was two I got my head stuck in a basket, and when I was three I fell down the stairs. Nine times in a row."
"It was just a thought." The psychiatrist looked through her papers. "Now we'll--"
"When I was four I hit it on a doorframe," Maurice continued, ticking things off his fingers. "And when I was six, I hit it on a cabinet. When I was seven I--"
Everyone glanced at the psychiatrist in shock. She gave them menacing smiles and pushed up her glasses. "Now we're going to do a little team-building activity."
"Ha!" shouted Ralph, rolling his eyes. "You couldn't get us to be a team if you... if you...someone help me, I can't think of a good saying..."
"If you tied us down and forced us to talk to each other!"
"BILL!" everyone screamed.
The psychiatrist smiled.
Ten minutes later, they were all tied to chairs.
"This is illegal," complained Jack. "Child abuse!"
"So? The hours the cast worked on the 1963 version of Lord of the Flies was illegal," said Ralph. "Ten hours a day. And did anyone bust Peter Brook? Noooo, because the movie was so good--"
"What is this movie you keep talking about?" asked the psychiatrist.
Ralph looked confused. "What movie?"
"The Lord of the Flies. Peter Brook!"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
The psychiatrist began to beat her head on her desk repeatedly. After about twelve dozen hard thwacks on the head, she glanced up again, the friendly smile back on her face. "Let's go around the circle and give each other compliments!"
There was an explosion of gagging, snorting, laughing, and snort-laughing.
"You can start," she said patiently, pointing to Percival, who looked sweetly around the group.
"Okay! Ralph, you're nice. Jack, you're nice. Bill, you're nice. Roger, you're nice! Maurice, you're nice! Robert, you're nice! Phil, you're nice! Henry, you're--well, you're not nice, but you're good at throwing sand at people. Same with Johnny. And Walter, you're nice, and Stanley, you're nice, and Wilfred, you're nice, and Samneric, you're nice, and I'm nice!"
"Awww," said Bill. "You're a cute kid, you know?"
Jack made an enormous gagging noise and accidentally tipped over his chair with a clunk.
The psychiatrist righted the chair and smiled at Percival. Percival grinned cutely.
"Urp, slop, get the mop."
"Shut up." The psychiatrist glanced at Jack. "Thank you for volunteering to go next!"
Jack glanced around the group. "Roger, you're a good hunter, and the way you killed Piggy was excellent!"
Roger nodded modestly.
The psychiatrist blinked.
"Maurice. You're good at debating and I'm proud of you for joining my group. Bill, you're smart. Samneric, though you two are losers--"
"Jack," the psychiatrist warned.
"--okay, okay. Samneric--you--you--hunt good." He sighed. "Henry, you're a good singer. Johnny, you're short--"
"But I don't even know him!" Jack complained.
"Well, skip the people you don't know."
"Now you tell me...Percival, you--you're good at reciting your address."
This compliment made Percival thrilled. He grinned and rocked back and forth in his chair. No one noticed when he fell backwards because they were all listening with amusement to Jack's compliment for Ralph.
"Ralph, you smell bad!"
"You have a butt like a wedge of soft cheese!"
Ralph's look could only be described as 'bitch.' He kicked out and tipped Jack's chair backwards.
"WAHHHHHHH!" Jack yelled, his voice muffled by the giant beanbag that Ralph kicked on top of him. "GET IT OFF! LOSERS! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!" Ralph, furious, started kicking him in the butt.
"I'LL SHOW YOU A BUTT LIKE A WEDGE OF SOFT CHEESE!" he shrieked.
"HEY--CUT IT OUT, RALPH, I NEED THAT!!"
"EWW!" gasped Maurice, falling over in his chair too. "MENTAL IMAGES!"
"Ralph! That is enough!" said the psychiatrist, but made no move to help Jack up. "Mister Merridew, I'm not letting you up until you give Ralph a sincere, NICE compliment!"
For nearly half an hour, Jack moaned and pleaded. Finally he dispatched the following word:
"What was that?"
"I SAID, YOU'RE NOT A BAD KISSER!" screamed Jack.
The psychiatrist was disgusted, but she grudgingly admitted that Jack's compliment was sufficient. She tipped him back upright. "Ralph, it's your turn."
"Um--Samneric. You're faithful. UNLIKE JACK."
"Ralph," the psychiatrist warned.
"Maurice, you're intelligent. UNLIKE JACK."
"Percival, you're nice. UNLIKE JACK."
"Bill, you're attractive. UNLIKE JACK!"
The psychiatrist began to cough. Bill fell over in his chair and knocked over Maurice and Percival. Samneric gagged. Ralph blushed, and Jack scowled.
"THAT WAS COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY!" shouted the psychiatrist. Then she VERY patiently forced a smile on her face and waited.
"Well, compliment Jack!"
More silence. Bill made a farting noise.
"Compliment... Jack... right... now."
"C'mon, Ralph," said Sam.
"We don't want to be here all night--"
"--we're wasting time--"
"SAM, STOP INTERRUPTING ME!" Eric shrieked, turning bright red. "I AM SO SICK OF YOU JUMPING IN WHENEVER I TRY TO SAY SOMETHING!! YOU DO IT SO OFTEN AND HALF THE TIME YOU'RE NOT EVEN SAYING WHAT I WAS GOING TO SAY!!"
"WELL, MAYBE IF YOU DIDN'T DO IT TO ME SO OFTEN I WOULDN'T!" Sam screeched.
"Sounds like there's some sort of sibling quarrel?"
"Yes, because we don't--"
"--even think alike--"
"--but everyone thinks we're alike--"
"--and I DO NOT interrupt Sam--"
"--I don't interrupt Eric; not ever!"
"And there's another thing!" said Eric. "It's always 'Samneric.' Not 'Ericnsam!'"
"Well, Samneric sounds better," said the psychiatrist reasonably.
"IT DOES NOT!! IT'S ERICNSAM!! NO MORE OF THIS SAMNERIC CRAP! GOT THAT??" Eric glared around the group so sharply that even Jack shuddered.
"Whatever," muttered the psychiatrist, giving up. She looked back at Ralph. "Compliment Jack."
Silence returned. Percival hummed.
"Huh?" said Ralph, sitting up. "Hey, Percival, what are you humming?"
"It sounds like the Jeopardy theme song!" gasped Bill.
"I'm humming 'Kyrie Eleison,'" said Percival, frowning.
"Oh, of course," said Jack.
"Still sounds like the Jeopardy theme song," Bill muttered.
"Kyrie, kyrie, kyrie eleison. Kyrie, kyrie, kyrie, eleison! Kyri, kyri, kyri, kyri, kyri, kyri, kyrie! Kyri, kyri, kyri, kyri, kyri, kyri, kyrie!" Jack sang softly.
"My god, what retarded lyrics," said Maurice, sounding surprised. "I didn't even notice that; I've never seen the song written."
"That's why you need to turn the subtitles on. They make typos too, if you notice--"
"WHAT SUBTITLES? WHO IS JAMES AUBREY AND TOM CHAPIN AND PETER BROOK AND--"
Ralph frowned. "What on earth are you talking about???"
The psychiatrist began to look around frantically, grinning. "Oh--oh, I get it, I'm on Candid Camera."
"If this is the 1963 version, Candid Camera hadn't been invented," said Bill.
"I'm confused--let's just stop talking about the timelines, okay?"
"But--but I thought I was James Aubrey--"
The psychiatrist discovered that she had overdosed on Advil and dismissed this conversation. She thought she was delusional. Satisfied with this explanation, she resumed her therapy. "Please, Ralph--it's not that hard. Just say something nice to Jack."
Tired of resisting, Ralph said monotonously, "You have a nice last name."
"Do you remember your last name yet, Ralph?"
"Okay, this activity is over."
"Finally! It's already taken up four pages--"
The psychiatrist gave up at once. "So. Who's Piggy and who's Simon?"
Immedietly everyone fell silent. Then Ralph, nearly bawling, said, "Piggy's dead, and so's Simon--all because of Jack!"
"He's a fat kid," said Bill bluntly. "Wore specs, had asthma--"
"Sucks to your ass-mar..."
Everyone ignored Ralph. "And Simon was batty!"
"Stop that!!" yelled the psychiatrist. "Why do you all have those outbursts?"
"Dunno," said Maurice, grinning at her. "Um--my chair is STILL tipped over; can you help me up?"
She ignored him. "It looks like this session is ending--let me give you my assessments, and then one for the group. Okay. Jack."
Jack looked up.
"You're very angry and confused. This could be due to the fact that you can't seem to accept the fact that you are homosexual."
"Further more," she continued, "I believe that you are a very influential person, but you use your power in a rather negative way."
"You also have problems dealing with your homosexuality. You seem to suffer from some sort of personality disorder--thinking that you are 'James Aubrey' and 'Balthazar Getty,' whoever these people are. And you normally hide your violence nature, except towards Jack, who--may I remind you--you kicked repeatedly in the arse."
"I had a good reason--"
"Maurice, you should've seen someone about those head injuries--"
Maurice, who had just squiggled up, tipped his chair again and knocked his head hard on the floor.
"Bill--you are extremely eccentric--that's all I can say."
Bill grinned at her and gave her two thumbs up. "Yes siree, yo Mr. Bob!"
"Roger--you're too quiet."
"..........................................." said Roger.
"You got it right!" said Ralph, surprised.
"ERICNSAM!" Eric yelled.
"--you two seem to be fairly normal, until it comes to your relationship with each other. Consider seeing some sort of family specialist. Eric, you specifically have a lot of anger."
"Shut up," said Eric.
"Percival--you're an adorable little kid, but you don't seem to get much attention, which could result in your lack of ability to remember your address."
"Yups," said Percival cutely.
"And as a group..." she inhaled deeply, "YOU ARE SO INCREDIBLY ANNOYING!!! YOU HAVE PROBLEMS!! YOU ARE A BUNCH OF HOMOSEXUAL KIDS OBSESSED WITH JAMES AUBREY AND BALTHAZAR GETTY AND YOU LIVE IN A WORLD OF FANTASY!!! YOU HAVE SERIOUS IDENTITY PROBLEMS AND I'M GOING TO DIE DURING TOMORROW'S SESSION! YOU NEED LIVES, OR AT LEAST HOBBIES!"
She untied them and slammed the door, screaming.
"We didn't need her to tell us that," Bill muttered.
"I know! A twelve page story to come to an obvious conclusion??"
The psychiatrist opened the door. "Story? What?"
"What?" everyone said, perplexed.
The psychiatrist resumed her screaming.