A Night At The Madhouse

“I think my brain is missing,” he said absentmindedly.

“You’ve been pronouncing that word the Arabic way,” she Said.

“This broken chicken had Windows 10 installed in the department store forest.” He made as much sense as a broken change machine.

“That was a homophone, using the fact that ‘sense’ sounds like ‘cents’, and cents are what you get from a change machine, unless it’s broken.” She condescended like Martha Stewart during her securities fraud days going down stairs while explaining a recipe to a baby.

“I know. I’m not stupid. I’m smart, which is the exact opposite of stupid. Well, dumb is the opposite of smart too. Lots of things are the opposite of other things!” His comment was as unnecessary as the backstory and dialogue of a pornographic movie.

“This device of making a bit of dialogue followed by some sort of comment that pushes the fourth wall is getting kind of old and stuff.” Hey, up yours, lady. Who’s writing this story anyway?

“You are. But now you’ve broken the fourth wall, so it’s new again.” I know. BUt now that I’ve broken the fourth wall, this has become dialog where half of it doesn’t have quotation marks, and now I’m a character in this story. Except I can decide what everyone says and does. Right?

“You’re absolutely right in every possible way, sir.” She removes all her clothes and sits on the bed, alluringly. “Hey! I didn’t do that!” She did that. “Dammit, stop making me do things, you pervert!” She is suddenly more receptive to doing things, and quieter. “Okay, I see your point.”

“I see your bosoms and your no-no spot!” He, who like her had yet to be named, seemed to enjoy her nudity, despite being a quarter of the way into post op transexualism. In fact, he was having an operation right now. Female to male.

“That’s not true! I was born a dude! I’m a dude right now! You can’t take that away from me!” I’m not taking anything. I’m giving you something, through the doctors who I’m going to now say are in the operating room that I’m going to say you’re in.

“I had it already. I’m one of the doctors.” He WAS wearing a doctor coat. Actually, she had a doctor coat too.

“That’s right. Now you’re catching on.” She was as elusive as an out of the loop Aleutian lupine on a loop-de-loop with a loup garou eating Froot Loops in the loo of an igloo.

“Maybe he’s not catching on, after all.” Suddenly, he disappeared, because he didn’t exist. And the doctors didn’t exist, and she existed so she was there. The room suddenly became safer, in that it was padded. And my jacket became slightly less comfortable, in that I couldn’t move my hands.

“That’s for your safety. No, that’s a lie. It’s for my safety. I bet this isn’t the kind of commitment you expected in a relationship, is it.” That was a good one. Marriage was a commitment, but when you’re commited, it can also mean you’re insane. Also, marriage is the only acceptable form of Stockholm Syndrome.

“That is a good point. You have become more lucid lately. Maybe you can be let go in a few days. I mean, not let go. Let out of the dinner jacket.” I hoped so. I don’t remember how I got here. And I’m feeling sleepy and happy, and a little bashful.

“Those are my favorite dwarves. However, I’m the Doc, so take THAT!” She injected something in the IV I guess I’ve had this whole time. I’m getting better. I’m not afraid of falling. It’s pads all the way down….

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