Short Little Stories

The building looks like any other modern, industrial business complex – too many stories, covered in shiny reflective windows that mirrored the outside world, but showed nothing within.

On the sixty sixth floor of the building lay the offices of Andre and Damien, trauma psychologists. Their service advertised itself as counseling for those plagued by the ills and irritations of the world, both great and small. Devastated by a failed marriage, lifeless job, and structurally unsound house? They will be glad to listen. Distrought over the driver who cut in front of you no less than three times on your way to work? Their ears are open, free of charge.

Today’s client is in for his daily session. Horton Frisby, whose name alone would be enough of a burden to break most men.

Behind the closed, sealed doors labelled “A & D Counseling,” he tells his tale…

“Squeeze-it mayonaisse! I can’t stand it! It’s infuriating!”

Horton, a diminutive 4’7″, shook his pudgy little hands in the air as he paced about the room, occasionally squinting at the two tall and devilishly handsome psychologists listening patiently to his rants. His turtleneck – an atrocious shade of green – was a bit too tight on his frame, and his glasses obviously due for a new prescription to go by his squinting. He looked like a turtle trying to burst out of his shell – and judging by the rosy red rage in his cheeks, neither of his benefactors would be surprised if he did, indeed, simply explode.

“How so, Horton?” asked Andre as he leaned forward in his comfortable black leather chair. He had a notepad in hand, and though he occasionally seemed to jot something down upon it, no writing was visible.

Horton managed to lower his fists, if only to give a seething glare to the one who dared question him. “It squeezes the mayo out in thick chunks! I have to get a knife out to spread it over the bread anyway, which defeats the entire point of changing the design. It is even more inconvenient than normal mayo!”

Damien smiled as though at a child. “Ah, but why not simply remove this little frustration from your life? Surely you can find the old style of your condiment available, yes?”

A snort of contempt was Horton’s reply. “Ohh, heh, thats what they’d like you to think, isn’t it? But no! Every can and canister, bottle and jar of mayonaisse, every single one is the same! Out with the old, in with the new – even if the new is complete shit! SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

Horton’s screams echoed through the room for a few moments, and then he let out a deep breath. “Sorry bout that guys. Damn, I gotta go. Thanks for listening, you guys are great.”

The two psychologists smiled in unison, and Andre said, “The pleasure is ours, Horton. We hope to see you tomorrow at the usual time, then.”

Horton nodded, then looked at his watch, shook it for a minute, cursed, and then ran out the door.

As they watched him go, Andre looked down at his notes. “Squeeze-it mayonaisse. Ingenious. Who came up with that one?”

“Hmm.” Damien closed his eyes and remained still for several moments, before eventually replying, “That appears to be Viscous the Maggotborn. In Beelzebub’s division.”

“Ah.” Andre’s nose wrinkled in distaste, but he began jotting something else down on his pad, covered in infernal script. “We’ll give his work a mention in the weekly newsletter. A raise is too much for them.”

As he finished his writing, a bell rang from outside the room. Damien opened his eyes, and smiled.

“Our next customer. Excellent.”