Doctor When Finds Associates, and Writing as Mental Illness

To carry on from yesterday’s snippet:


It was this proclivity of her mechanical associate which prompted Doctor When to put out an advertisement in the local newspaper:

‘Toughs Required: peculiar individuals interested in peculiar adversaries, must provide own weaponry.’

It was thus that Doctor When began to interview the likeliest candidates, putting each through an hour of ‘on the job experience’. Of those that survived only three such ‘peculiar individuals’ acquitted themselves to the level required of the position. They were:

Wilburforce, a man deprived of sheer bulk and size by the accident of his birth to parents of the Dwarf persuasion. It had been his life’s work to fill every fibre of his considerably compact body with as much killing power as was humanly possible. By such headlines as: ‘Ten Men and a Dwarf Enter a Pub, Only Dwarf Leaves Alive,’ it seemed he’d succeeded.

And the Spaghetti Sisters. The two Sisters were previously employed as contortionists in the Theatre of Implausible Amusements, but had taken offense to the Director’s suggestion of how they might employ their skills elsewhere, such as in his personal chambers of an evening. The Director was never heard from again, and the Sisters found themselves in need of new employment. No one knew their real names, for the Sisters had the habit of only referring to each other by interchangeable pasta varieties. One might say to the other, ‘My dearest Fusilli,’ to which her sister would reply, ‘Oh indeed, Farfalle, in very deed.’ The next day, the one called ‘Fusilli’ would then be called ‘Penne’ or even ‘Yakisoba’ if the mood took her other sister to do so.

Doctor When was pleased with her new associates, never were such peculiarities so desirable in an employee, and they met in her laboratory to discuss the work at hand.


I have to say I’m in the high of this new hilarity right now.  I always get like this in the beginning when everything’s still all shiny and new and exciting, before the crumbling lows of defeat as it starts to get complicated and strange and I wonder “WTF, self???”  Oh, the bipolarity and schizophrenia of writing (you try keeping a whole cast of characters in the confines of your mind, especially when they don’t all get along).  It’s enough to make you a realise that no, you’re not sane at all.

You’re a writer.

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