Stopping the little blue pill had done nothing but stifled his performance. His hallucinations seemed to be getting worse and more real. He was astonished at finding feathers in his coat pocket, and his shoes, yet, his secretary or whatever he was, couldn't see them.
He buzzed for his next patient. Bobby was back, he only knew it was Bobby because that's what the secretary had said. Bobby had a mask on his face. A mask that looked like Sigmund Freud.
It took him aback, it made him breath in deep, now that the shock was gone, he noticed that Bobby also wore a black suit. He had to regain his composure. The mask stared at him, it made him feel as though Dr. Freud was watching, assessing, scrutinizing his efforts to analyze this patient.
He shifted in his chair, leaned back and thought for a moment. Was there a significance to this act? Right now he would have preferred the wings and the feathers, the plumber, the cat, whatever.. Anything but this..
He decided the best approach was the direct approach. "Bobby, are you trying to make a statement? The mask just stared at him. He was uncomfortable to say the least. Finally the mask moved, through the little hole in the mouth he heard in a muffled voice, "I figured if you couldn't help me, then maybe a real Dr. could."