Dr. Fraud ushered the muscular woman onto the couch and retreated behind his desk. He mostly liked his new office, the window had a view of the hospital's rose garden unless the crematorium was active; the room was airy without being too large, and the furniture was all art deco and possibly antique. So far the only problems he'd discovered with it was that there was no air-conditioning, and he wasn't allowed any of his egg-timers on his desk because they mysteriously interfered with the hospital's internet connection.
"Well madam, it is a joy to have you here today!" said Dr. Fraud, who had been practicising sounding cheerful for the previous week. "Please, lie back on the couch, and tell me all about your problems."
"ARE YOU AN IDIOT?" bellowed the woman, and Dr. Fraud recoiled under the aural assault. His chair slid smoothly backwards and he only narrowly avoided being thrown through the window. Clutching the armrests, he warily edged his chair forwards again.
"Actually no, madam, I graduated magna cum laude and was roundly praised for my thesis on oxygen addiction in mammals. And please refrain from shouting, my colleagues have offices on either side of mine and may also be seeing patients."
"You are an idiot," said the woman in a loud voice, but much tempered from her previous shout. "I have a knife in my shoulder and you are suggesting that I lie on it."
"Ah yes, I did notice," said Dr. Fraud. "Is it a tribal thing? Like a tattoo or scarification?"
"No, you QUACK, it's a knife. Stuck into my shoulder."
"Is that practical? Surely that must make it difficult to sleep?"
"No it's not practical. I'm here to have it removed! Get bloody on with it!"
"Ah, there has been a little misunderstanding, I am not a surgeon. I am a psychotherapist." Dr. Fraud nodded in what he thought was a sage manner.
"What bloody good is that?" The woman glared at him, her biceps twitching slightly.
"Um, well, I can talk about it with you."
"What's there to talk about? There's a knife in my shoulder and I want it removed. By you, or anyone you work with, I really don't care."
"Yes, I see. But I'm not licensed to do surgery. I'm licensed to discuss your problems and help you find solutions to them. And to commit you to a secure mental health facility against your will of course. We have one here, in this very hospital!"
"Then get me a surgeon!"
"Would you like to talk about the knife while we wait for him?" Dr. Fraud eyed the buttons on his desk and finally pressed the one marked Mr. Ignatio. Somewhere, a buzzer droned.
"So, this knife in your shoulder, was it your mother who put it there?"
"Was it perhaps after sex? Was it a jealous reaction after a sharing of intimacy?"
As Filipo Ignatio neared Dr. Fraud's office he was startled to see Dr. Fraud thrown through the door at the wall outside with decent velocity.