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Post by [Grockadoc/Carter] on Jan 27, 2015 7:33:16 GMT -4
The scene opens up slowly to a large office, filled with the usual bookcases, and solid oak desk. The walls are decorated with framed certificates, hung proudly. As the scene pans slowly to the left, a soft, comfortable black leather couch appears with its back to the camera, a pair of legs just visible to the right of the couch, the figure laying on it, rather tall. Facing the couch on the other side of the room, sits a rather stern looking man, clipboard and notepad in hand, studying the figure laying on the couch. After several moments, the figure opens his mouth, and begins to speak.
This is now our third Psychiatric Hospital mandated mental faculty evaluation session, and we still haven't gotten anywhere. I am beginning to wonder if you even want my help.
The unseen figure on the couch laughs loudly, his voice deep, before beginning to speak.
Help? From you? I don't need help I have all the help I need right here inside me.
The therapist sighs, and scribbles something quickly on his notepad.
You do realise those voices in your head aren't real? That you are suffering from a disorder called Schizophrenia, don't you?
The figure on the couch again laughs and begins to sit up, so his shoulders and the back of his head are now visible over the back of the couch.
Oh, I beg to differ, Doctor. Just because I hear the voice of our heavenly father, doesn't mean that I am schizophrenic. Let me ask you a question, Doctor. Are you a religious man? Do you belong to a religion?
The therapist shifts uncomfortably in his chair, staring at his patient from across the room.
I don't think that is imp-
The figure on the couch suddenly roars.
ANSWER THE QUESTION!
The order is loud, and powerful, and seems to reverberate around the room, startling and frightening the therapist, who shudders slightly.
W-Well, I am a Doctor. We believe in theorising based on what is in front of us to helps us make astute and correct assessments. We also believe in evidence and proof. As there is no proof to completely acknowledge either way that God does or does not exist, and I believe there is no way of completely knowing for certain, I would have to say I am agnostic.
The figure leans forward, and the therapist shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
So you don't belong to a religion, so how are you capable of deciding what I hear from God is false, and what I believe in to be, as you said in previous sessions "nothing more than the delusions and hallucinations of a classic schizophrenic"?
The Doctor stares at the figure.
Well, as you have undergone several CT scans during your supposed conversations with "God", your Auditory Cortex lit up like a Christmas tree, all but confirming my suspicions of auditory hallucinations. A classic symptom of Schizophrenia.
The figure on the couch laughs.
I am not Schizophrenic. I am God's chosen weapon in the war against all that is unholy and impure in this world. God told me that there would be disbelievers, but that I must not let them stand in my way of my quest.
The therapist stares at the figure, interested.
And what quest is that?
The figure rises from the couch, and his huge, hulking muscular frame stands to it's full capacity.
As you can see, I am an instrument of Violence. Just look at me. God told me I had to make all those he deemed unworthy repent for their sins, and lead them down the path of salvation.
The therapist looks at the figure, mildly annoyed.
So how can you claim that "God" is righteous and just if he asks you to make them repent with violence? That doesn't seem like a loving and merciful God to me.
The figure snarls in a rage. He strides over to the Therapist and wraps a huge hand around his throat, and lifts him up off the ground with ease. The therapists flails and thrashes about, clawing at the man's hand trying to free his grasp as his face begins to turn the colour of an overripe plum.
Do not speak ill of the heavenly father in front of me, Doctor. It may be the last thing you ever do.
The man's voice is filled with anger as he speaks. The doctor nods quickly, and the man releases his grip, the therapist landing on his feet and clutches his throat, gasping for air.
I-I'm sorry. The therapist splutters, still trying to draw breaths.
The figure just grunts and walks backwards to the couch, still trying to conceal his identity from the camera, and sits down. The doctor lets out a small cough, and takes a sharp inhale, and slow exhale, still rubbing his neck and throat, before returning to his seat, and studies the man for a moment, a slight flash of anger crossing in his eyes.
You know, I am in two minds to stamp your file as insane and get you shipped back off to the psychiatric hospital. You signed a non violence agreement before our first session. The therapist challenges the man.
The figure snorts.
And you promised not to insult the heavenly father in my presence. I guess we both aren't men of our words.
The therapist sighs and studies the man more intensely.
You told me on the phone when we booked this appointment that God had contacted you again, and that he had another mission for you. Tell me, what is that mission?
The figure nods slightly.
Well, as you I used to be a professional wrestler. I used to be more than that as well. I was a dominant force. There weren't many in the industry who had my mix of strength, endurance and speed for someone of my size. I was almost unique in that regard. God contacted me a few days ago and told me that it was time to get back into the ring, and put my unique attributes towards something useful. He told me it was time to continue where I left off all those years ago. I agreed to it, as well. The last twelve months, being holed up in that padded cell, getting force fed pills that I never knew the name of really made me angry. God told me to focus that anger, as I would need it. That's when he told me that I should return to EVPW.
The therapist nods slightly, and again, makes another note.
That sounds all well and good, but ultimately, it is my decision whether or not I deem you safe enough and sane enough to leave the psychiatric ward. The fact that the medications haven't worked could be one of two things. One is that the medications haven't worked and your brain is damaged and we haven't realised, or secondly, and I can't believe I am going to say this, but that you could be telling the truth. To really make sure of this, I think I will schedule you for more te-
The figure roars again.
NO MORE TESTS!
The sudden outburst scares the therapist who jumps a mile in the air, and whimpers slightly, cowering,s till a little traumatised from the physicality he experienced just minutes earlier.
I don't want any more tests. Why should I? It is me who hears God. This is a gift, and one I do not wish to lose. I will not let you crackpot doctors with your bogus theories and remedies try and force me into experimental therapy just because you have a hard time believing what I proclaim. I will not be your lab rat, nor shall I be your guinea pig. Enough is enough.
The therapist smiles.
Without the tests, there is no stamp deeming you fit to return to normal society. Without returning to normal society, there shall be no return to EVPW. Without a return to EVPW, you cannot complete your mission. Without completing your mission, you have failed God. So as you can see, I hold all the power in this relationship. Not God. So, you either take the tests, or I mark you insane and send you back off to that hospital that you seem to loathe so much, and put your file in the most packed drawer I can find, and not bother to re-evaluate you again. It's your choice. My way, or the highway. You may hear God, but right now, I am God. Your future is in my hands.
The figure rises out of his chair, and the face of the therapist flashes to one of fear. The figure strides over and the therapist tries to flee his seat, but the hulking man's reactions are lightning quick and grabs him by the neck of his suit blazer and pulls him in close.
You overestimate your sense of self worth. You may be right in that you stamp my file. However, what the Psych Ward's head clinician doesn't know, won't hurt her.
The man says gruffly in the therapists ear.
Say I stamp my papers, and hand it to the receptionist on the way out, and she files it accordingly, who's to know if it came from your hand or mine? All they will know is that is has been approved by you, as evidenced by the presence of your stamp.
The therapist struggles, and looks the man in the eyes.
You do realise that self stamping is considered illegal. By stamping it yourself with my stamp, it is considered fraud?
The hulking figure laughs slightly.
After I punish you for your blasphemous comments proclaiming yourself to be god, I will be long gone by the time you wake. And should you chose to inform the authorities, I shall be back to pay you another visit. If I have to come back, this little visit is just to look like a little rough housing between good friends.
With that, the hulking man wraps his massive hand around the therapists throat, and lifts him into the air. The therapist struggles wildly, trying to kick the behemoth, desperately trying to save himself. The muscular figure strides towards the therapists wooden coffee table and drive his hand downwards, sending the therapist crashing back first through it, breaking it in half and sending wooden splinters flying everywhere.
I now absolve thee of your blasphemous words.
The figure stares at the crumpled form of the therapist for several moments, before striding over to the therapists chair, and grabbing his clipboard. He studies it for a moment, and grunts to himself before silently and swiftly crossing the room towards the solid oak desk, and grabbing the stamps from it. He looks at the one printed "SANE" in green ink and places the clipboard on the table, and places the stamp on the paper in a large box that is highlighted "FINAL ASSESSMENT". Taking one last look at the file, the figure strides to the door and opens it, walking through, camera following in tow.
The figure places the clipboard on the rather attractive brunette receptionist's desk.
Doctor Morgan ask me to hand this to you and asked you to fax a copy through to the Psychiatric Ward as soon as possible.
The camera moves towards the clipboard and focuses in on it, revealing some vital information, in particular, one line.
Patient Name: Grockadoc
The receptionist smiles and nods, and the man turns to face the camera. Despite a radical new look, obviously slimming down and toning up his muscle definition, and growing his hair longer, the only thing that remains of the more recognisable Grockadoc are the same cold, dead, grey eyes staring into the camera, and the wicked grin that is now finding itself etched onto the face of the Warrior of Christ. Grockadoc grabs the camera, stares at it for several moments, smiling before speaking.
"Hello EVPW! I'm back!"
With that, the feed cuts out.
This is now our third Psychiatric Hospital mandated mental faculty evaluation session, and we still haven't gotten anywhere. I am beginning to wonder if you even want my help.
The unseen figure on the couch laughs loudly, his voice deep, before beginning to speak.
Help? From you? I don't need help I have all the help I need right here inside me.
The therapist sighs, and scribbles something quickly on his notepad.
You do realise those voices in your head aren't real? That you are suffering from a disorder called Schizophrenia, don't you?
The figure on the couch again laughs and begins to sit up, so his shoulders and the back of his head are now visible over the back of the couch.
Oh, I beg to differ, Doctor. Just because I hear the voice of our heavenly father, doesn't mean that I am schizophrenic. Let me ask you a question, Doctor. Are you a religious man? Do you belong to a religion?
The therapist shifts uncomfortably in his chair, staring at his patient from across the room.
I don't think that is imp-
The figure on the couch suddenly roars.
ANSWER THE QUESTION!
The order is loud, and powerful, and seems to reverberate around the room, startling and frightening the therapist, who shudders slightly.
W-Well, I am a Doctor. We believe in theorising based on what is in front of us to helps us make astute and correct assessments. We also believe in evidence and proof. As there is no proof to completely acknowledge either way that God does or does not exist, and I believe there is no way of completely knowing for certain, I would have to say I am agnostic.
The figure leans forward, and the therapist shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
So you don't belong to a religion, so how are you capable of deciding what I hear from God is false, and what I believe in to be, as you said in previous sessions "nothing more than the delusions and hallucinations of a classic schizophrenic"?
The Doctor stares at the figure.
Well, as you have undergone several CT scans during your supposed conversations with "God", your Auditory Cortex lit up like a Christmas tree, all but confirming my suspicions of auditory hallucinations. A classic symptom of Schizophrenia.
The figure on the couch laughs.
I am not Schizophrenic. I am God's chosen weapon in the war against all that is unholy and impure in this world. God told me that there would be disbelievers, but that I must not let them stand in my way of my quest.
The therapist stares at the figure, interested.
And what quest is that?
The figure rises from the couch, and his huge, hulking muscular frame stands to it's full capacity.
As you can see, I am an instrument of Violence. Just look at me. God told me I had to make all those he deemed unworthy repent for their sins, and lead them down the path of salvation.
The therapist looks at the figure, mildly annoyed.
So how can you claim that "God" is righteous and just if he asks you to make them repent with violence? That doesn't seem like a loving and merciful God to me.
The figure snarls in a rage. He strides over to the Therapist and wraps a huge hand around his throat, and lifts him up off the ground with ease. The therapists flails and thrashes about, clawing at the man's hand trying to free his grasp as his face begins to turn the colour of an overripe plum.
Do not speak ill of the heavenly father in front of me, Doctor. It may be the last thing you ever do.
The man's voice is filled with anger as he speaks. The doctor nods quickly, and the man releases his grip, the therapist landing on his feet and clutches his throat, gasping for air.
I-I'm sorry. The therapist splutters, still trying to draw breaths.
The figure just grunts and walks backwards to the couch, still trying to conceal his identity from the camera, and sits down. The doctor lets out a small cough, and takes a sharp inhale, and slow exhale, still rubbing his neck and throat, before returning to his seat, and studies the man for a moment, a slight flash of anger crossing in his eyes.
You know, I am in two minds to stamp your file as insane and get you shipped back off to the psychiatric hospital. You signed a non violence agreement before our first session. The therapist challenges the man.
The figure snorts.
And you promised not to insult the heavenly father in my presence. I guess we both aren't men of our words.
The therapist sighs and studies the man more intensely.
You told me on the phone when we booked this appointment that God had contacted you again, and that he had another mission for you. Tell me, what is that mission?
The figure nods slightly.
Well, as you I used to be a professional wrestler. I used to be more than that as well. I was a dominant force. There weren't many in the industry who had my mix of strength, endurance and speed for someone of my size. I was almost unique in that regard. God contacted me a few days ago and told me that it was time to get back into the ring, and put my unique attributes towards something useful. He told me it was time to continue where I left off all those years ago. I agreed to it, as well. The last twelve months, being holed up in that padded cell, getting force fed pills that I never knew the name of really made me angry. God told me to focus that anger, as I would need it. That's when he told me that I should return to EVPW.
The therapist nods slightly, and again, makes another note.
That sounds all well and good, but ultimately, it is my decision whether or not I deem you safe enough and sane enough to leave the psychiatric ward. The fact that the medications haven't worked could be one of two things. One is that the medications haven't worked and your brain is damaged and we haven't realised, or secondly, and I can't believe I am going to say this, but that you could be telling the truth. To really make sure of this, I think I will schedule you for more te-
The figure roars again.
NO MORE TESTS!
The sudden outburst scares the therapist who jumps a mile in the air, and whimpers slightly, cowering,s till a little traumatised from the physicality he experienced just minutes earlier.
I don't want any more tests. Why should I? It is me who hears God. This is a gift, and one I do not wish to lose. I will not let you crackpot doctors with your bogus theories and remedies try and force me into experimental therapy just because you have a hard time believing what I proclaim. I will not be your lab rat, nor shall I be your guinea pig. Enough is enough.
The therapist smiles.
Without the tests, there is no stamp deeming you fit to return to normal society. Without returning to normal society, there shall be no return to EVPW. Without a return to EVPW, you cannot complete your mission. Without completing your mission, you have failed God. So as you can see, I hold all the power in this relationship. Not God. So, you either take the tests, or I mark you insane and send you back off to that hospital that you seem to loathe so much, and put your file in the most packed drawer I can find, and not bother to re-evaluate you again. It's your choice. My way, or the highway. You may hear God, but right now, I am God. Your future is in my hands.
The figure rises out of his chair, and the face of the therapist flashes to one of fear. The figure strides over and the therapist tries to flee his seat, but the hulking man's reactions are lightning quick and grabs him by the neck of his suit blazer and pulls him in close.
You overestimate your sense of self worth. You may be right in that you stamp my file. However, what the Psych Ward's head clinician doesn't know, won't hurt her.
The man says gruffly in the therapists ear.
Say I stamp my papers, and hand it to the receptionist on the way out, and she files it accordingly, who's to know if it came from your hand or mine? All they will know is that is has been approved by you, as evidenced by the presence of your stamp.
The therapist struggles, and looks the man in the eyes.
You do realise that self stamping is considered illegal. By stamping it yourself with my stamp, it is considered fraud?
The hulking figure laughs slightly.
After I punish you for your blasphemous comments proclaiming yourself to be god, I will be long gone by the time you wake. And should you chose to inform the authorities, I shall be back to pay you another visit. If I have to come back, this little visit is just to look like a little rough housing between good friends.
With that, the hulking man wraps his massive hand around the therapists throat, and lifts him into the air. The therapist struggles wildly, trying to kick the behemoth, desperately trying to save himself. The muscular figure strides towards the therapists wooden coffee table and drive his hand downwards, sending the therapist crashing back first through it, breaking it in half and sending wooden splinters flying everywhere.
I now absolve thee of your blasphemous words.
The figure stares at the crumpled form of the therapist for several moments, before striding over to the therapists chair, and grabbing his clipboard. He studies it for a moment, and grunts to himself before silently and swiftly crossing the room towards the solid oak desk, and grabbing the stamps from it. He looks at the one printed "SANE" in green ink and places the clipboard on the table, and places the stamp on the paper in a large box that is highlighted "FINAL ASSESSMENT". Taking one last look at the file, the figure strides to the door and opens it, walking through, camera following in tow.
The figure places the clipboard on the rather attractive brunette receptionist's desk.
Doctor Morgan ask me to hand this to you and asked you to fax a copy through to the Psychiatric Ward as soon as possible.
The camera moves towards the clipboard and focuses in on it, revealing some vital information, in particular, one line.
Patient Name: Grockadoc
The receptionist smiles and nods, and the man turns to face the camera. Despite a radical new look, obviously slimming down and toning up his muscle definition, and growing his hair longer, the only thing that remains of the more recognisable Grockadoc are the same cold, dead, grey eyes staring into the camera, and the wicked grin that is now finding itself etched onto the face of the Warrior of Christ. Grockadoc grabs the camera, stares at it for several moments, smiling before speaking.
"Hello EVPW! I'm back!"
With that, the feed cuts out.
(This is my first RP in 2 years. May be a little bit rusty, but comments would be appreciated. This is to explain why Grockadoc hasn't been a part of any fed for a while. Given his gimmick, I thought a prolonged stay in a Psych Ward would be believable. So, any comments would be appreciated, guys.)
