“I hate free verse!
“What could be worse
“Than poetical cheaters
“With nonrhyming meters?”
“Intolerance is a part of her syndrome,” Fat Tits decided.
“All poets know that rhyming is hard.
“But that’s how we tell the boobs from the Bard.
"If you’re a poet,
“Your verse has to show it!”
“Dis poetry jazz is over my head.” Little Gat yawned. “Whyncha talk about ya nympho problem?” He leered at the headhead.
“Why don’t you tell us about your problem,” Dr. Baariasol suggested smoothly to Little Gat.
“Aah, I dunno! I just dunno! My boss is a nag! My job is a drag!” Little Gat stopped ‘short. “Jeez!” he said disgustedly, she's got me doin’ it!”
“Never mind that. Tell us about your job problems,” the doctor suggested.
“Yes. What exactly do you do?” asked Frigid.
“I’m a trigger man for the Mafia.”
“It sounds like exciting work,” Archer remarked
“Yeah. I guess it is. An’ you get to travel a lot, know what I mean? Like there’s a hit in Milwaukee, some place like that, I get to fly there first class an’ stay at the best hotel an’ usually I meet the fingerman at some real classy joint. I get a good expense account too. Da Mafia takes good care of us boys.”
“Sounds like the Company,” Archer murmured.
“An’ I take pride in my work. My old man was a Mafioso an’ his old man before him—-back in the old country, I mean. I do a job, it’s clean as a whistle an’ no loose ends behind when I leave town.”
“I don't understand why you have to travel so much,” Job interjected. “Isn’t there ever a-umm—hit in your home town?” '
“I never work local. If there’s a neighborhood hit, they bring in a gunsel from Detroit or somewheres. It’s safer that way. Nothin’ to connect a guy from out of town up with a local hit. Nothin’ to point to me if they find some guy in the Hoboken River wearin’ a cement nightshirt. See what I mean?”
“What you said about your father and your grandfather,” Big Tits asked. “Doesn't it bother you that you’re perpetuating a stereotype?”
“Ya means like all Italians is violent? Man, dat kinds thing really burns my tail. Italians is the gentlest people in the world. My old man couldn’t stand to see a dog hurtin’, let alone a kid, or any other human being. An’ I’m like that too. It’s a hard thing for me to swat flies.”
“But the people you kill—--
“Explain that, if you will.”
“Dat’s business.”
Company policy crossed Archer’s mind.
“I never mix business with my personal life,” Little Gat continued. “At home I’m strictly nonviolent. What's more, I believe in Law an’ Order. We ain’t got that, the whole thing falls apart. Da business I’m in, you gotta have Law an’ Order. Some of my best friends is cops. Without them, without Law an’ Order, we couldn’t function no more than five minutes.”
“Don’t be defensive.” The doctor soothed him. “We all have to learn how to co-exist. But tell us about your problem."
“It’s my piece.”
“Your what?”
“My rod. My gat. My gun. See, I use this oversize Luger. Been usin’ it for years. It’s a war souvenir. Sentimental value, know what I mean? Anyway, nobody in the Brotherhood never questioned my totin’ it. On’y now they’s this new Godfather took over an’ he says like my Luger makes too much of a bulge in my jacket an’ I gotta stop usin’ it an’ instead I should use this little cap pistol he ordered for me.”
“Why does it bother you so much?” Archer wondered.
“J eez, Bashful! Ain’t it obvious? It’s a toy! Like a lady’s pistol! It’s effeminate! Dat’s why!”
“I think I understand.” Fat Tits snapped her fingers. “You're overcompensating.” She stared at the small bullet of flesh protruding from his groin. “You undoubtedly were drawn to your profession in the first place by feelings of inferiority regarding your manhood. It’s a common psychological manifestation. Bald men become barbers. Inarticulate men become writers. Psychoneurotics become psychoanalysts.” Fat Tits smiled sweetly at Dr. Baariasol. “And,” she continued, “it follows that a man with a—- umm--weapon as small as yours would choose a profession where he could demonstrate his manhood by using a much larger weapon. So of course you’re upset when somebody tries to take it away from you and substitute a smaller one.”
“I think his little thing
“Looks cute—and primed to swing!”
The redhead arched her breasts at Little Gat. He looked back at her and licked his lips.
“Just understanding what your problem really is can be the first step in solving it,” Fat Tits told Little Gat. She strolled over to him and chucked him under the genitals. “I think you’ve grown just since we started talking,” she commented.
“Keep dat up, an’ who knows!” Little Gat pulled her down on the mattress beside him.
The redhead crossed over and sat down next to Archer.
“I'd like to relate
"In a meaningful fashion-—
“Poetically—
“With oodles of passion.
“But first won’t you say
“Why you came here today?”
“I came because the Company sent me,” Archer told her.
“What’s bugging you?
“Tell me!
“We’ll work it through.
“You’ll see."
“Nothing’s bugging me-—except maybe wondering just what problem the company thinks I have.”
“You’re being evasive,” Dr. Baariasol interjected. “You know what your problem is. You just don’t want to face it.”
The redhead cuddled up next to Archer and began stroking his thigh.
The redhead’s hand moved higher. The nipple of one of her superb breasts burned against Archer’s arm. His reaction betrayed him and he was unable to conceal the evidence of his arousal.
“I’d rather you told us yourself,” Dr. Baariasol said. “However—Isn’t it true that you’ve been having difficulties performing sexually?”
“Huh?” Archer was caught off balance. “Do you mean that my problem is that I’m supposed to be impotent?"
“He sure doesn’t
“Look impotent!”
The redhead was staring at the result of her proximity to Archer. Now everybody else in the room followed her gaze. Archer felt the combined weight of their interest. “I’ve never had that problem in my life!” he insisted.
“No?” Dr. Baariasol pointed. “Then why is that happening?”
The redhead grasped the target of the doctor's gesture—but to no avail. It was as if a zeppelin had been rapidly deflated. Archer looked down and his jaw dropped. The redhead still excited him, and yet—-
“Now are you ready to face your problem?” Dr. Baariasol asked him.
Archer kept staring downward, wondering. He was sure he hadn't had this problem when he joined the encounter group. But there could be no doubt that he had it now. And somehow the Company had known!
“Hell, Yes! Yes, I‘m ready to face it,” Archer said. “But how? How do you cure something like this?”
“The answer to that is why you’re here,” Dr. Baariasol told him. “Now let us begin . . . ”