"I think it's comical when the thumpers console each other," Hollie muttered bitterly.
"Yes, yes, go on, Hollie," Dr. Spot encourage as Hollie vent her spleen.
Hollie balled up her fist and shook it at heaven. "You thumpers are all creeps, talking about me, calling me Jewish."
"We're all here for you, Hollie," Dr. Spot assured her.
Hollie took another pull on her crack pipe and cackled at the sky . . . then, suddenly, a cloud of sheer madness passed over her features leaving behind a scowl of such rage the veins in her forehead stood out and throbbed. "You sons of bitches," she spit out as she leapt to her feet from the couch. "You talk about evidence, loopholes, paradigms . . . on pox your gods!"
Dr. Spot filled a fresh syringe with a sedative.
She accusingly pointed her finger at Dr. Spot. "Look at yourself," she said contemptuously. "How dare you steal my childhood, my life? How dare you talk of gods and rituals and codes? How dare you build churches?"
The look on her eyes was now wild and feverish. The moment of rage passed. It was the look of one as mad as a hatter . . . but the angry scowl had faded. She looked about the room at everything and at nothing at the same time.
"Where are you?" Dr Spot asked her soothingly
"I should be outside somewhere, not here talking about these things," Hollie whined. I should be dancing with the daisies, singing Barry Manilow tunes, painting flowers on my face and talking to to fairies."
Then just as suddenly as it came and went, the storm of rage was back again! "Instead, I'm here with you talking about sectarian strife and chants and magic beads and incense," she babbled incoherently.
Spot reached for the straitjacket beneath his chair.
"Bastards!" Hollied exclaimed. "Icons, prayers, effigies, worship. . . ."
Yes. Go on. And how does that make you feel?