I think it's funny to watch as you get so befuddled, you're reduced to incoherent babbling.
"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, looking at 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 spat out as she leapt to her feet from the couch. "You talk about evidence, loopholes, paradigms. . . ."
Dr. Spot filled a fresh syringe with a sedative.
She abruptly turned on Dr. Spot and thrust an accusing finger in his face. "Look at yourself," she said contemptuously, eyeing him up and down as if from on high.
"How dare you!" she seethed, her bosom heaving, her face a wall of hatred. "How dare you talk of gods and rituals and codes? How dare you build churches? You've stolen my childhood, my life!"
Her attention shifted to her other interventionists—Jim, Ringtone, ding, Eric. She eyed them as if they were cockroaches to be stomped out beneath her boots.
"God believers," she thought out loud, venom dripping from every syllable.
Then the look in her eyes went wild and feverish and distant. The moment of rage had passed. Though she still had the look of one as mad as a hatter, the angry scowl had faded. She looked about the room . . . seemingly at everything and nothing at all simultaneously.
"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 the fairies."
But, then, the look in her eyes shifted again. It was now that of a lost, inconsolable, albeit, demented child. "At the very least," she continued. "I should be pulling wings off butterflies, torturing kitties and kicking my brother's dog."
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 barked incoherently.
Dr. Spot reached for the straitjacket beneath his chair.
"Bastards!" Hollie exclaimed. "Icons, prayers, effigies, worship . . . a pox on your gods!"