"Well," the psychologist said in a comfortable introductory voice. "Why don't we start off with getting to know each other a bit better. How about if you go first?"           Mary ran his fingers through his tangled black hair, took a deep breath and eased back into his chair. "There's not much to tell," he said. "My name's, uh, Mary --"           "And you're male..."           Mary shrugged. "More or less."           "More or less?" said the psychologist.           "Yeah."           "What do you mean?"           "Doctor, with all due respect, I think you'd be better off to leave my sexuality out of this discussion for now."           "Granted. Go on."           "My name's Mary Holiday," he repeated. "I guess. Um, I don't know what else --"           "Do you have any hobbies or interests?" the psychologist interjected.           "No," said Mary.           "What do you do with your time?"           "Nothing. I mean, I try and do my job I guess. Now and then. When the mood strikes me." He gave a little shrug.           "And what is it that you do?"           "You know what? I haven't got the faintest fucking idea. We travel around through time and do stuff."           "It sounds like it must be exciting."           Mary grimaced. "It's not, really. I've had flesh eating diseases more exciting."           "Really," said the psychologist, soothingly. "Why do you say that?"           "First of all, we only seem to move a couple years before or after my death. And second of all we have to do hideously stupid shit."           "Like what, for instance?"           "Like, well, yesterday. Yesterday we went to that little island under Australia. Uh... I can't remember--"           "Tasmania?" guessed the psychologist.           "Yeah, that's the one. Tasmania. Anyhow, we go there and my hat can't even tell me what it is I'm supposed to do anymore so I have to guess. So I spent twenty hours walking around the countryside where the hat dropped me off, trying to do stuff that will let me get the hell out of there. And you know what it was, finally?"           "No, what was it?"           "I had to kiss a groundhog."           "I see." The psychologist made some pen scratches on a clipboard.           "Yeah, so, there," Mary said. "Mission accomplished. Now what the hell was that for? Why did I have to walk around bored for twenty hours and then finally harass a groundhog who really wasn't bothering anybody? What greater good or bad is this contributing to? It's fucking annoying."           "Hmm," said the psychologist pensively. "How did you get this job?"           "As I understand it, it's because I killed myself."           "Yes," the psychologist said, leafing through papers. "I have the report here. If I may, I'd like your side of the story. Why did you do it?"           "Kill myself?"           "Yes," said the psychologist.           "Well, it was popular in those days. Everyone was doing it, see..."           "You're quite the comic."           "I try."           "But seriously, Mary. We need to approach this from a standpoint of honesty and cooperation. Why did you really kill yourself?"           "Look, I had a bad life, okay? What more reason does there need to be? I hated everything. I hated myself. I hated being alive. It was all very tacky and very stupid."           The psychologist looked down at the papers in his lap and chewed on the tip of his pen. "It says here that you've been to several psychologists since your death."           "You don't get to be a gazillion years old and not go through a bit of therapy. Yeah, I've gone to a bunch. They didn't work out. The last one especially."           "You threw him out a window."           "They put that in there?"           "Most of your life and death is in here, Mary. Did you really throw Dr. Allen out a tenth story window?"           Mary paused. "No," he said, unconvincingly.           "Really?"           "Well, I thought he had a pool."           "Under the window?"           "No, I was going to go swimming. After I threw him out."           "I see," said the psychologist. He took a deep breath before asking his next question. "Why did you do it?"           "How am I supposed to know? I don't have time to think about what I'm doing."           "That's ridiculous. Everyone has time to think."           "Okay, well, look at it this way: if every time I wanted to do something I stopped and thought about it, I'd only spend half as much time doing things I was thinking about doing anyway."           "But didn't you say you have an infinite amount of time?"           "Okay, well, look at it this way: I don't want to."           "Mary," the psychologist said, leaning forward imploringly. "Don't you feel you have any kind of moral obligation or responsibility?"           "Sure I do," Mary said brightly. "Of course. That's what makes it slightly more fun."           "This behavior really doesn't seem suitable for a person in your position..."           "My position? I've given fruit baskets to at least eight different people in the past month. I've diapered three cows and put party hats on two of them. One kicked me and the other just gave me a look, in its diaper and party hat, as if to say it must be very demeaning to be me. You say it as if I'm someone important."           "You're a Mad Hatter."           "Oh, hoo-fucking-ray, doctor. I'm a little short weird guy with a hat on written by a pedophile named Lewis who took massive amounts of psychotropic drugs to enhance his 'trip' through Wonderland, later popularized by Walt 'I AM THE FBI' Disney. You think that's something to be proud of?"           "The accounts of Walt Disney's involvement with the FBI have been greatly exaggerated."           "They froze him, you know."           "Who?"           "Disney. He's in a cryogenic chamber somewhere under the 'It's a Small World' section of the Florida Disneyland."           "Mary, you're straying off topic. Why do you feel it's such a bad thing to be?"           "Don't get me started, doctor. Because if you get me started, I swear to God I won't be able to stop."           "The point of this therapy is to bring out your innermost thoughts and feelings, Mary. Why does the title Mad Hatter trouble you so much?"           "FIRST of all," Mary said heavily, "there are the jokes. 'What do you do, Mary?' they ask. 'I'm a Mad Hatter' I say. 'Heh heh heh. Blah blah blah TEA, Mary?' or 'Blah blah ALICE, Mary?' or 'Blah blah RINGO STARR, Mary?' Then I hit them as hard as I can."           "You do not!"           "Sure I do!" Mary said with a vicious grin. "Right in the face."           "Why?"           Mary leaned forward and made a pinched, angry face. "Do you realize how often I get that sort of thing? And every single one of them thinks they're the first to have come up with it and all I can think to myself is, 'this person deserves a broken nose!' Oh, and I usually say 'I got your Wonderland right here, buddy.' right before I do it."           "That's atrocious!"           "Yeah, I know." Mary shrugged. "But I think it's given me a lot of empathy for people that have to put up with that sort of shit, you know? Tall people, fat people; everyone that has to deal with really demeaningly obvious jokes and put-downs. So you see it's not only good because it gets them to shut up and go away: there are actual emotional issues involved."           The psychologist shook his head and wrote something down. "Let's go back to why you're here with me now."           "The doctors think I'm crazy."           "Do you think you're crazy?"           "Sure."           "You seem very nonchalant about it."           "How can I get worked up about aberrant psychological behavior? It's kind of like a Merry-Go-Round. Sometimes when it ends you're exactly where your parents are waiting for you, and other times you have to run all the way around to find them and risk being abducted by a stranger."           "I don't think I follow."           "Not many people do."           "Why do the doctors think you're crazy?"           "Well, see, my giant bunny and his mass-murdering girlfriend watched me knock myself unconscious by running through a wall."           "That must have hurt."           "Not as much as you'd expect. I think I was clinically unconscious before I actually hit the wall, so I only woke up with the feeling that a planet had just ricocheted off my head. I have a lump. Wanna see?"           "I can see it from here, actually. But tell me more about why you were wrecking the room."           "I can't really remember much of it now. I just know that it had to do with something about the hat. Like things had suddenly gotten out of my control."           "You need to maintain control, don't you?"           "Of course. Who doesn't?"           "I mean more than is ordinary."           "Of course. Who doesn't?"           "Your friends reported you were distressed over the sudden influx of travelers to your magical space-faring hat."           "That seems quite possible."           "Why would that upset you?"           "You know that whole thing about personal space?"           "Yes..."           "I think mine's a bit larger than everyone elses."           "How much larger?"           "I don't know. I keep trying to walk to the edge of it but I never get there."           "Hmm," said the psychologist. "Does it moves with you?"           "You know," said Mary wide-eyed, "I never thought of that."           "So this means you don't like having people in your hat?"           "It's MY PLACE!" Mary yelled. He would have stood but he was exhausted. "MINE! I put up with a lot of bullshit, you know. I mean, I cope with way more than I should. And I've been pretty damn understanding of everything up until I've had to start dealing with all those greasy foreign assholes hanging around MY hat, touching MY stuff, eating MY marmalade, riding on MY rides, getting in MY way, and annoying MY self. Fuck 'em. I hate the hell out of them and I hope they die."           "Well, they already --"           "I know! I was being colorful. Jesus Christ."

The psychologist cleared his throat. "Tell me about the bunny, Mary."           "He has stubby fingers."           "Don't bunnies have paws?"           "Still, that's no excuse. And he's hairy."           "And that's all you've noticed about him?"           "Well, he's a little wracked with anxiety," said Mary. "I mean, I'm bad but at least I have my cut-off limits. Catatonic shock, I believe they call it. He just doesn't know when to quit worrying, you know? He has no sense of humor. The other day I threatened that I'd run the hat into the sun and destroy us all and he just kept crying and carrying on. He never got forceful with me, he was just pathetic. You know? It's like he'll destroy himself over the tiniest little things but would never think to start destroying other people. That's pretty sad, really. When you think about it."           "How long have you been working with him?"           "I'm not sure. Time travel makes it a little complicated figuring that sort of thing out. A long time."           "Do you consider him a friend?"           "I doubt that."           "Tell me about Maxine then."           "I don't know much about Maxine. We mostly stay away from each other."           "Why is that?"           "We fight," said Mary. "We fight good."           "So you don't know anything about her?"           "Well, she's supposed to be some sort of killer. I don't know the whole story. She came onboard as an inspector to check out the murders--"           The psychologist checked his notes. "The ones in the bowling alley?"           "Yeah. She came onboard to check out those and then we kidnapped her."           "We?"           "Well, I did. Stop interrupting me. You're ruining the dramatic flow."           "Sorry."           "I kidnapped her and then assumed the Interstellar Boy Scouts or whatever fucking organization runs this whole thing would want her back as she must have been a valued employee, but it turns out she wasn't and she'd actually killed her supervisor. I have to say I feel some sort of bond between us even though we rarely speak."           "Do you consider her a friend?"           "I don't think so."           "You must lead a very lonely death, Mister Holiday."           "You get used to it."

"Back to the bowling alley..."           "With pleasure."           "Some say you're responsible for it."           "Some say I'm the devil in high-heels."           "Really?"           "No, but I can't believe how well that works."           "How well what works?"           "When someone says that some people have said something about you, just counter it by making up something someone else said."           The psychologist frowned. "Did you kill the cleaning staff, Mary?"           "No! Why would I kill anyone?"           "I don't know. Why does it say here that you killed a man the other week by throwing him over a bridge?"           Mary shrugged. "Maybe it's a conspiracy."           "Do you really believe that?"           "Doctor," Mary said seriously, "is it necessary to really believe something for it to be true?"           "That's not the point, Mary. People have claimed you're a psychopath capable of murdering again. I need to find out if this is true."           "Look, I killed that guy because he was a big stupid jock and he deserved to die, okay?"           "Are you happy that you did it?"          "I'm never happy!"           "But if you could do it over again, would you?"           "I don't know! Why does this matter? I didn't kill the cleaning crew."           "Then who did?"           "I don't know. Maybe you did it."           "You're avoiding the question, Mary. You know I didn't do it."           "I don't know anything. Maybe you were abducted by a cleaning crew as a child and forced to live in a dark, empty basement for three years, buying days alive with sexual favors."           "You have a very vivid imagination."           "Yeah, that's what it is."

"What do you hope to gain from these therapy sessions, Mary?"           "Honestly?"           "Of course. There's no need to hide anything here. Everything is strictly confidential."           "Morphine!" Mary cheered. "And lots of it!"           "You can't be serious."           "You're right. I'm clinically incapable of being serious. It's one of the many things I tried to work through with Doctor Allen."           "Before you threw him out of a window."           "Yes."           "Are you having any similar urges here with me now?"           "Well, there aren't any windows..."           "But are you having any feelings of violence and hatred?"           "As opposed to what other feelings I might be having, doctor?"           "Are you saying that all you ever feel is anger and hatred?"           "And sometimes irony."           "I don't think irony's a feeling..."           "No, I mean cold. Like iron. Hard, lifeless."           "Ah, I see. You don't feel anything else? Pleasure?"           "Huh?"           "Joy? Excitement?"           "Who are you?"           "Nothing else?"           "I felt a little 'woozy' once, but I think that was mostly because someone dared me to eat seven burnt pop tarts and drink a can of melted Cheez Whiz on an empty stomach."           "Why on earth did you do that?"           "Well, duh. I said he dared me."

"What's your favorite movie?"           "Anything with Streisand in it."           "Your favorite classical playwright?"           "Sophocles."           "Didn't he write the Oedipus plays?"           "No, doctor, I think that was some other guy named Sophocles."           "Now now, Mary. No need to patronize. Did you like them?"           "Like what?"           "The Oedipus plays."           "I've read them eleven thousand times. They were tolerable."           "And did you... identify... with any of the characters?"           "Is this your roundabout way of asking me if I want to kill my father and sleep with my mother?"           "God, no, Mary. That would be utterly tactless."           "Good. Because my mom and I are just friends."           "Do you love your mother?"           "I said we're just friends!"           "Have you spoken to her lately?"           "No."           "Tell me about your childhood."           "No."           "I'm sorry, is this too painful a subject for you?"           "No."           "Can you at least tell me what it is that prevents you from talking about it?"           "No."           "Why, Mary? What are you feeling right now?"           "No."           "There's nothing you can tell me about your youth at all?"           "No."           "How about your teenage years?"           "No."           "It's okay, Mary. Just relax. Take a deep breath. I apologize for bringing it up."           "No."

"It says here you were pursuing a music career, is this right?"           "Yeah, that's right."           "What was the name of the band?"           "Uh, well, there were many different incarnations. The last was called 'The Unclean Bodily Discharges.'"           "That rings a bell, actually."           "We were a pretty tour-intensive band. Spent a lot of time on the 'road'."           "The Unclean Bodily Dishcarges," mused the psychologist. "That's a pretty interesting name. Where did you get it?"           "Old Testament. Leviticus 15. It goes on about how if anything squirts out of your body you have to kill a bunch of doves. I found that inspiring."           "What kind of music did you play?"           "You know the Eagles?"           "Of course. I used to be a big fan."           "Well, we were nothing at all like them. But just about everything else. Can't stand the Eagles. Hotel California, my ass."           "Were you popular?"           "I think a more accurate word is: 'renowned'."           "Why is that?"           "I really don't know how popular we were, but everyone reacted whenever our tour bus rolled into town."           "I see; well, what happened to the band?"           "I guess I just ran out of steam. I mean, we had played everywhere, done basically everything a band could do. What else was there? I mean, we even time-traveled so we could play some really prehistoric gigs, you know?"           "I thought you said you could only travel a couple of years in either direction?"           "Well, see, that was because of our drummer at the time; Ned, we called him. Don't know if that was actually his name, but that's what we called him. Anyhow, it's a long story, but it seemed that whenever I locked him in one of the main circuit towers after he screwed up the beat at one of our shows, we'd flip back in time. I've tried it with other musicians since Ned escaped, but I've never been able to find one greasy enough to duplicate the effect."           "What sort of places did you play?"           "Well, all the major wars of course. Couldn't really miss those. The mass exodus from Egypt was a choice venue. Those Israelites knew how to dance. And you know that whole thing about the Red Sea parting? Amps, and lots of 'em."           "Really?"           "Yeah, it took us five days just to get those suckers in place, but man was it worth it to see the faces on the Israelites. And then of course the Egyptians when we went into a slow ballad."           "I had no idea..."           "Yeah, we played that scene," said Mary wistfully. "I can't remember what order this is all in. Maybe I'll write an autobiography one day. Oh, one of the other all-time best was definitely when we played Sodom. Of course, we were known as 'Sodom and the Gomorrah-tones' back then, but it was basically the same setup. We did one show."           "And how did it go?"           "You haven't heard of it? It was amazing. People running for their lives, me yelling 'DIE, HEATHENS!' over some ear-shattering distorted chords. I've heard reports that a few people spontaneously burst into pillars of salt. I can only attribute that to the new guitar pedals I was using that day, but as hard as I try, I haven't been able to duplicate it. Those sort of moments are magic, I guess. Only happen once and you can never get them back. I suppose that's what's so depressing about them."           "You can always make new moments, Mary. You do know that, don't you?"           "Sure," Mary said heavily. "But it's not the same. They just start to feel empty after a while."           "And that's how you felt when you ended the band?"           "Yeah, I just didn't see the point anymore. It just got so boring. I don't even have much of our stuff anymore, really. A few guitars, but all the recordings are lost."           "Have you tried anything to renew your interest in the arts?"           "Well, I did some painting a while ago."           "Oh, what was your last painting?"           "It was a sequel to a Dali original. I call it 'Young Virgin Autosodomized by her own Chastity, part two.'"           "You like Dali?"           "Definitely."           "Do you admire him?"           "Sure."           "What do you admire most about him?"           "He was by far a more complicated man than Shaft. Shaft's woman wouldn't know what the fuck to do with Dali, and even once she did she probably wouldn't want to and could easily cite regional and international laws prohibiting it."           "And you find this admirable?"           "I find his abnormality admirable. And his head. He had a very spherical head."           "Hmm. Interesting."

"We should probably wrap this up soon Mary, as I'm sure you have duties to attend to as I do."           "Not really, but I see what you're getting at."           "It's been a pleasure speaking to you. You're somewhat of a legend back where I come from and it's been very interesting getting a look into your mind and your world."           "A legend?"           "And a mystery. Many people I know would love to be in my position at the moment."           "Why aren't they?"           "The reasons for that are too complicated. Just know that I have been chosen as the best suited for your case."           "So you're a masochist."           "No, Mary. I'm a highly educated mood therapist who has a particular personal interest in you. I've been studying you for years."           "You're not going to try and have sex with me, are you?"           "No, no, no. I'm just saying that I've spent a lot of time --"           "I bet you have."           "Mary, that's not what I was trying to say..."

There's a little black spot on the sun today That's my soul up there. It's the same old thing as yesterday That's my soul up there. There's a black hat caught in a high tree top That's my soul up there. - The Police, "King of Pain". "Do you feel this session has helped you at all?"           "Well, I've come up with a few good lines."           "Yes. Yes you have. That's very good. You should think positively. I hope that you notice some sort of improvement in your time until our next session."           "Next session?"           "We have only touched the tip of the iceberg, Mary. After-death therapy is a long, arduous and seemingly endless process which is sometimes necessary in helping one to come to grips with the true depth of the human soul."           "So I'm not all better now?"           "We're getting there slowly, Mary. You'll have to have patience. This will take as much time as it will work --"           "Does that mean a lot?"           "I'm afraid so."           "Damn."           "But I assure you that in the end it will all be worth every moment spent."           "Right. I'm hungry. Can I go now?"