Disclaimer: I don't own BTVS or Reaper. This is a creative piece of fiction that garners no profit. That being said, enjoy.
Harold Brownstone stared back at his therapist. Hands that ached for a drink shook as he recounted his tales of office politics. Behind him, Harold could hear the steady rhythm of the wall-mounted clock. The room smelled heavily of leather and cigars, and something else. He thought of rotten eggs, for some reason.
“I mean, I don’t even want to try anymore, Jerry. What’s the use? My co-workers hate me, I’m horrible with names, and I’m not sleeping well most nights. I think I’m just going to break down. I look at the guy across from my cubicle, and I can just imagine what a forty-five would do to that arrogant prick’s face...Christ. I’ve got a problem, don’t I?”
His therapist was amazing. Around fifty, he always wore a sharp black suit and blue tie. Always seemed to have a smile on his face. The man practically radiated trust; you could tell, just by looking at him that he was a good man. The framed diplomas from Harvard and Brown just proved it. Dr. Jerry Belvedere steepled his fingers, and from his easy chair across from Harold’s couch nodded.
“Harold…these feelings are perfectly normal for a man your age. You’re thirty, single, and you feel frustrated with your current life. You think that giving up is the right answer; that you should just lie down and take all this humiliation. Well, Harold, I know you’re better than that. You have to seize the day; take it into your own hands, and show the world what kind of man Harold Brownstone is. You have to fight for that upcoming promotion, Harold. You’ve got to go out to bars and meets people, socialize. Because I know what kind of man you are, Harold, and you should too. Now up and at ‘em, Harold. See you next week.”
Standing up, Harold shook his therapist’s hand as he made to leave. As he turned to leave, he noticed that Dr. Belvedere was still staring at the clock. And he was frowning.
“Is something wrong, Doctor?”
Jerry shook his head. He looked…disappointed.
“Not at all. I’m waiting for someone, Harold. Have a good day.”
The door shut, and the Devil laughed at the poor man. Within a month, Harold Blackstone would have a nervous breakdown. The paralegal for the ACLU would storm into work at 8 am sharp, bottle in one hand and forty-five in the other, and kill three of his colleagues. The scandal would force the organization to close their local branch; rulings would be overturned due to their conspicuous absence. Controversial cases would spark enormous debates; eventually, some would turn violent. But all that was in the future. For now, the Devil’s primary concern was on the other side of his door. Where his son would be entering in three…two…one…