Office building downtown in a metropolis building, 8:00 am. Inside a plush office, walls clad with ceremonial degrees and achievements; a man sits behind a desk as he peers over a chart and adjusts his glasses, hardly even aware of the larger man in the guest's chair. This other man is a six footer, and his build is lean and athletic, with a face that looked like it was carved out of ironwood. He is in his thirties , with dark short cropped hair and perceiving blue eyes.<br/><br/>"....Uhh Well my name is Jackson Wyatt and I have been a US Marshal for about three and a half....nope...I guess it's closer to four now....so<span style="font-style: italic">four</span>years." Jacks answered the psychologist's question and adjusted his posture in the overly cushy chair. The doctor, probably  in his late forties, scribbled notes on the yellow legal pad.<br/><br/>" And do you know why you're here?" The plainclothes doctor said, looking up from the file and back at Jacks.<br/><br/>"Yeah....yeah sure, Any time any agent has to use his service piece in a lethal/nonlethal manner  they have to come do a series of psyche evals, with you, the company shrink....You know, to make sure he isn't crackin his nut. I did and now here I am. " Jacks answered, letting a little bit more of his blue collar accent show than he'd anticipated.  The doctor barely took note, apparently too absorbed in his paperwork.<br/><br/>"Do you wanna talk about it?" The doctor replied with utter disinterest, tapping his pen on the desk blotter impatiently.<br/><br/>"Ahh well, I don't know what really there is to say....I shot a civilian...accidentally, in the line of duty. It sucked, I don't know what else to say, it was unpleasent, but it happens. " Jacks spat  back, a little put off and a little annoyed with the whole process.<br/><br/>"Would you like to expand on that, Agent Wyatt?" Doctor Peterson asked, finally taking the time to actually look up and meet Jacks' eyes.<br/><br/>"Expand how? You want the gory details?" Jacks laughed throwing his hands up in exasperation, but the doctor only nodded and quipped, "Yes, and how'd that make you feel?....please."<br/>"Well<span style="font-style: italic">cough</span>ahhh...." Jacks stammered, not actually expecting the frank reply.  " It was an active informant we were using for undercover work...'snitching'.... His name was Poulson, Dicky Poulson. He was a meth-head, a tweeker from the floor up....We were suposed to have him 'wired' and he's supposed to be going in to this local meth lab for a buy and the lil' fucker wigs right out...." Jacks catches the smirk that's starting to rise onto his cheeks, but it's hard to fight the urge not to crack a smile as the memory comes flooding back.<br/><br/><br/>" He's got his ol' lady with him, she's some twisted lil' street monkey he bangs and keeps spun with glass ....I don't remember her name, but it don't really matter cause as soon as he starts sweating he's starts bitching about catching electric zaps from the wire we got strapped to his chest. We tell him to 'man up' and that it ain't our equipment, it's his crazy meth-head ass imagining shit. But his ol' lady, she thinks he's hearing transmissions from aliens or someshit....hahaha....Oooh man...what did she say? ...ahhhh...'<span style="font-style: italic">IT DEM ALIUMS....ALIUMS....THEY GOT YOU DICKIE....THEY GOT YOU!!!!</span>' ...hahahahahha..." Jacks recounts the events but now finds it hard not to break into laughter at the events absurdity.<br/><br/>"Agent Wyatt....What happened with the shooting?" Dr. Peterson asks, unenthused about the antics.<br/><br/>"Yeah, sorry...ahhh....Well Dickie keeps spazzing out and when they get up into the cook's lab, he's worked himself up into a fuckin frenzy. The guards and the cook just know something ain't right, and so we know that we are going to have to go in there and do a extraction before the cook blows his head off. So we suit up and go in.... We get up to the third floor, where the lab is, and when we kick in the door we see poor Dickie spread out and held down by the cook's guards, they got the wire wrapped around Dickie's.....'dick' and a blowtorch cooking his frank-n-beans. It wasn't pretty doc....Weirdest-fuckin-thing about it is that Dickie isn't even screaming, his face was all distorted but he wasn't making a fucking sound. Weird right? Well anyway, we read'em the riot act, you know 'HANDS IN THE AIR, CROTCH ON THE CARPET...yadda yadda....' and that's when the pitbulls charge. He's got two big mean looking fuckers in the spare bedroom and so we have to pop'em. After that the two homeboy guards get right on the floor, but cook has Dickie's girl yoked right up. He's got eyes the size of saucer plates and you can tell he's spun out of his mind. He's threatening to toss her out of the window,and she is bellowing about 'alium ductions'. So I shot her...." Jacks crescendos anticlimactically.<br/>"Did she expire do to your actions?" Dr. Peterson asked, still unaffected by the horrendous story.<br/><br/>"No....I hit her in the leg, it broke, but that's what I planned. Hell, I know a shattered femur hurts, but it's far better than a three story fall with an abrupt stop at the end. She dropped...straight down and we took aim on the tweeker, It looked like he might surrender, but that's when Dickie got back to his feet. He's standing there and his shit is all cooked up and black, big blisters rising all over his crotch....He's staring down at 'it', that crazy screaming look still smeared over his mug, but still not a sound. Anyway Dickie ends up bull rushing the Cook and they both go out the window. Like I said it wasn't pretty, but you wanted to hear it, so there you have it...no arrests were made in the case, the gaurds were clean and the cook died...end of story." Jacks' eyebrows raised on his forehead and his hands rose to his shoulder level as if to say he didn't know what else the Doctor wanted from him.<br/><br/>Dr. Peterson sat for what seemed like several minutes making notes in the file, after a while he peered down at his wristwatch to check the time.<br/><br/>"Sooo, are we good? You need anything else, or can I resume active duty?" Jacks asked.<br/><br/>"No Agent Wyatt, I still haven't heard how you actually felt about it....and as we are out of time today, I think I am going to schedule you another appointment. Is next week okay for you?" Dr. Peterson replied.<br/><br/>"WHAT? You mean I'm still not cleared???" Jacks angrily retorted.<br/><br/>"No I am afraid not, It's in my professional opinion that you aren't emotionally stable enough to return to active duty. Next week we will discuss your feelings about the events that expired, take some time to think about it and we'll resume next week." Dr. Peterson replied calmly, scratching out a prescription for Valium and sliding it across the desk.<br/><br/>"OOOOH COME OOOON! Are you serious? Look at my file doc, I was Marine Recon, I've seen all kinds of crazy shit and now you want me to manufacture some fake emotions for a wounded crack whore and couple of dead twackers? OK doc, I weep every night in the memory of Dickie-fuckin'-Poulson and the scumbag cook he took with'em.....Does that about do it for you?" Jacks growls, starting to show his notorious temper.<br/><br/>"That will be about enough Agent Wyatt, our session is concluded today, I will see you next week." Dr. Peterson replies flattly.<br/><br/>"Thanks for all your help doc" Jacks says before standing and crumpling the prescription into his jeans pocket. He walks out and lets the door slam hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame.  He storms down the government building's hallway with a scowl on his face. A fellow agent calls out, "Hey Jacks, seen any 'ALIUMS" lately? hahahhah" . "Fuck you" is his only response. Jacks has one thing on his mind and that's a bottle of booze in the skeeziest bar he can find that will serve him at 8:30am.