maskormenacelogs | you're a nut! you're a nut!

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you're a nut! you're a nut!

WHO: Mark My Words Vorkosigan and Chill-out Chilton
WHERE: Chilton's Office
WHEN: Eh, timelines. The 18th-ish, whenever.
WHAT: Mark goes for therapy! Thank God.
WARNINGS: Very likely mentions of triggering subjects like child abuse and eating disorders, as well as flagrant defiance of medical and psychiatric ethical standards.

[ Mark almost cuts and runs a few times. After all, he's doing okay, isn't he? He doesn't need therapy, really. He has a job, and he has a stable home, and he feels sane and whole and healthy -

Yeah right, he thinks, catching sight of himself in the reflective surface of the waiting-room coffee table. His worry before coming here had driven him to eat seven sweet rolls one after the other. And just last night he'd had a panic attack. He probably needs this.

Chilton is an appealing choice wholly because of the things people have said about him. It's clear that the man is greedy and greedy for power; these are comprehensible, human impulses. Mark understands how to leverage someone like that far more than he understands how to leverage someone who's altruistic and generous. There's no such thing as an honest man, and so it's best to find one whose dishonesty is out in the open, as far as he's concerned. So here he is, in Chilton's office, hair slicked back, face fixed in an expression of hostile indifference, wearing his best suit and his most expensive shoes. And when the door opens, he gets to his feet right away, trying to take command of the situation - something he does with a surprising degree of skill, considering that he doesn't even come up to shoulder height on most people. And considering that he's a twitchy, nervous wreck most of the time. ]

Doctor Chilton.

[ He extends his hand to shake. His face is grim and unsmiling. ]

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[Chilton's gaze slid to where Mark could have risen from -- the soft, blue sedan or the hard and wooden chair, both angled towards his own desk. He couldn't quite be sure based on the geometry of the man's stance alone, and that uncertainty put a crooked, small smile on his mouth.

This was already going to be something of a dominance fight, and he hadn't gone into the match knowing Mark's first decision in one of the many subtle dilemmas he had set up for his patients.]

Hello, good to see you.

[Quite the firm handshake. A quick look over the attire; it was certainly to Chilton's approval. His gaze lingered on the shoes a moment too long, as if comparing that expensive leather to his own. Compare, contrast, envy, triumph -- the game of the privileged.]

Please -- [Chilton gestured out towards the chair and the sedan.] Resume your seat. Why don't we begin with elaboration on the emotions you've describe to me, the existential angst. [His words, not Mark's.]

And, ah, how would you like to be addressed?

[In a world with Lord Petyr Baelishs, Chilton had learned that this might be a sensitive and appropriate question.]

[ It's the hard wooden chair he sits in. Of course. He didn't even hesitate before choosing that one. For all the fine leather of his shoes and his silken cloth pocket-squares, luxury and comfort are foreign to him. He lived a soldier's life before this, and before that he lived like livestock, deprived of comforts when those comforts might cause any damage. Soft chairs could result in a bad back. So soft chairs weren't provided to them.

Yet in spite of that, he answers Chilton's question with an aristocratic - ]

The most correct form of address would be Lord Mark. But we can dispense with that and just use Mark instead.

[ Inside, Mark wants to shrivel up as he gives that answer. He wishes he had thought to lie, from the start, give a false name, give a false biography. Because even his name is fraught. Even making that choice of Mark is fraught. Maybe he should do that even now. Lie about everything, give a fake story, so that he doesn't have to open himself up and humiliate himself...

He turns his head away from Chilton, affecting a posture of haughtiness. It's very much the Young Vor pose that Galen had drilled into him. It's a defense, a shield against the vulnerability of really being Mark. But - he does, at least, tell the truth. Even if this single elliptical statement isn't exactly transparent or informative. ]

The existential angst is from the fact that I was raised to be someone else.

[The wooden chair. That stood in line with his assumptions about Lord Mark already -- suspicious of therapy, skeptical of Chilton's intent, and more likely to dig his heels in the moment he feels his own control dwindling. Those who chose the hard chair, however varied their personal reasons for doing so, inevitably provided obstinacy in their treatment.

Chilton wore a wide, warm smile.]

Just Mark, it is.

[But the implied joviality was temporary; as Mark discussed his woes, Chilton's guarded expression let slip a concerned furrowed brow. He had treated someone who was made to think he was someone else, but never someone who hadn't manifested an early established identity -- and one, if he were to take at face value, that deliberately challenged the prepossessing identity. Already fascinating.]

And when did this realization that you are not that person you were raised to be came about? Recently?

[Because recently implied immediate trauma, and long ago implied a cocktail of neuroses and personality disorders.]

Uh - four years ago. About four years ago.

[ He rubs uneasily at his knees, then takes a breath. Better to explain in full. Better to have it all out, the whole stupid miserable tale, all at once. It's hard, though...Again, he considers simply lying. Lying would be a good alternative. Lying would be a lot easier.

Fuck it. ]

I'm a clone. I was created as an assassin. I was supposed to kill my progenitor and take his place so that I'd be ideally positioned to take out several high-value targets and destabilize the planetary government of Barrayar. Which meant that I had to acquire everything about my progenitor so that I could pretend to be him. I had to imitate how he talked, how he moved, how he thought, all of it.

[ He runs his hand over his head, then, pushing back his hair. ]

So I mean it...very literally. I was raised to be someone else. I realized it when my handlers came and collected me in order to initiate the mission.

[Now that earned a doubled eyebrow raise. It was as close to a casebook definition as was humanly possible -- even Lecter's own mechanisms attempted to transform Will Graham hadn't been as thorough as Mark's experience. Given the emotional impact, the raw revelation, the unprecedented horror -- well! Mark managed some remarkable composure.]

So you understand intimately who someone else had intended you to be. And that environmental influence -- well, Mark, there is no beating around the bush, you will always be a product of what you have experienced, there isn't any erasing that. And quite frankly, given your circumstance, I doubt you would want that. You have an identity, even if it is in flux, the pillars of your personality are built upon how you grew to adulthood.

That being said... [Chilton cleared his throat and leaned forward in his own seat, the worn leather working a slight creak.] You still have control over who you are. Requiring a little guidance is not weakness, it is intelligent resourcing. This won't be easy -- hardly called a crisis because it's a cake walk. But Mark, you have a unique opportunity to redefine yourself. Most people have to break, and terribly, before they get to do something similar.

[But Mark came to Chilton already broken. Shattered, even. The psychiatrist did well to cover the warm smile he felt emotionally dawning.]

How does that sound?

Uh - Good. Good, it sounds good.

[ Hah. That's an understatement. It sounds good. What it sounds is...necessary. Mark feels like a body that's been hollowed out, innards drained away till he's nothing but skin stretched over bone. Crushable. Like a good solid blow will cave in his hollow belly. Ser Galen, the man who had created Mark, had taken many, many lives, and one of those had been the man Mark might have been; he'd strangled him as a boy in the cradle, excised all that Mark-ness surgically. And now here's the remnant, Mark the walking dead. An ugly, squat little demon reanimating the corpse of Mark-who-might-have-lived-if-he-had-been-allowed-to-live. Mark, the victim of infanticide, grown to maturity. Make me into something human, good doctor Chilton, he thinks, and then swallows down the sudden urge to let loose a cackle.

Instead, he pours all his energy into still looking forbidding and together and less than completely insane. He does an okay job; all he does is offer Chilton a slightly twisted, lopsided sort of grin. Not so bad. He rubs his damp, flabby palms along the sides of his pants, and nods, and takes a breath. ]

Sure. And you think you're equal to building that up, huh? [ His hand comes up to smooth back his hair again. ] What are your qualifications, anyway?

My qualifications? [Chilton had extensive experience in deteriorating the clay of an identity and systematically remolding mind and memory to fit his agenda. Exhibit A: Abel Gideon.

Surely, he thought, the reverse engineering process would be none too intimating. And if he overestimated his probability for victory, well, perhaps Mark would make an ideal renovation project. A win-win circumstance for Doctor Chilton. He leaned forward into his answer, his body language enunciating his speech.]

I graduated from Harvard, I maintained a fellowship there before moving to Baltimore, I ran my own private practice before becoming the Chief of Staff, and then Head Administrator, at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

[He took a breath. Nearly all his oxygen had been depleted.]

Needless to say, my entire career has been disciplined with the specificity of traumatized individuals. I am intimately familiar with dissociative disorders.

[Maybe a little too familiar.]

You and I will succeed, Mark. We will piece you back together. [A beat. And then, softly:] But we first must have faith in each other to even begin.

Faith?

[ He asks that blankly, like it's a word in a foreign tongue he's never encountered before. The other words that Chilton had spouted - Harvard, Baltimore, state hospital - those are all foreign and unfamiliar, too, but Mark can at least understand the general significance of them from the tone of Chilton's voice as he speaks. Harvard is something to be proud of, immensely proud of; that state hospital is an impressive accomplishment, too.

But he can't make any guesses from the tone Chilton uses when he says faith. Does he mean that he wants more money? Where Mark is from, on Jackson's Whole, that's the ultimate gesture of esteem, a sign you truly value someone: paying them more even when you don't have to. But America isn't completely like Jackson's Whole. Similar, but not identical. So what, then...? ]

And...How do we build faith?

Through trust, mutual respect. A realization that we share common goals, Mark.

[At that point, Chilton rose from his own desk and gingerly walked around to Mark's left side. He kept near an arm's length distance, his body language had softened as he approached as if keeping in mind the potential to frighten. Mark was in his domain now, his environment; Chilton's instinctive perception of him as a frightened predator reigned dominant.

So he took upon non-threatening mannerisms. A mellow tone, subdued hand gestures. A restrained smile that did not show too many teeth.]

I have a couple of trust-building exercises in mind. For example -- addressing the anxiety you suffer from. You require unique handling, Mark.

[Chilton, slowly, moved his hand to cup at Mark's cheek. It was a deliberate motion, and Mark easily could have turned face at the gesture to subvert the attempt if so desired. But Chilton's soft, manicured hand intended no offense.

Not yet.]

Edited 2016-09-24 02:05 (UTC)

[ It's a gentle enough gesture, certainly. Chilton moves gently, calmingly. Yet even so, as that hand is coming for his cheek, Mark sits frozen, paralyzed with indecision - paralyzed with disbelief that this is happening. He moves only when Chilton touches him - and then he jumps, jerks back bodily in his chair, snapping his face away from the doctor's hand. ]

What are you doing?

[ That comes out as a low snarl. There's anger in his manner, but it's not the righteous outrage of a little lord furious at a bit of forwardness; it's anger driven by fear, terror, rage and hatred born of a real dread. A frightened predator indeed; even as his pupils dilate and his heart pounds, his fingers dig dangerously into the arms of the chair he's sitting in. ]

Don't touch me.

Okay, okay. [Both hands were raised now, with the palms shown out. Chilton took a step backwards, inviting more space between him and Mark -- but not much more. His efforts had been subdued, but his ambition was not made submissive.]

We are not there yet, that's fine. It is best to work at a pace that suits you.

[Chilton flexed his fingers as his hands were still raised in the air; he was practically itching to leak a little sedative into Mark's bloodstream. Just a little bit of an anxiolytic, that was what he had in mind. Nothing too renegade. But informing Mark of his intent would have been tricky, especially given Chilton's own invested paranoia regarding his powers. Especially given what it sounded like, to speak aloud.

Let me drug you with my fingertips. It wouldn't do.

Chilton preferred whole, unquestioned control. And to manifest that fully, he needed Mark's good faith.]

Touch isn't necessarily a show of dominance. It can be a manner of communication, of community. And that is what you and I are, of course, members of the same community. Isn't that similarity comforting, in some way? Or no?

Edited 2016-09-24 04:42 (UTC)

[ He's settling down, calmed a bit by Chilton's not-quite-apology. Only a bit, though. His posture is still stiff, the set of his jaw aggressive, and he doesn't even blink as he watches Chilton talk. Still, you can only concentrate so long on making sure that someone doesn't go on the offensive - especially when they're asking you weird questions about community - and so, a few moments after Chilton finishes talking, he's distracted enough that he looks away for a moment. ]

I guess.

[ He thinks about it, though, and then he shakes his head. ]

It's not like people aren't going to do shit to people from their own community. [ A shrug as he quotes something he's heard people say - ] We're in the same boat doesn't exactly sound great when there are stories of people killing and eating the people who are trapped in a boat with them.

[Cannibalism references. Chilton couldn't help but wince, it was something of a sore spot for him.]

Then let us ensure that our boat isn't sailing blindly off course. That is why you're here, isn't it? For navigation. Better coping technique.

[He was hesitant to push the avenue of medication, given Mark's demonstrative control tendencies. But to completely avoid the topic would be skirting accusation of malpractice, and Chilton could do without any additional scrutiny.]

Would you consider taking something to help you manage the depression? That feeling of unspeakable dread and disconnection, the bleak reality of not quite knowing who you are, what your purpose is any more... That is going to distract you. Better to numb the distractions for right now, don't you think?

I can promise it won't involve me touching you. [Said with something of a smile.]

[ Huh. Mark makes note of that flinch, even if he doesn't understand the roots of it. It seems, he thinks, like Chilton gets worked up about community coherence, and any denial of the community makes him wince - the thought that cannibalism underlies it doesn't cross his mind.

Still. Medications? His natural paranoia whispers all sorts of scenarios - invites images of poison snuck in through pills, drugs that sabotage him and unbalance him...He'd had years of medications, things that made him sick, things that stunted his growth and softened his bones so they could be re-formed, things that kept him sedated. These would be from Chilton, though. Chilton doesn't exactly seem like someone who'd be motivated to murder Mark. And as for making his mental state more susceptible, as for pumping him full of drugs that'll make him more malleable - well. That's what Mark is paying for, right?

He doesn't like the idea on principle. But the prospect of something to kill his dread and misery is a nice prospect. He'd like to just feel better, preferably immediately and with no work at all. That would be great. ]

I'd want to know everything about it first. Side effects. Everything.

Absolutely. [All in the books, all above the table. Chilton recalculated how long it might take to lull Mark into a more distracted hum -- weeks, months. Whatever. A delay in his presently percolating plan didn't render it impotent, and he had the patients to wait for Lord Mark.]

But... In the meanwhile. [Rather than retreat to his desk, he encircled the sitting patient, careful to maintain eye contact all the while.] Our time would be best spent discussing your thoughts and the sort of crippling emotions you suffer from.

[It was best to get the detailed narrative of Mark's experiences from the source; this wasn't precisely a textbook scenario. Fortuitously for one of them, Chilton was almost never attracted to textbook scenarios.]

We must establish a foundation, first. So Mark -- [Chilton leaned against his desk now, which provided some space between them but left him still mobile.] What, in your own words, are your three most definable personality traits? And how have those three traits shone through in this world?

[ This is a gargantuan task to put in front of someone who has never been given the tools for self-reflection. Three personality traits. Three things he can define himself with. He thinks for a moment, mind just about aching with the sheer effort of finding self-definition. Until, finally, he hits on the idea of just stacking himself up against Miles. Because his life has been defined by defining Miles. Every single waking moment was spent distilling Miles into his essence so that Mark could consume that essence. So he could become him. That is an easy task.

So who's Miles? First: he's brave. Excluded from the military academy, Miles had gone out and formed a fucking mercenary army so he could be an admiral anyway. He'd gone daringly into battle again and again. Never blinked. Never flinched. Put himself on the line. Probably hadn't even cried as a kid when they'd taken him for the second surgery that week... ]

I, uh...get scared easily. Sometimes I get...intimidated into doing things. [ Like betraying your family. Those sorts of things. Sure.

What else is Miles? Charming. Charismatic. Bubbling over with energy and life. Mark is a black hole, but his progenitor is a sun. Bright and sparkling. Mark scowls and seethes. He's quiet when he should be talking and talks too much when he should be silent. He doesn't really have friends. Or - not many, at least. ]

I don't really know how to talk to people.

[ And Miles is smart. But...Mark is too. He thinks. He hopes. Sometimes he worries that everyone's just playing a game and they're dumbing everything down to make him feel smart. That really he's some slow, stupid, pathetic little kid, the Vorkosigan predilection for intelligence cut out of him by the Jacksonian doctors, and the Vorkosigans have just used all their influence to make everyone treat him like he's smart.

But - on the other hand - there are plenty of people who have no reason to lie to him. People who hate him, who want to see him destroyed. And sometimes even they treat him with the wary loathing they'd give only to a respected enemy. In a lot of ways, that feels better than love does.

So this last quality is given with a sullenly fierce sort of pride: ]

And I'm not soft.

Of course you are not soft, Mark. [Of the offered self-reflection data, Chilton knew that one required immediate reassurance. The sullen defensiveness flaring, the haunches curving for a rise -- Chilton wanted to iterate how he believed in Mark. And part of that belief involved reiterating what was most important to the patient.

He wasn't soft. Duly noted.]

But two of your... Denoted qualities, they are... [How to put this kindly, if incisively.] Absences. Of traits.

[Chilton tilted his head, his mouth twisted into a sympathetic squiggle. It wasn't shocking that Mark would have his own behavioral dance with absence -- he was intended to become someone else, and he was not that man. It was only logical that a constant narrative of comparison would slow, and a stronghold of negation was the easiest way to set down identity barriers.]

You are your own person. [A beat.] A legitimate person.

[Chilton had, unbeknownst to him, begun to empathize with Mark. He was a man who Alana Bloom would later call "uncomfortable in his own skin", it was natural for him to connect with the pain of contrast.]

But you bring up an interesting point: not knowing how to talk with people. [Society could form identity when nothing else might.] Is it all people? Or have you an easier time talking with some rather than others?

[ You're your own person. That sentence raises a choking sort of discomfort in him. He doesn't know whether it's a good feeling or a bad one. Disgust or hope. Or panic. Panic, probably. When it comes to him, it's usually panic.

I feel like an absence. A void, rather than a person...

He turns his thoughts to that question rather than let himself get lost in self-pity. Not knowing how to talk to people. Everyone? He thinks back to the conversations he's had so far. Thinks about this one. Chilton's clearly a person who's good with people, but Mark feels awkward and stumbling with him. He has a hard time figuring out how to talk to his parents. And girls, he wishes he could talk to girls without wanting to pass out from stress... ]

All people.

[ But once that's out of his mouth, he reconsiders. Really? With all people? After a moment, he admits: ]

I, uh...I guess it's easier when I'm talking shop. [ A little half-shrug as he clarifies - ] Business. And...violence. I can talk a bit better with soldiers and people like that. Conversations where we're making plans are easy.

Planning is a realm of control for you. [It was understandable; Mark demonstrated a commander's mindset, he saw the world in cause and effect and appeared to deeply comprehend consequences. Violence was calculated, if you cut someone they would bleed. Emotions, however, and intrinsic social cues, those were coded variables of an inequitable equation.]

But it is important to challenge the areas where you feel a lack of control, Mark. How else will you be able to adapt and better assert previously untapped control, if you never expand your boundaries?

[He thought it was a logical argument, and one that would hopefully appeal to Mark's own sound sense of reason. The man before him was a highly cognitive one, and Chilton figured logos was the best persuasive tool to employ.]

It is fine to start small. What we are doing, right now -- that is a start. Does this all make sense?

[ His nod isn't flattery, isn't polite, isn't feigned. That does make sense. Quite a lot of it. ]

Figure out new behaviors, then drill those behaviors until they become natural.

[ Practice talking, being human, until it comes instinctually to him. Start small and build up to more elaborate ways of acting. It's a strategy he's familiar with - though it was applied for a different purpose before. It was applied to him learning to walk and talk and think like someone else. Strange to consider it being used to train him to walk and talk and think like himself...

Scary, too, in a way. Because it's unlikely that Chilton is going to provide him with a model he's supposed to copy. It's easier to copy something than it is to create something new. But - that also means that there aren't going to be any consequences for missing his target. Hell, it won't even be possible to miss the target. There won't be a target. ]

[Drill those behaviors until they become natural was not the most organic instruction to give oneself, but Chilton wasn't about to critique it. Small steps along this path -- he had said that himself. Mark was just taking small steps.]

Exactly.

[Affirmation, confirmation.]

You have the right idea, Mark. And while you and I both know this journey will not be an easy one, you can nevertheless rest assured that you are taking the right course of action. You are reclaiming your own identity.

[Sort of like going through puberty all over again. And then going through the mid-twenties all over again. Normal experiences that Chilton doubted Mark had the full, thrusting benefit of.]

That is why I'm giving you an assignment. You will need to pick three people to ignite a little small talk with, on subjects of your choosing -- but, ideally, subjects tailored to appeal to these three people. As individuals.

[An exercise in empathy, since Mark would have to think about what these people like to think about.]

Oh. Um.

[ Shit. Three people? Small talk? Who can he pick? He thinks about that furiously - and then finds, curiously, that several people come to mind. Lady Vorkosigan - Mother - he can talk with her easily enough. Miles isn't hard to talk to. And...Rincewind, maybe? Or...Winry? God, no, not Winry, she's easy to talk to but the thought of just chatting with her is a terrifying one. Because Winry is so pretty, and what if he charmed her and it got to the stage where she kissed him, maybe...The thought makes him want to cry, and he's not sure whether it's because he wants that so badly or because he's so scared of the prospect. ]

Can it be anyone? Can I do people I already know?

[ He pinches a little anxiously at the flesh of his jowl. ]

Ideally one would be a complete stranger, Mark. You could work your way up to that one, consider it the climax of your achievement.

[He wasn't about to pressure Mark into an anxiety spiral, not when it was so evident that the patient had gnawing complications already. Chilton supposed it was to be expected; living all of one's life as someone else, one might only know how to interact socially as someone else. And mimicking Miles was not the purpose of this psychiatric exercise, he appreciated that Mark understood that.]

You are capable of this.

[Positive reinforcement, gentle upon delivery.]

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

[ Clearly the positive reinforcement worked well: his hand drops, and his anxious fidgeting dies down a bit, and he even speaks a little bit wryly. Because that isn't sarcastic. He genuinely appreciates that faith. And even though his expressions of gratitude and genuine emotion are awkward and unfamiliar, he still tries to express them. Mark doesn't like many people, but, well...He likes Dr. Chilton. ]

Yeah. [ A breath, and he braces himself: ] I can do it. The weather and stuff, right? That's what you talk about?

More or less, yes. [Chilton hadn't wanted to take too heavy a role of instruction in Mark's brainstorming, just in case he was taken too literally. Better than the patient conjure his own ideas -- the more organic the topics, the more natural the taught impulse.]

We can see where to go, after you've accomplished this task. But improving your technique with a little social lubrication, well, that might help to enlighten what sort of person you are by how you interact.

Answers, Mark. We're going to find answers.

[ He nods again. We're going to find answers. He likes that way of putting it. Not, there's nothing to you, and we need to figure out a way to build you up so that you're actually something like a human again - But, rather, we'll find answers. Like there's actually something to him. Like he's just a mystery to be solved. ]

Yeah. I guess we will.

[ He takes a breath, and then fishes out a large billfold of cash. He starts counting out bills, saying as he does: ]

I'll pay you in advance. For a few sessions.

[Chilton's eyes flickered down at Mark's unfolding financial bundle. It seemed almost crass, to have the cash so exposed and blatantly offered -- his service not merely understood as charged, but compensation handed over to Chilton while they both enjoyed the other's company in this private room. There were words for things like that.

He smiled nevertheless, never once dropping the Celsius on his warmth for Mark.]

Eager to secure me down, are you?

[Chilton meant it more as a joke.]

Don't you worry, Mark. You are on my books.

[ His brows draw down in confusion. And he looks at his money, and then back at Chilton, and then back at the money, completely confused. He's had people refuse his money before, certainly, but they were typically trying to do it as some sort of insult. Keladry and Lucy hadn't wanted his reparations for what he'd done to Lucy - though he'd found a way to make reparations anyway, by buying that lake - and that girl at the Swear-In, who'd wanted to demonstrate how socialist she was or something...Is Chilton holding out for more? ]

I've seen how valuable you are. I don't need any more convincing.

[ Where he's from, Jackson's Whole, has only a single law: the Golden Rule. Whoever has the gold makes the rules. Money and respect are synonymous. To decline money - even between friends - especially between friends - is completely baffling. Indeed, he says this next part with the same solicitude with which a friend would describe the reasons they bought you this particular book for your birthday - ]

I'll pay you cash, and it won't even be declarable income. You can avoid paying taxes on it.

[Chilton's further furtive glance at Mark yielded a bit more insight; it was quite apparent that Mark had intended no insult, no sly power play. This was not some show of dominance. This was an extended hand, a conversation in Mark's chosen tongue.]

Fair enough point.

[And something that Chilton's economically conservative values could appreciate. The ethical complications did not even factor into play.]

You will have to forgive my... Hesitance, Mark. I do not normally deal with the money personally, you understand. [He had people for that. Reggie, mainly; the younger man was as much Chilton's secretary as he was the insurance policy regulator.] But of course, of course. Of course I accept. [Chilton offered his hand.] Looks like you'll have a lot of sessions in sequence for the upcoming future.

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you're a nut! you're a nut!

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