This month we drive to Happyglen Care Center, an upscale sanitarium located thirty miles outside some American metropolis. We talk with the Man in the Front Office, hoping for permission to see a few of the patients. "Many of the patients are here by choice," he says.
All of them? "No, some are confined here by court order."
"Many of Happyglen's patients are celebrities," he adds nervously, pointing to autographed photos on the wall behind his desk.
No celebrities today. Instead we meet these two:
Everyone outside calls him Robert and tries to convince him that he's an accountant, but he knows that they're just trying to confuse him. He makes regular decrees, which the other patients have learned to ignore. Yet he can command their attention once a week, when his wife sends a care package of fresh chocolate-chip cookies.
After stealing a bull-dozer and driving it over a half-dozen unoccupied port-a-potties at a rock concert, Tina explained to the court that the johns had been in a mystic configuration which threatened to release cthonian horrors. The judge nodded, smiled, and sent her to Happyglen.
Here she is hidden away from any cultists who might seek revenge upon her, she says to noone in particular. One day evil will threaten again and she will be needed, but for now she has Art Therapy. Having completed a portrait of The Guy Who Thinks He's Napolean, she's trying her hand at sculpture. Censor Frustus is an obliging model, so long as she doesn't slip and call him Robert.