The psychiatric service offere by most asylums is pretty uniform, lock them up, give them tablets and councelling, and try to convince them it is all pretend and they're not really Napolean, Julius Ceasar, Queen Victoria or most unbelievably of all... A PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER?
Sometimes of course these delusions go to deep for anything to work and most importantly for the psychiatrist be be arsed any more, when you have Adolf Hitler and Gengis Khan plotting to escape there is only so far that mininum wage pay check makes you bother about doing your job properly while trying to keep your own sanity.
So in the Michigan Department of Community Health (MDCH) ran psychiatric unit we are currently in things are mor the most part played pretty loose, the staff do their job with just enough effort to keep things in check, without actually making a difference to the sanity of their charges, and the nuts get more insane with each day.
And it is in the middle of this that we see a familiar figure, dressed in the regulation white surgical gown, is Omen, former wrestler, and current patient at this unit. No one, even Omen himself doesn't know how in the fuck he ended up here; the last thing he remembers is walking into the dressing room to prepare for a match and then nothing, he woke up here with a sore arse (where he had been drugged to subdue him), and the feeling that something was definately not right.
That was five months ago, five long months of protestinghis innocence, trying to explain and coax the doctors to let him out, and many more jabs up his arsehole that he now considered himself half wrestler and half fucking pin cushion.
Omen was mad, who wouldn't be, the problem being that when he said he was mad (angry) the doctors would nod their heads and say yes we know your mad (insane) and give him more drugs. Now the drugs he didn't mind but it was the injections in his butt that were really pissing him off, he got violent to complain, he got more injections.
In the end of course, he couldn't be bothered arguing, admittedly the food wasn't great but what the hell, he was getting it free, free roof over his head, free everything. Then one night they were allowed to watch television and as he sat down only to be confronted with the familiar faces of UWF's roster in a promo for their latest pay per view event.
Maybe it was all he needed to break him out of his malaise about doing nothing for so long, or maybe it was the fact that Cleopatra had asked him to look at her asps that had finally made him wake up, smell the coffee and realise he was in a fucking mental instituin, and was actually happy to be here.
That was three weeks ago, since then he'd tried to do everything he could think of, reason with the doctors, and... well that was pretty much it as far as his plans went, so desperate was he that he persuaded the two nut jobs who thought they were Hitler and Ceasar that maybe escape would be a great idea (he also worried that he had been here too long when he started putting on a faux german accent to speak to the guy who thinks he is Hitler)
Things were not going well, he wanted to annexe the dining room with the rec room first, while Ceasar had now decided he was Nero (before setting fire to the dustbin while pretending to play the fiddle). Everything had gone wrong, there was only one option.
And that is to go speak to the Psychiatrist again, but what could he say to make her change her mind and see sense or check what he was telling her to realise he was telling the truth? There was only one option....
TO BE CONTINUED