John "22 Times" Carter

Dear Diary,

Mornings have a certain charm—if you're the kind of person who enjoys waking up early, which I don't. Still, discipline trumps preference, and at exactly 5:30 AM, I was up, armed with my running gear, AirPods, and a pack of beef jerky. Why beef jerky? There’s a stray cat I’ve befriended at the park. She always waits by the same bench. Over time, we’ve developed a ritual: I bring snacks, and she stares at me with judgmental feline indifference. I usually run for 2 miles toward the park and rest there for a while before going back. Don't judge me, I started running 2 months ago, okay?  

Today, however, the cat was not there. I wonder if she overslept. I decided to wait at the bench for 10 more minutes but nothing. Disappointed, I decided to jog back when a figure appeared out of nowhere. "first time running?" she asked.
It was a woman—mid-30s, athletic, with an air of confidence that immediately made me nervous "Uh... no," I gasped, trying to look suave while catching my breath. I had been running for 5 seconds. She laughed, a soft, melodic sound. “Sorry, that was lame. I’ve seen you here before. Just thought I’d say hi.” 

I blinked. People don’t just talk to me out of the blue. “Oh, uh, hi. I’m Max.”
“Nicole,” she said, extending her hand. For a moment, we stood there in awkward silence until she smiled and jogged off, leaving me to stew in my socially inept glory. I tried to follow, only to trip over my shoelace and faceplant into the dirt. Real smooth, Max. Real smooth.  

The clinic was quiet, as usual. Susan, the secretary, gave me a polite nod as I entered. I settled into my office, sipping coffee from the café across the street. The clinic’s coffee? Tastes like despair and wet cardboard. It's 8:44 AM, today I was early by 16 minutes. You know it's kinda boring here, no Wi-Fi or anything. It is a therapy office after all. Tomorrow I'll walk slowly to the office. By 9:00 AM, my first client arrived. His name was John Carter—a man in his late 40s with tired eyes and a nervous energy.

“Morning, Mr. Carter. Please, take a seat,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from me.

 After a recent run of dealing with crazies, I just want to talk to a normal person. You know, someone with marital problems or who lost his job. I can't wait.

"Yo, are you doctor Harvey?" "Yes, I am please take a seat," I  "Would you like some coffee?" 

"No, I'm fine doc"

"So, tell me what is troubling you?" I asked. "This is a safe space, John. Can I call you John?"

"Yes, it's fine. Doc, I've been having trouble lately. I can't sleep right. I talked to my friend and he told me you have been helping him. so here I am."

 "Thank you, John, I'll do everything in my power to help you. First, John tell me about yourself."

"Doc, I need to get something off my chest."

"Of course," I said grabbing my notebook. 
He took a deep breath. "I killed a man."

I froze. My pen hovered mid-air as my brain struggled to process what I’d just heard.

"Huh, can...you elaborate?" I asked, attempting to sound calm.

He launched into his story. His wife had been acting suspicious—new clothes, late nights, unexplained absences. One night, he followed her to a restaurant, where she was with not one but two men. “Two guys, Doc!” he exclaimed, his voice rising. “I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I borrowed a gun from a friend and…”
 My brain screamed, Smile and nod, Max smile and nod!

“And?”
“I shot them. Both of them. Twenty-two times each.”

I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Right. Excuse me for a moment.”
I stepped into the hallway, where Susan was sorting files.

“Susan, are you sure this man is my 9 o’clock?” I whispered.

“Yes, Dr. Harvey. Referred by Mr. Bob Clerkins,” she replied nonchalantly.

Of course. Bob Clerkins. The Squirrel guy? Terrific.
"Thank you, Susan."

Taking a deep breath, I returned to my office, determined to handle the situation like the professional I am—or at least pretend to be.

There comes a time in every man's life when they have to be a man and look death in the eye. I have to do the best I can in this situation. John and I spoke in great detail about his escapades until the session ended. I walked him out with the politest "Have a nice day" I've ever mustered, then immediately googled 'Do therapists have to report murders?" That's a problem for another day.

It's noon. Lunchtime. Today I'm working half-day because I have an issue to take care of at the impound. I asked permission from my boss and was granted, yay. Now it's just a matter of getting a hold of Daphne. I managed to get ahold of her and we went to the impound lot.

"Cheer up!" she said as I slid into the passenger seat of a bright green Mini Cooper Uber. "This is going to be fun. Like an urban safari!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Urban safari?"

"Think about it," she grinned. "Unfamiliar terrain, mysterious creatures—like tow truck drivers—and at the end, you retrieve a rare prize: your car."

"Um, what??" 

"You know what it doesn't matter. Let's just get our car back." 

Our car, of course. It's ours yet I don't remember you making payments. My thoughts were in agreement.

The impound lot sat on the edge of town, hidden behind a maze of industrial buildings. Its high chain-link fences topped with barbed wire gave it a prison-like aura. The Uber parked outside, and Daphne handed me a pack of gum.

"Chew this. It’ll help you look less stressed," she advised.

I don't think this is gum. I followed her lead,  as we walked toward the small, grimy office at the entrance. Inside, a bored clerk barely looked up from his screen.

“License plate number?” he muttered. I rattled it off while Daphne leaned casually against the counter.

“Ah, here it is,” he said. “You’ll need to pay the towing fee, storage charges, and a late penalty.”

Daphne whistled. “They’re running a racket here, aren’t they?”
The clerk ignored her, sliding a paper across the counter with the total amount. I winced.

After paying what felt like a ransom, we were directed to the yard. It was a chaotic mess of vehicles, some covered in dust, others looking freshly towed. Daphne grabbed my arm dramatically.

"Stay close," she whispered. "We don’t want to get lost in the wilderness."

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Her theatrics were the only thing keeping my frustration in check.
We eventually spotted my car, parked awkwardly between a dented pickup truck and an ancient sedan missing its tires.

“There she is,” Daphne said, pretending to wipe a tear. “Your noble steed.”
Getting the car out wasn’t as simple as unlocking the doors and driving away. First, I had to find a lot attendant to release the boot they’d placed on one of the tires. After what felt like an eternity of searching, a man in a neon vest sauntered over.

“You’re good to go now,” he said, removing the boot with an air of disinterest.

"Can I drive Maxxy? Give me the keys."

A simple no would have sufficed but where's the fun in that? 

"FUCK NO!"

As I slid into the driver’s seat, Daphne climbed in beside me. “Mission accomplished,” she declared. “But before we leave, can we stop for fries? I think this deserves a celebration.”

By the time we reached the nearest drive-thru, the stress of the impound lot had melted away. Sitting in my freshly liberated car, munching on fries with Daphne, I realized she was right—adventures weren’t always glamorous, but with the right company, they could still be memorable.

And so, the day ended not with frustration but with laughter and the warm glow of headlights guiding us home.

Not much happened after that, we got home and watched the Vampire and Robot new episode. It was just an alright episode nothing worth noting. Anyway, it's 10:30 PM now and I'm tired after washing the dishes left from last night.
Signing off,
Dr. Max Harvey
Jogger by morning, Murder confidant by day. Diary keeper.