My
name is Walter Toner. My friends call me Walt, Tone, T., T-Bone, Dub,
or Wally. You can call me Johnny Panic. I am what every man dreams of
being and what every woman dreams of getting. I am rich, famous, and
have superpowers. Well, they're not really super but no one else has
them, so there. Everything you want, I have. Then why am I sitting in
a therapist's office?
"What
makes you happy, Johnny?" Dr. Greensban asked. How do you
respond to a question like that? I want to tell him the truth.
Getting
high off of glue makes me happy. Having sex three times with three
different girls in one day make me happy. Watching children fall
makes me happy. Rubbing my crotch across stoplights makes me happy.
Eating until I puke makes me happy. Staring at a chick's boobs while
they pick things up makes me happy. Chewing my toenails makes me
happy.
"Flowers"
I lie. Sounds like a good enough answer.
"It's
your money" Dr. Greensban replied. What the fuck was that
supposed to mean?
"What
the fuck's that supposed to mean?" I ask.
"I
get $1,500 an hour from you whether you tell the truth or not.
So sit here and lie if you wish. It makes absolutely no difference to
me."
"That's
a horrible thing to say to one of your patients" I tell him.
"Client"
Dr. Greensban corrects me. "You are not a patient."
"Whatever"
I say. "I don't like coming here anymore than you like seeing me
here. But everyone says I need therapy so here I am. Now make me
better."
"Sorry"
Dr. Greensban says. "Time's up. See you next week. Same time?"
I head
outside and brace myself for them. My fans. The public. They love me.
You'd think that I would be grateful for all of this love. But it's
not real love, you know? I was in love once. And it was real. This
news copter was going down and I saved a reporter moments
before it crashed to the ground. Yeah, the pilot died, but whatever.
I saved her. And she was hot. Not the normal kind of hot. You can get
that anywhere here in L.A. She was that homegrown kind of hot. She
held me tight as I ran from the flames. It felt like sunshine. I told
my best friend Zazz this story and he called me stupid for three weeks.
Dangling someone from the top of the US Bank building will stop
anyone from calling you anything. Anyway, her name was Athynia. She
was Indian or something. Hot. Skin the color of caramel. Lips as dark
as chocolate.
Damn,
I'm hungry.
We
split when she saw a photo of me and Carmen Electra at The Viper
Room. I wasn't dating Carmen Electra. I was just banging her. Totally
innocent. So she broke up with me on air and posted pictures of me
nude on the internet. I didn't care. I look good. But it was what she
tried to do to me that pissed me off. I picked up her condo and
dropped it in the L.A River. She tried to sue me for property damage,
mental stress, and loss wages. Please. I'm Johnny Panic. The people
love me. Oh, yeah. That's what I was talking about.
