(energetic 80s music begins to play)
(sigh) Hi. I'm Harlan Dellor, Empathic Arbiter at Crystal Clear Counsel here in Glen Sighing.
If you've got a dispute with neighbors, exes, business partners, or your own reflection, we'll sit down, light a candle, and I'll tell you how you're both wrong.
(pause) We specialize in low-impact psychic mediation, aura entanglement resolutions, and, uh, whatever else you brought in that's got you fuming.
We don't judge.
We just quietly guide you toward the least catastrophic outcome.
(muttering) Most days, anyway.
Walk-ins discouraged, but we won't turn you away.
Crystal Clear Counsel: Clarity is... a process.
(music resumes) That's it. That's the ad.
The name that flashed onscreen: Harlan Dellor. Harlan. An unusual name. I had only ever encountered it once before, buried in a pulp science fiction short I read as a girl. Something about a sentient supercomputer that enslaved mankind and spent its existence loathing them. The particulars escape me, but the sentiment lingers. One hopes life never truly imitates art to such a degree. And Dellor… so tantalizingly close to dolor, the Spanish word for sorrow.
And a sorrowful man he was! I may have, let's say, conducted a brief site visit to his place of employment. Observation is critical in these matters. What I witnessed was, frankly, pathetic. During his midday break, he consumed what can only be described as a piece of cardboard, defrosted and heavily smeared with industrial-grade icing. His motor skills were sluggish. His physique, soft and swollen in places, showed signs of chronic lethargy. His hair, recently washed, hung flat against his scalp with no perceptible texture or vigor. Most curious of all were his eyes: a sickly, jaundiced yellow that suggested either liver trauma, radiation exposure, or both. Given Glen Sighing's proximity to the old containment site, I wouldn't rule out the latter. He repeatedly wiped his sticky fingers on his trousers. It left his slacks perpetually streaked with sweat. The cumulative impression was of a man half-submerged in his own biological decline.
I left a modified version of the standard paper near the office trash receptacle. It emphasized certain procedural aspects of Inter Lineas, tailored for someone of his disposition. I didn't need to wait long. As I monitored from a distance, I watched him spot it, hesitate, and then retrieve it. How predictable. By the time I returned to my office, his voice was already on my machine. Some people practically draft themselves.
(The call begins. Harlan clears his throat. Office ambience, including a phone ringing, computers typing, and a fax machine, can be heard in the background.) Ah, yes, hello there, I'm calling in about that ad in the Star. (he has a rather flat voice.)
The, uh, the psyche realignment one.
Inter Lineas, was it? Sounds fascinating, truly.
(soft chuckle) I've been told I qualify, at least partly.
I've got a bit of a divided house up top, you might say,
(brief pause) always have, really.
Male, sure, mostly, but there's this, other self, too, a more, refined arrangement.
A she when she needs to be, and lord help me, she's got opinions.
(laughing nervously) Anyway, I've lived a pretty clean life, no substances, unless you count rhubarb cordial, and I've been consulting psychically and legally since '82.
The folks say I've got a gift for fairness, but if I'm honest, I'd like to feel a little less, uh, haunted when I'm alone.
And if there's a way to maybe offload a little gastrointestinal dissonance while you're in there,
(very awkward silence), well, I'd be mighty grateful.
(pause) I'm not saying I need to be someone new, but I wouldn't mind being just one someone, if that makes sense.
Anyway, I'd love a call back.
You can reach me through the front desk at Crystal Clear Counsel.
Just tell 'em it's for Harlan. They'll know.