Dalek Drel and the Couch of Doom

Dalek Drel and the Couch of Doom

Dalek Drel had a problem.
Not the usual Dalek problems (rust, cosmic conquest schedules, or forgetting where he parked his flying saucer). No—this was far worse.

Dalek Drel had feelings.

Specifically, feelings of inferiority.

While the other Daleks stomped about shouting “EXTERMINATE!” with confidence and flair, Drel’s came out all wrong.
Sometimes it was squeaky:
“Extermi…squeak…nate?”
Sometimes it was mumbly:
“Exter…innit…”
And once, to his eternal shame, it came out as a cheery:
“Extermin-hiiiii!”

The Supreme Dalek mocked him mercilessly.
“You sound like a toaster with asthma,” it declared.

So Drel decided to do the unthinkable. He booked an appointment with Dr. Harold Cuddlepuff, Ballykillduff’s one and only psychiatrist (who had never treated a homicidal pepperpot before, but was willing to give it a go).

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Session One
Drel trundled into the office, crushing a potted plant.
“DOCTOR. I… HAVE ISSUES.”

Dr. Cuddlepuff adjusted his spectacles. “Tell me about your mother.”

“I… DO NOT HAVE A MOTHER. I HATCHED IN A VAT. OF HATE.”

“Hmm. And how did that make you feel?”

“INFERIOR. EVERYONE ELSE GOT MORE HATE. I GOT THE BUDGET HATE.”

The doctor scribbled a note: Dalek perceives emotional deficit. Possible childhood trauma involving inadequate loathing.

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Session Two
Drel lay on the psychiatrist’s couch, which immediately collapsed under his weight.
“I FEEL… UNWORTHY,” he admitted. “I SEE HUMANS. THEY ARE SOFT, FLIMSY, SQUISHY… YET… SOMEHOW SUPERIOR.”

Dr. Cuddlepuff nodded. “You may be projecting. Do you secretly wish you were human?”

“YES. SOMETIMES. I WISH TO EAT ICE CREAM. TO HAVE A PICNIC. TO HOLD HANDS WITHOUT A PLUNGER.”

The doctor wrote: Possible human-envy complex. Recommend exposure therapy (picnics).

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Session Three
Drel was now deeply paranoid.
“DOCTOR. ARE THE OTHER DALEKS TALKING ABOUT ME?”

“Why do you think that?” asked Dr. Cuddlepuff.

“BECAUSE THEY STOP TALKING WHEN I ENTER THE ROOM. AND I SWEAR I HEARD ONE SAY, ‘HERE COMES THE LOSER-TRON 3000.’”

Dr. Cuddlepuff stroked his beard. “Do you think perhaps they are a reflection of your own insecurities?”

“NO. I THINK THEY ARE MEAN.”

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Session Four
Dr. Cuddlepuff suggested role-play.
“I’ll pretend to be a Dalek. You tell me how you feel.”

“VERY WELL,” said Drel. He raised his plunger and, with unusual boldness, shouted:
“YOU ARE ALL BULLIES! AND I… AM… ENOUGH!”

“Good, good!” the doctor beamed.

Unfortunately, at that exact moment, three actual Daleks rolled in to collect him.
“DREL. REPORT TO THE SUPREME. YOU HAVE BEEN SKIPPING CONQUEST DUTY.”

Flustered, Drel blurted:
“I AM… IN THERAPY! SELF-CARE IS NOT WEAKNESS!”

The other Daleks fell silent. Then, surprisingly, one muttered:
“…I too… sometimes feel inadequate.”
Another whispered:
“…I’ve always wanted to learn the violin.”

Dr. Cuddlepuff looked delighted. “Gentlemen, shall we make this a group session?”

And so, in the little village of Ballykillduff, the first Dalek Support Group for Existential Crises was born.

Every Tuesday, the people of the town could hear:
“MY NAME IS KREL. I FEEL INVISIBLE.”
“HELLO KREL.”
“MY NAME IS ZEG. I FELL IN LOVE WITH A DUSTBIN.”
“HELLO ZEG.”
“MY NAME IS DREL. AND I AM… ENOUGH.”

The humans still lived in terror, of course—but now they were also slightly amused.