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Primal Rage Therapy

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The rock came down again and again, leaving chaos in its wake, and in no time at all the smirks and grins and knowing smiles were smashed into smithereens.

Charlie Brown stopped at last, and began to wipe at his sticky arms, smearing the bright goo away and letting it splatter on the floor.

The observer put her chin on her hand and surveyed the damage. The pumpkins she’d carved weren’t going to be good for anything now, not even pie. But at least Charlie was calm and smiling once again.

“Right,” said Lucy Von Pelt, psychiatrist, “Five cents, please.”