Doom Patrol

This is recording 297.

Observations of the Doom Patrol by Dr. Harrison, day 93.

The Codpiece mission.

I continue to be astounded by the garden of psychological plights

presented by this group.

It's been three months and my decision to stay

continues to pay dividends.

This bargain basement sideshow has been working as a superhero team,

aptly named the Doom Patrol.

Rita has carved out a starring role for herself

as team leader, because no one wanted the job.

Ready? Positions.

And action!

But this failed starlet,

failed high school drama teacher and failed community theater extra

seems to have found her niche, by default.

Believe it or not, she's led this busted Justice League

to seven successful missions.

Dear Rita tackles the job with endless enthusiasm

despite the lack of cooperation or respect of her teammates.

Any questions?

Yeah, not going after Codpiece,

and not doing codenames.

A question beings with "who," "what," "where," "when" or "why," Clifford.

Why do you get to pick the codenames?

Because they suck.

When you spend days researching and plotting missions

while getting paper cuts and inky fingers,

you can choose the codenames, okay?

Until then, you're Robotman.

Dr. Harrison is Crazy Jane.

Larry is Negative Man,

Vic is Cyborg and, Rouge,

you're Dogshit McGivens.

Rita's ire for Madam Rouge is as hot and fiery as ever.

And Rouge eats healthy doses of her shit

because she desperately wants to make amends

for Malcolm and the Sisterhood.

Even though it runs counter to her true nature.

Yeah. Good choice. Mmm-hmm. Elasta-Woman.

Thank you.

In between hating Rouge and being disrespected,

Rita had the good idea

to attach The Brain's robot head to the time machine.

Now, we no longer have to hurdle

through space, time, duct taped to Shipley.

She also solved the time travel memory loss problem.

Ah!

Strangely enough, with jellyfish.

I couldn't tell you why it works.

But it does.

Oh, no, thanks.

Codpiece just robbed the bank.

Can we speed this up, please?

["ANIMAL (FUCK LIKE A BEAST)" CONTINUES PLAYING]

Not everyone can handle a full-load from this big gun.

- So juvenile. - Overcompensating much?

- Gross. - Everyone back to order.

- I've seen bigger. - That's disgusting.

Robotman, flank him on the left.

Robotman.

Robotman!

Clifasaurous.

Left flank. Got it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Dogshit McGivens, draw his fire while the others get to safety.

Draw his fire? Seriously?

Just do it!

Fuckin' hell.

Not behind the bush.

His ammo will cut right through.

Just like my multi-man batter.

Could you try not to be disgusting for two seconds?

Rita tries to control the team's every move

because she can't bear to lose another loved one.

Diagnosis?

A textbook perfectionist, slash, narcissist

with survivor skill and PTSD.

Vic and his father repaired most of the Robotman's smooshed body.

However, the testicle creature incident led to global shipping delays

and they're still waiting on parts for his other arm.

Okay. I'm gonna go rip his dick off.

God damn, son of a...

No. No! No. Still grateful for my crappy petite body.

Everyday outside that giant robot is a blessing.

I suspect Cliff has a low IQ

due to poor breeding, a Florida public school education,

and race car fumes.

Diagnosis,

a grade A simpleton.

The hero formally known as Useful

has settled into place as the team's one man IT squad.

Without his tech, Rita prefers he stay out of harm's way.

But Vic is unsatisfied by his new role and yearns to do more.

Elasta-Woman, you got a bogey flyin' in.

Elasta-Woman.

Hey! Yo, that's far enough.

No, no, no, no. No, no, no. Don't... Don't do anything.

I'm not really part of Codpiece's crew.

I'm... I'm just the IT guy.

What do you mean, "Just the IT guy?"

You're an integral part of his villainy.

You're the foundation he builds his nefarious successes on.

Oh.

Yeah. Yeah, I... I am vital.

I guess I am important, huh?

- - Are you good?

Yeah. Yeah, just... just hang on.

I can't do it if people are talking.

- -

Shit.

Oh. Oh. Shit.

What was your part of the plan?

Was it to engage with an ass-bazooka wielding twit?

But he was literal...

I don't want to hear it.

You stick to the plan or you stay home.

Plain old Vic takes the red-headed miss'

admonishments as a lack of faith in his abilities.

He doesn't realize she too was working through her own issues.

Together they form the perfect storm of psychological inadequacies.

Though Vic fearlessly jumped into the fray against a nimrod

with a rump cannon,

he's far less courageous when it comes to following through

on the promise he made himself to find his happiness.

Diagnosis, personality dysmorphia and social cowardice.

Larry and Keeg have been getting on like a house on fire.

It may be the first reported case

of a host developing Stockholm syndrome towards its parasite.

Oh.

Larry's managed to let go of himself enough

to share his life and body with Keeg

in a way he never could with the Negative Spirit or his human family.

And though Larry tells himself the new life he's forged

with the neon leech is fulfilling enough,

the truth is, he yearns for more.

I'm fine, buddy. Just you and me.

Diagnosis,

good old-fashion self-loathing with a healthy dash of co-dependency.

Madame Rouge refuses the jellyfish on every mission

because it gives her the briefest respite

from remembering her betrayal of Malcolm and the Sisterhood.

Oh. Excuse me!

What am I meant to be doing again? I...

What? You don't remember?

Transform into something to psych him out.

Right.

Holy shit! Nice one, Rouge.

Are you body shaming me?

That's some next level evil.

I won't even go there.

I'll kill your face! So hard!

But Rouge's memories always return with a vengeance.

And she's created a nasty ritual

that's a form of psychological self-harm.

The results are always the same

and she's forced to face the fact that she's relegated

hundreds of people to obsolescence.

Though all encompassing, her pain is a quiet one.

The kind that's always there,

just under the surface, smoldering,

looking for something to catch, but never finding anything.

Diagnosis,

self-loathing doormat with sociopathic tendencies.

As for me, I've managed to find my own place

amongst this bunch of walking tragedies.

One that makes use of my specific talents.