The Beast Who Failed Anger Management

The Beast had a problem.

Not the fur, not the claws, not even the breath that could peel wallpaper. No, the Beast’s real issue was his temper. The slightest inconvenience sent him into a full Broadway-worthy meltdown.

The chandelier flickered? Roar.

Dinner was served lukewarm? Roar.

Netflix buffering? Nuclear-level roar.

His roars were so frequent the castle walls developed cracks. The servants, who were already cursed into household objects, had stopped keeping count. The wardrobe just sighed, “At least he’s consistent.”

But when Beast shattered his fourth therapy couch in a single week—splintered it with one dramatic leap of rage—his insurance company sent him a polite but firm letter: “Sir, we cannot continue covering damages caused by your roars. Please seek anger management immediately.”

The First Session

Beast stomped into Dr. Linda P. Frogglesworth’s office, breaking the welcome mat in half.

“Please, have a seat,” she said with professional calm.

He did, but the chair groaned like it was writing its will.

“Now, tell me why you’re here.”

“BECAUSE EVERYONE SAYS I HAVE—” He paused, steam blowing from his ears, “—anger issues.”

Linda scribbled something on her clipboard. Probably: Understatement of the century.

“Good. First step is admitting it,” she said. “Now, when you feel a roar coming on, I want you to take a deep breath, count to ten, and maybe imagine a safe place.”

Beast tried. He inhaled. He exhaled. He counted to… two. Then the pencil snapped in his claws.

“Progress,” Linda said, with the kind of optimism only therapists and kindergarten teachers could muster.

The Teacup Incident

Back at the castle, Beast attempted his new techniques. Dinner was soup. The soup was cold. His eyebrow twitched.

“Count to ten,” he muttered.

The teacup, who’d been listening intently, piped up in a tiny porcelain voice: “One… two… three…”

That was his mistake.

Beast roared so loudly the soup boiled on the spot. The teacup rattled across the table and fainted.

The wardrobe yelled, “Linda said to BREATHE, not to BOIL THE CROCKERY!”

Broken Furniture, Broken Spirit

Over the next weeks, Beast gave it a valiant try. He meditated (the rug caught fire when he chanted too loudly). He squeezed stress balls (they exploded). He even tried yoga (downward dog ended in downward demolition when his tail knocked over three candelabras).

Linda raised her session fee. Beast raised his blood pressure.

By session six, the therapy bill rivaled the national debt of a small kingdom. Beast was furious about it, of course, which meant more sessions. Which meant more bills. Which meant more fury. It was a vicious, furry cycle.

Group Therapy

Linda decided Beast needed community support. She signed him up for an Anger Management Group.

The first meeting looked promising. A troll complained about bridge tolls. A dragon said she burned villages when under stress. Even a stressed-out raccoon who hissed at garbage collectors was there.

“Hi, my name is Beast, and I roar at microwaves,” he confessed.

The group nodded in solidarity. The dragon patted him on the back, accidentally setting his mane on fire.

But when the troll suggested Beast try knitting as a calming hobby, he ripped the yarn in half and stormed out.

“Knitting is for mortals!” he bellowed.

The raccoon applauded.

A Fragile Breakthrough

One night, after demolishing a perfectly innocent loveseat because it looked at him funny, Beast sat down among the ruins, panting. The teacup, still shaken from boiling trauma, inched closer.

“Maybe… maybe it’s not about the roars,” the teacup squeaked. “Maybe it’s about… being okay with cracks.”

Beast blinked. For once, he didn’t roar. He didn’t smash. He just sat there.

The teacup clinked nervously. “Look at me. I’ve got chips. I’ve got cracks. But I’m still useful. Still here. Maybe you don’t need to be perfect either.”

Beast stared at the tiny porcelain sage. He felt something stir inside him. Was it… calm? No, it was gas. But underneath the gas… calm.

For the first time in years, he whispered, “Thank you.”

The teacup fainted again.

The Not-So-Happy Ending

Did Beast conquer his temper? Well… sort of. He downgraded from full roars to growls. He still shattered mirrors, but only on Mondays. The castle was less of a demolition site and more of a fixer-upper.

Dr. Frogglesworth called it “significant improvement.” The insurance company called it “still risky.”

The therapy bills continued piling up. Beast considered applying for a part-time job at IKEA, given his expertise with breaking furniture.

The teacup never recovered fully, often trembling whenever soup was served. But he did gain a reputation as the bravest porcelain in the castle.

As for Beast, he learned that anger management isn’t about never getting angry—it’s about learning when to roar, when to breathe, and when to let the teacup do the counting.

So yes, the Beast failed Anger Management in the traditional sense. He never achieved full inner peace, never reached Zen-like calm, and never learned to knit.

But he did learn to apologize after roaring, and sometimes—on good days—he could even make it to five before smashing the furniture.

And in this castle, that was close enough to progress.