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Prayers to Sheos
Here are some of the insane ramblings of our resident demigod, Sheos. Direct your prayers to sheos@susurrusmagazine.com. --Rev. Brian Worley
I kept my gaze on the base of the door, because it was my only source of light. A big foamy glob of drool dropped from my bottom lip and splattered onto the floor. I didn’t want to drool. It’s just one of those things that happens, like tsunamis and pre-mature ejaculation. Tugging at the straps that held my arms to their sides did no good. The straight jacket was holding, just like it always held, for the same reason prison bars usually didn’t move for an inmate. The outside world wanted me confined, locked away in the dark; a thing they could keep under wraps. For a while, I was happy with this arrangement. You can only spend so much time on Earth before you get bored of watching history repeat itself, and soon all you want to do is sleep. So when the boys in white came knocking, I gave myself up willingly. I was tired of living in the world. I needed a break. So, I came, and I slept, and it was good. But lately…
Dear Sheos,
How can I survive the time warp that happens when I enter a dentist office? Everything seems to get reverted back to the seventies or eighties once you cross the threshold. And what’s with those weird kitten pictures on the wall?
Doing it again, Samantha
Sammy,
A person’s first reaction when confronted with the Dental Office Time Warp, or DOTW, is to hold their breath. However, this approach is wrong. Contrary to popular belief, the effects of DOTW can be very beneficial to one’s health if harnessed appropriately. Years can be shed from the epidermis, rendering the need for skin creams obsolete. I recommend that when confronted with the DOTW, you keep your breathing regulated to one inhale/exhale per every five seconds, close your eyes, and open your mouth wide. If done correctly, your time warping will be a prosperous event. And don’t forget to shine your shoes at least four hour prior to the visit if you want them in any recognizable condition after it’s all said and done. As for the kitten posters, watch your back. Though the DOTW is harmless to the brave, those felines have daggers in their eyes.
The mental hospital I stayed in was located on a large tract of land and surrounded by a picket fence, giving it the appearance of a farm, which in a way it was, I guess – in a basic keep-the-animals-away-from-society sense – in a broad make-sure-they-don’t-get-out-and-defecate-on-the-good-dinnerware understanding. By the way, this is the story of how I escaped. You’ve seen the horror-movie settings: hospitals that have fallen into disrepair, molded ceilings, cracked tile floors, rusted bars blocking doorways, stained mattresses on a bed frames that are chained to the walls next to overflowing, shit-filled toilets, crazy people beating their heads against the damp, stone walls, while solitary light bulbs flicker overhead, making the sound of a bug zapper for no known reason (I mean, seriously, can a bulb actually behave in that manner?). We’ve all seen this place, maybe in our nightmares, maybe on a screen, maybe even in reality, but Cedar Hills Mental Institution was completely different. Sure it was constructed half a century ago, and some of the architectural designs dated it, and it would be very possible for Cedar Hills to become one of the aforementioned taints of the world if the staff didn’t keep it in tip-top shape—but they did. The walls gleamed from fresh, white paint jobs. The spotless windows were clear as air. The furniture was arranged in a structured manner. Cedar Hills was a place where the crazy got better, rejoined society and work nine-to-fives at grocery stores or morgues. Every room was a testament to that bright, shiny mission—except the room in which I was trapped. Solitary confinement. If the upper levels were heaven, this place would surely be hell. Tucked away and rotting, the solitary block was for the hopeless. All the rooms were currently empty, all the rooms but this one. This was the place when that itching in my head gathered the most. I couldn’t do anything to stop the interjections from happening. These unwelcome intruders barged their way into my thoughts and held my attention for as long as it took.
Dear Sheos,
Where can I find a hyper-drive for my Plymouth Voyager?
Rob
Roberto,
Where? Open your phonebook and have your pick, man. But I’ll tell you this: Know what you’re getting into. Nowadays, it’s harder than hell to find a nuclear technician, and they always screw you on parts. Ninety bucks for a hydro-spanner! Ninety Bucks! If you’re serious about buying, buy new, buy foreign, get a decent warrantee, and keep the thing maintained. That’s all I got.
Prayers. It sucks to be a god. People always interrupt your inner monologues with their Help-me’s, their insecurities, their questions—it’s frustrating. What’s scarier is the possibility that the doctors may be right, that I belong there in solitary confinement, that the voices in my head are my own creation. I made it through this madness, though. I don’t place too much trust in doctors…
Dear Sheos,
What would I do, hypothetically, of course, if I accidentally raised the dead, and they were currently in my mother’s kitchen, feasting on raw hamburger and cantaloupe? Would there be a reverse spell I could use, or is brute force my only chance for survival? Please get back to me as soon as possible.
Rusty
Hypothetical Rusty (a Hypo-Rust, if you will),
After consulting Max Barry’s Zombie Survival Guide and The Haitian Book of the Dead, it is my unfortunate duty to tell you that no spell will return them to dead status. It seems your predicament can only be solved through violence. But look on the bright side: Killing zombies is a great stress reliever, especially if you run across a boss or ex-girlfriend. Hopefully, since knowing what you’d be dealing with, you’ve procured a Shaolin spade to use against the undead foes. However, if you are lacking the spade, head to the garage and find a long crowbar, not the short kind that looks Hollywood-cool and has no reach. Those are just silly. After that, it’s just a matter of cleaning up the mess. I’ve heard club soda is good for getting out blood stains. Happy hunting!
I hated solitary confinement. It was at these moments when the prayers came rushing in the most—when I had nothing to do but answer them. My head ached from all the voices bouncing around inside. I tugged at my restraints again. Nothing. Truthfully, I didn’t think I’d know what to do if I somehow managed to get out of them. Suddenly, there were too many possibilities. Regardless I was feeling the pull. My time here was growing short. Little did I know how short that time was. I heard a voice. “Hey, Sheos, you in there?” The voice was apathetic. It belonged to the only guy I knew that could keep such a tone while strolling through the hallways of solitary confinement. His name was Rabies, but you don’t say it the way you’re thinking (Pronounciation: Rab-ē-us). Call him rabies (Pronounciation: rā-bēz), and you’ll be lucky to leave him with both your hands attached to your wrists—a machete can be a wonderfully dangerous thing. “What do you want?” I huffed. It was his fault I was in here—I hated the bastard—but he had traveled here to ask me something, so it was the least I could do to listen. Not like I had much choice. “You ready to leave this place?” “What? Right now?” “Yeah,” he said. “I got the Strom waiting for us outside the fence.” The Ego Strom, a black Geo Storm that had taken us from place to place since 1993. We decided to change its name after it traversed a major flood, twin tornadoes, volcanic debris, and high gas prices. Apparently, nothing could kill the machine. I’d like to say that we gave it some divine protection, helped it in all those situations, but I’d be lying. The Strom was as tough as they came, plain and simple. “Sure,” I said, and the straps of my jacket fell loose enough for me to wiggle out of, the door opened, and Rabies stood on the other side, picking his teeth with his fingers and holding a duffle bag full of both our belongings, a collection of keys ringed around his forefinger. “Shall we?” he said. “I’m dying for some sauerkraut.” Sauerkraut, the nastiest food on the face of this planet. Rabies loved the stuff. “I could use some chai,” I said. They were reluctant to give me any form of coffee in the institution. I never did understand why. We exited the building and crossed the courtyard. Already, I could see the silhouette of the Strom beyond the gates. “How did you get the Strom here?” I asked. “Weren’t you locked up for our fight in the swimming pool?” “Yeah, but the Strom and I are linked. He’s like a smaller version of Kit, from Knight Rider.” “And you’re David Hasselhoff?” I asked, as we started to climb the fence. So far everything was going smoothly. We reached the top of the fence when it happened again.
Dear Sheos,
How do you fall “Head over heels in love?” Isn’t your head already over your heels? We should just pull this stupid saying out of our list of phrases.
Jen
Jen-bot,
This sounds like a question for that foxy Aunt Gwenda (and you can tell her I said that. Grrrrrr…). You may do better to ask her, but I’ll still give it a go. As far as love is concerned, I think we go all stupid during the initial stages and this saying is just a reflection of that… That’s it. I got portabellas to burn.
I fell from the fence and landed just behind the Strom, flat on my back. Fucking prayers. I hopped in the passenger seat of the Strom and reclined my seat. Already the sirens were sounding, but of course, they were too late. I could tell Rabies wanted to peel out as we left Cedar Hills behind us, but the Strom was renowned for its durability, not its speed. Instead of rooster-tailing away, we only succeeded in revving the tiny engine. It was a bit embarrassing, but we’d get over it. There was a lot of road to cover between there and wherever, so we considered this our main concern, and left our egos out of the equation.
Sheos out.
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