Sycobus
Note: This idea is gleefully and shamelessly stolen from my brother, the writer—who, God help us all, actually got paid money for it. OK, I did turn it inside out and upside down. Sorry, Bro…oh, and I took some from Ira Levin, too. If I ever meet the man, I’ll apologize.
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Melanie was really starting to feel uncomfortable these days. Man, no one told her that pregnancy would be this much of a bitch.
The damn morning sickness was gone, but now she had the bloating, the hair falling out, the blotchy skin, the gestational diabetes, she had heartburn for days, her back ached, her fingers were the size of sausages, she couldn’t fucking sleep and she had cankles—cankles, Damnit! She had cankles—you know, when your ankles and your calves blend into one with no break…ewwwwww.
And let’s not get into the weird dreams.
OK, maybe we better.
They had started a few weeks ago and she had thought, at first that it was just her insistence on reading Ira Levin in bed, but—no, it was more than that. She was starting to feel like Signourney Weaver in Alien or something and had developed this need to walk around in her underwear and was starting to think that some weird snake monster would be coming out of her stomach any minute.
And the new neighbors, what was that about? Dr. Shand and his friggin recorder? They couldn’t listen to Springsteen like normal people? Chanting? What the fuck was that? Incense? The sixties are over, people! Joint the new century.
Well, whatever.
So this one night she was just hanging out, eating some raw calves liver—so high in iron—all alone. Lindsay was at some dumbass opening at the GLC—something about Vulvas through history or some shit like that. Brian had Gus for father/son night at Boy Toy and even the damn cat was out killing something.
Man, talk about bored.
She decided that she’s just go up to bed, you know, catch some zzzzzzz’s when the doorbell rang.
Well, shit.
Who’s there but Debbie and that old Catholic Whine, the ever-annoying Mikey.
Double shit.
“Hey guys, great to see you, but I’m kinda beat, so I think I’ll just call it a night, so thanks for coming by.”
“Hey, Mel…”
“Shut up Mikey.”
Not hearing a word, Deb walked past, Mel noticing that her wig was on backwards this evening. It wasn’t a good look. “Mel, honey, Michael and I want to talk to you.”
“Deb, I’m sorta tired, what with arguing the case for same sex
marriages so Brian and Justin can stay out of jail in front of the Supreme
Court today and then driving myself home from DC in that ice
storm—how’s about we talk tomorrow? Changing those three flats
sort of took it out of me, especially when I couldn’t find the lug wrench
and had to use my teeth. They’re still kinda sore. I’ll call you.
Love ya, bye-bye.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”
“Ma?”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“Um, Deb, something wrong?”
“YYYEEEEESSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!”
“Uh, yuh, you wanna share?”
“Michael and I were talking. We know you’re the Antichrist.”
“Now, Ma, I didn’t actually say that…”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“Huh?”
“I was praying all day. I spoke to God and he told me what to do.”
“Y’know, Ma…”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“He told me to invite the neighbors over. They’ll know what to do.”
“OK, right. Y’know, I’m not really up to entertaining right at this minute. I think the house needs vacuuming and I haven’t a thing to offer guests. How’s say we come back and do this tomorrow? Sound good? Love ya, bye-bye.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”
“Jesus! WILL you stop that?”
“Yeah, Ma, that’s kinda annoy…”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“ANTICHRIST WOMAN!!!!”
“Yeah. OK. Let’s talk about this just a bit. Why am I the Antichrist?”
Debbie went out to the kitchen, the others following. Taking out pans, pasta, tomatoes, cheese and way too many garlic cloves, she began cooking lasagna. Mel took a seat and Michael pretended that he was in the backroom with Brian.
It was a little embarrassing.
Conversationally, Debbie began.
“Well, I started suspecting that it was you when I heard that you’re a lesbian. Oh—not the lesbian part. That’s just as right as rain as far as I’m concerned. It was the whole You, Lindsay, Brian triangle that got me thinking. You see, I know that Brian and Linds are straight. Always have been, always will be.”
“Now, Ma, I don’t know that’s necessarily true and…”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“You’re standing between them and true love with that semi-dysfunctional baby they’ve bred.”
“Now, Deb, you may be a little wide of the mark on this one, in fact, I think you might actually be mistaken here.”
“What? That they belong together or that the kid is warped like cheap lumber?”
“Well, you got me on the kid thing, but look who the fuck is raising him. Have you ever seen people more screwed up than we are?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have—that’s my point.”
“Huh?”
“They belong together, you’re carrying Satan’s baby there…”
“OK, I’m sorry, but you’ve crossed over to bullshit here.”
“Alright, it’s not really Satan’s baby—that’s been done and I loved that book. You’re carrying a Sycobus.”
“Are you sure of that spelling?”
“No.”
“Ma…”
“Shut up, Mikey. A Sycobus is an ancient Indian Medicine, a shaman who is reborn of mortal woman.”
“A dot on the forehead Indian or a whoo-whoo Indian?”
“A whoo-whoo Indian.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m carrying this because…?”
“You’re a lawyer. You’re the Antichrist. That’s why the neighbors, Shaman worshippers all, bought the house next door.”
Deb popped the lasagna in the oven, turning it on.
“They knew it would be easy to call up the devil here and impregnate you.”
“No, that was Michael.”
“I told you, mother….”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“You THINK it was Michael. He hasn’t been able to get it up since that Patrick Swayze incident when he was fifteen. Why the fuck did you think he follows Brian around? He’s the only way Michael thinks he can ever get another boner.”
“Maaaaaaaa!”
“Shut up, Mikey.”
“OK, right...so what are you planning to do about all of this?”
“The only thing I can.” Debbie pick up a match…”You never noticed. I turned on the gas, but I never lit the pilot.”
She laughed as she struck the match.
“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Kaboom.
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