Sheep and Wolves by Jeremy C. Shipp

Author:Jeremy C. Shipp [Shipp, Jeremy C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Raw Dog Screaming Press
Published: 2009-07-14T04:00:00+00:00

American Sheep

One moment you’re prepping your flesh-stick for a heaping dose of midget porn, and the next you’re lying face up in a room packed with disemboweled sheep while something’s sucking on your ass.

Like me, you stand and find you were sitting on the open mouth of a small tube. An air-sucking tube, like you’d find in a mail-room or Costco. These tube-holes wheeze at you from all over the floor, all over the walls, the ceiling. They’re color-coded. Numbered. you must be insane.

“Apothegm #223,” a voice says. “All inhales must exceed two seconds.”

It’s a man’s voice, coming from the speaker mounted to the wall.

“Apothegm #223 has been transgressed. Liberate the sheep now.”

A plastic container shoots out from one of the ceiling tubes, and falls directly into one of the floor tubes.

“Damn it,” the man says.

A few moments later the container bursts from the wall. This time it lands safely on some bloody wool.

I’ve never smelled a room full of dead sheep before, but the scent is too real not to be.

My eyes dart around like I know what I’m doing. Like I have a plan. Maybe one more blink of my leaking eyes and I’ll remember I’m actually a secret agent or an alien. Not a website designer with a degree in philosophy who hasn’t thought about the meaning of life for over two years.

Or.

Maybe this is hell.

Maybe this is heaven.

Maybe the lion won’t play nice when sleeping by the lamb.

What I know is that there aren’t any windows. There’s a door, but I don’t check to see if it’s locked. Fuck fight or flight. I feel like standing here in my Spongebob boxers, staring at my hands.

“Liberate the sheep.”

For some reason, I think he’s telling me to bring them back to life, so I say, “They’re dead.”

“Liberate the sheep.”

His voice is assertive, but soothing. Like the speaker of an audiobook. You don’t want the reader’s mind to wander, but you don’t want to scare anyone away either.

“Where am I?” I mean to say, but I actually say, “Who am I?”

And he says, “Liberate the sheep, Pith.”

That’s not my name.

“Open up the cartridge,” the man says.

I try the door, finally, but it’s locked.

“Open up the cartridge.” This time it’s me talking. I open the blood-smeared plastic container and find knives, saws, scissors, tubes, funnels, and a laminated instruction manual. English on one side. Spanish on the other.

It tells me how to drain the blood. How to cut up the flesh into long, skinny strips. How to saw bone. It tells me which bits go into which holes. It tells me good luck. It tells me to remember my goggles because safety always comes first. It tells me Made in America.

*

Orange Tube #27 eats the last of the intestines, and I realize that I’m drugged. It’s rather obvious to me at this point, because I should be screaming. Not working.

I shouldn’t even consider this work.

The decomposing elephant in the room is the fact that the drugs inside me will eventually wear off.

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