Adri’s Extra-Special Holiday Brew

And now, if we could please all join hands and bow our heads and give thanks unto our Lord who is God, or else unto a god, or unto a demigod, or a demiurge, or perhaps just unto those fortuitous random events in the never-ending swirling chaos of the Void. 

Gotta cover all my bases here, after all, and I sure wouldn’t want to get hauled into court for offending one of you godless ACLU liberals, now would I?

Nevertheless, listen well as I relay unto you my tale of thanks, of a veritable Thanksgiving Miracle (big “T”, big “M”).  For truly I, your humble host and self-proclaimed director of this here noble sanitarium, have been so very blessed in this, the Year of our Lord Two Thousand and Seven.

Our tale occurs, naturally enough, on Thanksgiving Day, and whilst all of the other good boys and girls and mummies and daddies and Great Uncle Leroys (the latter of whom only get to leave the old folks’ home once a year anyway and resent the hell out of everyone else for it the rest of the time)… yes, even as all of these good and simple folk were sitting ‘round their tables o’plenty, with artificial foodstuffs piled high unto the heavens... At that very same moment, in the village of Montrose in the kingdom of Houston, Adri the Goddess of Chaos and her consort, Greg the God of Equilibrium, sat together before a cornucopia of a very different kind.

In the entryway to the Sanitarium stood another goddess, a healer by trade, to be known hereafter as Doctor Friend.  And Doctor Friend, at that moment, appeared somewhat less than fully amused.  She grimaced.  She fidgeted a lot. She fiddled with the strap on her high heeled shoe.

She said, “You two are idiots!”

I sat quietly upon my couch-throne next to the God of Equilibrium. Smiling. Trying to appear non-threatening. Taking heed not to flail my arms around wildly, as I have been known to do from time to time. Or curse. Or spit. Or even use big words. We were friendlies, after all. 

“Duly noted,” I said.  “Idiots. Got it. Now, is this going to kill us or not?”

Doctor Friend took a step towards us and the coffee table in question.  She ran well-manicured fingers through her hair, nervously.  She glanced at her watch, once, twice, three times.  I suspect she failed to notice the time even then.   “You’re basically dosing yourselves with a heavy date rape drug and following that up with… No. No. I can’t have anything to do with this…”

Damn it! I was so close, and now, here we were again: Greg with one foot off the boat, and Doctor Friend leaping back onto shore.

Doctor Friend covered her face with her hands. “Look,” she exhaled as she flopped down in a chair.  “I have a friend who is a hypnotist. If you can wait until a day that isn’t Thanksgiving, you can basically do the same thing with - ”

“ - I know this guy who is an official polygraph operator-type,” Greg offered, interrupting.

What? This was rapidly deteriorating into a full-scale rebellion! I leapt upwards, up, up, and forgetting my rules about appearing non-threatening and waving my hands around like a madwoman.  “You see, Greg and I are doing this either way.  With you or without you.  The only reason I called you here is because I don’t want to John-Belushi-out by having my heart explode.  And, also, well… I think we kind of need a medical spotter for the duration of the evening.”

Greg clasped his hands behind his head.  “Although, to be honest, Adri has recently met some people who could probably shock us back to life if we screwed up the portions.”  A pause. “Yep, dating Adri is fun.”

Doctor Friend would have to stay. To keep watch over us.  You see, Doctor Friend owed me a big favor.  She knew she owed me a big favor. I reminded her of this uncomfortable fact anyway, on the off-chance she thought I’d forgotten.  Without looking up, she reached down into her purse, pulled out a tiny, presumably top-of-the-line cell phone.  She cancelled the appointment she had been embarking on when I’d called her over. 

Doctor Friend appeared resigned to her fate. “Okay,” she mumbled. “But I’ll need to be the one to ask the questions. If you retain enough, um, sense of mind to ask and direct questions to the other one, your own chemically-induced suggestibility won’t be achieved.”

She said, “Tell me again why you can’t just have an open and honest relationship where you talk about things in a truthful way?”

Where did Doctor Friend think she was?  Greg and I spoke up, in unison now: “We’re lawyers…”

“You both have lists of questions you want me to ask the other one while you’re, um, under?”

“Yup!”  I immediately cheered up and proudly presented her with a stack of papers. “I also took the liberty of printing up a waiver stating that you counseled us against doing any of this.  It won’t save you if we die while you’re here, but it’s the least I could do to cover your ass.”

Doctor Friend: “I can’t guarantee you’re not going to have a heart attack, stroke, psychotic break, go into a coma, [blah blah blah, fourth consecutive audible exhalation, blah blah crazytalk, discouragement, warnings of death and destruction]…”

And then, lo, a silence settled in upon the Sanitarium, and a happy glow of satisfaction grew as we realized that there would truly be no secrets between us on this night.  Before us sat a row of pills and drinks which I had personally compiled, calculating (in my oh-so-expert opinion) the amounts which would serve as a far better truth serum than alcohol or sodium pentothal ever could.  

“Oh!” Greg suddenly broke the silence, swinging around towards Doctor Friend.  “I don’t want you raping me while I’m under.”

Doctor Friend turned to look at me. “What?” I asked guiltily.  “You can rape me.  But be gentle!”

Doctor Friend looked at Greg. Greg looked at me. I grinned and pulled out three enormous cigars.  “Shall we step out onto my roof momentarily for a smoke before we begin the evening’s festivities?”

And so we did.  And the Goblins and the Faeries that populate this annual day of American thanksgiving smiled upon us.  For, as the Goddess of Chaos and the God of Equilibrium floated in those gentle waters between hypnosis and liquid coma, the Goblins and the Faeries, they knew:  Make no mistake about it, children.  This was a Thanksgiving Miracle.

Now. Let’s go kill us some Injuns!