Rage of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  Wul entered and broke the tension. I waved him over.

  “Ryanmax, it's so good to see you.” He shook my hand like we were brothers separated at birth meeting for the first time.

  “Yeah, geese, it's been what, a week now?”

  “But what a week. You've become the very talk of the town.”

  Sapale's head dropped upon hearing that news. She mumbled quietly, “Please, Davdiad, no more worship for my moron brood-mate.”

  “Ah, Sapale, wonderful to see you too.”

  “Almost as wonderful as seeing the great and powerful wizard of Oz here?” she responded, nudging her head my direction.

  “You're a wizard as well?” marveled Wul. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “Apparently not,” grunted Sapale.

  “Sure, why not a wizard too? If I had a deck of cards I could entertain you for minutes,” I responded. “By the way, why the expansive greeting?”

  “Are you kidding? You're the only individual ever to face Bethniak in a fight and not die. I'm proud to shake your hand and call you friend.”

  “That's about it,” exclaimed Sapale as she stood abruptly. “I'll be outside getting some fresh, non-butt-kissing air.” And she left.

  “She's not so used to me yet,” I said meekly, thumbing toward her over my back.

  “I thought you told me you've been married for a very long time?”

  “Yeah. I'm an acquired taste, it would seem.”

  “I don't think so,” came a voice over my shoulder. Freaking no. I knew that voice. I turned to see—you got it—the shiny-blob ghost. And darn if it hadn't changed shape again. It looked like a cigar with two cigarette legs. Of course, because we're talking my blob here, the legs floated a few inches off the floor. Sure. Why have useless legs function as legs when you're haunting Jon Ryan?

  “I don't suppose you heard that or see the ghost again, do you?” I asked in a defeated tone.

  “Ryanmax, that bit was funny the first time, but do we need to do it again? Seriously. Move on. Take a chance and grow up.”

  “I'll take that to indicate no.”

  “He chooses not to see me,” said the ghost.

  “Do you remember your name yet? I want to employ it to officially blow you off if you do.”

  “I don't exist. How could I have a name?”

  “Oh you exist all right. Nothing could be as annoying as you and not be real.”

  “Okay. I'll play along,” responded Wul. “Why do you suspect I don't exist?”

  “No. You exist, my friend. It's him.” I nodded toward the cloud. “He says he doesn't exist but he does.”

  “How is that funny?” asked Wul.

  “It is not,” the ghost responded for some reason.

  “I know it's not. It nauseating,” I whined.

  “So I'm supposed to be nauseated? Why would you wish that on me?” asked a confused Wul.

  “I don't. The ghost, sure, but not you.”

  “How about you, Jon Ryan?” inquired the spirit. “Are you or do you wish to be nauseated?”

  “No. Yes. I mean I'm getting there. Why are you here?”

  “You asked me to meet you,” snapped Wul.

  “Hideho, y'alls,” welcomed a cheery Queeheg as he bounced over. “What is it you'll be samplin' a'day, Master Wul?”

  “The usual and lots of it,” wheezed Wul.

  “Ah, well I see the CO has started to have 'is mysterious effects on ya already,” responded the barkeep, all but giggling.

  “CO?” we both asked. I mean Wul and I did. Not the ghost. Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he didn't exist. But no maybe about it, I needed a strong drink soon.

  Queeheg leaned in conspiratorially. “C fer chosen, O fer one. Ya seez? I figured outta code.” He tapped the side of his head, winked, and scampered away. His breath smelled of embalmed cheese. I was ready to bolt and join my better half.

  “He's a real fan, Ryanmax,” said Wul with no enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, he sure as hell is. Lucky me.”

  “I don't feel it is such a lucky thing to have a halfwit drunken blabbermouth be your number-one fan,” opined the ghost.

  “No one asked the views of a ghost,” I growled.

  “No. I mean, yes. No one did. What are we talking about?” wondered Wul, the strain evident in his voice.

  “You and I are not talking about what him and I are.”

  “Him being Queeheg or the ghost?” asked a fading Wul.

  “Perhaps both,” added the apparition.

  “It is not both. You don't count. You are transparent and annoying and really pissy-offing.”

  “Pissy-offing?” parroted Wul in an empty tone. “Is that a verb now?”

  “Is whats a verb na’?” queried Queeheg as he set a tray on our table.

  “Pissy-offing,” mumbled Wul.

  The furrows in Queeheg's brow could have directed flood waters. “Hmm.” Then his face brightened. “Who said the expression?”

  Wul, apparently speechless at that juncture, pointed at me.

  “Ah, then yes, it's a fine an' propers word. I'll be glowing to share it with or accuse it to of others in the proximate future.” With that he moved to the next table, a huge grin on his face.

  “I am not sanguine about the neologism,” said the ghost.

  “Neologism? What, you a deceased scholar of the English language? Professor Pissy-offing of the College of Hard Knocks?”

  “No. I'm not a professor,” whimpered Wul. “I never went to school. I … never saw the need. I was a god.”

  “And he still is,” chimed in the ghost.

  “Ghost reminds you you still are,” I passed along foolishly.

  “Still am a ghost?”

  “No …”

  “A professor?”

  “Nope …”

  “A pissy-offy college?”

  “No. Listen. A god. But it's pissy-offing, not pissy-offy. That could never be a word. You lose the whole verb intent.”

  Wul lowered his head to the table. “The verb has an intention? Does that intention have anything to do with the ghost I can't see or hear?”

  “No. That's crazy talk, Wul. I just don't think we need to make a perfectly good verb into a noun or anything.”

  “Of course not. Is that what you wanted to speak to me about? The finer points of grammar in the setting of insanity?”

  “No, gosh, Wul. You're so … so …”

  “Ill?”

  “Silly. That's what I was going to say. I wanted to talk about the egress, you know, moving on down the road to Prime?”

  His face was still on the table but, in the plus column, I do not think he was retching. “You want to talk about the invasion?” Man he was pathetic. His voice was barely a whimper.

  “Well, sure, I mean, you know, small talk.”

  “You wanted to meet so we could chitchat about the impending doom of a now vibrant universe?”

  “Well, if you place it in that context it does sound a bit insensitive of me, doesn't it?”

  He made a sound, kind of between a horse whinnying and fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “So, I forgot to ask. How’re you doing, Wul? Things going well? Hey, how's your team doing? You follow any sports?”

  “Fine, yes, we don't have team sports, so I backed into responding no.”

  “I didn't mean team sports when I said team. I could have meant like a chess club or pinochle society.” I didn't want to betray my lack of knowledge about my peeps, right? “And you could follow a sport even if we Cleinoids don't … haven't organized teams. No, not yet, but someday, who knows? I thought I heard of a tee ball league forming somewhere near here.”

  “You are as cruel as they are,” said Conscience, my ghost. “You have reduced the poor fool to idiocy. When will the quality of mercy droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven out of your mouth?”

  Woah. “You quote me Shakespeare? How does a disembodied spirit in Godville know the Bard?”

  “I'
m not disembodied … yet,” sniveled Wul. “Where's Godville, Ryanmax? Is that where the wee ball teams are?”

  “Godville's in your heart and no, the tee ball was elsewhere. Now shut up please, Wul, all of the sudden I'm busy.” I spun to the ghost. “Out with it. How can you know that line?”

  “I have …”

  As one we said, “… no idea.” Great. The impossible squared. An alien who's a ghost knows Shakespeare. No, wait. Cubed. He doesn't know how he knows.

  “Is masta Wul all right?” asked Queeheg as he inched toward him. I could tell he wanted to poke Wul with a finger but wasn't quite that brave.

  “I'm pretty sure. Look, he's still breathing. That’s gotta be a positive sign.”

  “Let's prayz it'is. Can I get you more poison?”

  “Ye … y … yes,” squeaked Wul. “Strong poison quickly.”

  “Ah, I was speakin' metaphorically, Wul. Ya knows dat, right?”

  “Oh,” was all the poor guy could manage.

  “Who's ya transparent friend, CO, if it's authorizable fer me to asks?”

  “Oh he's … wait. You see him?”

  “An' why wouldn't I?”

  “Everyone else ignores him.”

  “Well, let's just a'member I'm not everyone an' dis bein' my bar, I makes it a strong habit to knows everytin’ what transpires.”

  “He doesn't recall his name, he is certain he doesn't exist, and he's pissy-offing.”

  “Ah. De generator of da word's da day. Proud to know you, sir, madame, or other applicable appellation. Do you intake solids or liquids?”

  “No, I have no …”

  “Den I'll be askin' nicely one time only dat youz be on yur fair way.” Queeheg nodded to me and walked back behind the bar.

  “I guess this is goodbye,” I said flatly.

  “Such sweet …”

  I held up a hand.

  He stopped. And he was gone.

  “Who was Queeheg speaking to?” asked Wul. Plucky fellow was attempting to lift his head up. I was sure pulling for him.

  “Seriously, no one.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You bet it does.”

  Wul was sitting almost upright. I wanted to kiss the freak.

  “So, if you were going to stop the egress of the ancient gods, how would you do it?” I asked plainly.

  His voice sharpened remarkably fast. “Why would you want to …”

  “Me. Hang on here. Who said anything about me wanting to stop anything?” I set a palm on my chest.

  “You are the one asking.”

  “Oh, I see your misunderstanding. I'm on a concept-scavenger-hunt team. Didn't I mention that? Yeah. New bunch a whackos I joined the other day. I think it'll be all the rage …”

  “Scavenger hunting for concepts? Ryanmax, you go too far. There are no teams such as that.”

  I shook my head. “Gosh, the guys'll be upset to hear that. We already placed an order for tee …”

  “Enough,” he hissed convincingly. “It is only because of my past affection for you that I do not alert Vorc as to your inquiry.”

  “Hang on. Okay, I was trying to be funny. Here's the real reason.” I glanced side to side as if assuring no one was around to hear. “Ever since someone threw that intermixer into the vortex, I've been on a secret mission.”

  His stare did not soften.

  “Yeah, top-secret operation. Vorc asked me to ferret out the perp or perps.” I checked the immediate area again. “He said as a poly and as a suspect myself—not that I did it, mind you—I was his first and best choice as an operative.” I put a hush finger over my lips.

  “You expect me to believe a word of that? You must think me a great fool.”

  “Look, no. I'd say you could call him and confirm, but he'd deny everything. It's that secret. He will afterwards. I swear it.”

  “What is the all-consuming need for secrecy? That's never been necessary in the past.”

  “Shh.” I scanned the room with alarm. “Geez, Wul, can you keep it down? Of course that's never been needed before. That's why it's needed now. Don't you see it gives us the element of surprise?”

  He blinked eight or ten times before speaking. “The element of surprise by investigating in secret? That's brain-dead talk.” He began to rise.

  “Sit, sit,” I said in near panic. “I think that's one right over there.”

  He reflexively sat. Staring to the area I gestured my head toward, he asked, “One what where?”

  I threw my head back in manifest frustration. Looking back at him, I whispered loudly, “One of the coconspirators, duh.”

  “The only person I see is Xassteril. Sorry, she’s not a person, but that's the only thing in that direction.” He returned a harsh glare to me.

  I nodded frantically. Boy, I must have looked the sight.

  “What?” he asked.

  I nodded more frantically and angled my head toward whatever Xassteril was.

  “So help me, if you don't stop spasming and start speaking, I'm going straight to Vorc.”

  “We've identified Xassy as a confirmed element in the plot to kill Vorc.”

  “Huh? Wha …”

  “Shh.”

  “What plot to kill V …”

  “Shhhhhhhh! By Depadupia's fine eyelashes, can't you keep it down?”

  “Depa who?”

  I rolled my eyes like a Valley girl. “Never mind. Yes. The intermixer was intended to take out Vorc.” I turned and gave an if-looks-could-kill glance at Xassteril. “The idea was to disorient him and have him fall into the vortex. No way he'd survive that.”

  “Why the hell not. Conscious gods pass right through. Why couldn't unconscious ones?”

  I pointed at his nose. “That's what they want you to believe.”

  “Who wants me to believe what?”

  “They want you to think that. But they know if a Cleinoid is under the influence of an intermixer, up close, you know, they could never survive the vortex.”

  “Why not? It alters perception alone.”

  I placed a the-headmaster-is-furious expression on my face. “I didn't say it was true. One does not need to be correct or even bright to be a rebel.”

  “So they wanted to assassinate Vorc but didn't know their plan wouldn't work, when it's as plain as the nose on my face it couldn't possibly have the desired effect?” Man he sounded exasperated. Good. I was getting there.

  I extended my hands deferentially toward him. “Exactly.”

  “And one of the morons who didn't know the obvious and wanted Vorc dead was Xassteril, the goddess of learning and compassion?”

  I nodded, emoting the contentment of a father watching his son hit his first single in little league. “You got it. You see why discretion is the key element of my investigation.”

  “I do? Because I don't.”

  I set a dumbfounded look on my face. “Do you want a color-keyed flowchart with illustrations?”

  He nodded rather emphatically. “Yes. Very much so, in fact.”

  “Well then you're bound for Disappointment Street, my friend. You are not cleared for that level of understanding. If you want to be, I can speak to Vorc, see if he'll okay you beginning training and vetting. He's already rej …”

  “No, I don't want to join the team headed straight to Hemnoplop's center.”

  “Are you suggesting our investigative exploration is in any way suited for Fool's Island? If you were to think that, given the fact that you seem to know this Xassteril criminal so intimately, one might be given to flights of suspicion.”

  “I really do hate you. I want you to know deep in your soul I do not believe one syllable of what you've said. But, due to our past friendship, I will ask this one question. If the complete bullshit you just issued was true, how in the greatest straining of credulity does that warrant you asking me how to stop the ancient gods' egress into where they want to be?”

  “Well, I'm glad you finally asked. I was getting worried there for a hot secon
d.”

  “You were worried?”

  I appeared confused. “Did you ask if I were worried or state that you understand I was worried?”

  I'm pretty sure I saw hot coals burning in the back of his eyes.

  “I'm trying to get every take possible on what these desperate, bloodthirsty terrorists might try next. You see that, right?”

  “Try next?”

  “Phew. Glad you do. It makes this easier. So, if you were going to stop the Cleinoids from ravaging Prime, how would you do it? Don't say throw an intermixer into the egress vortex because, duh, we already know that one.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought you said the attack on the vortex was incidental. The real target was Vorc.”

  “Incidental?” I sighed judgmentally. “I see I've wasted both our times here, citizen Wul. On behalf of Vorc and the team I'd like to thank you for your cooperation.” I made as if to stand.

  “What? Are you serious? No, wait. This is one of your stupid practical jokes.”

  I shook my head slowly and knowingly. “Good day, citizen.”

  “No, answer me. I'm actually totally serious. If the attack was meant to take out Vorc, well, you said they thought he'd fall in the vortex and die, which he wouldn't, but what does that have to do with their next unrelated attempt? You ask about stopping the Cleinoids, not bodyguarding Vorc.”

  “I'm sorry you see it that way.”

  “See it what way? Do you have maggots in your brainpan?”

  “Ah, I see. Insults might aid my investigation, mightn't they?”

  I folded my hands on the table like the principal always did when I was sent to his office. “We have information—ironclad, settled intel, mind you—that the only way they believe Vorc can be ended is with a malfunctioning vortex. Hence all their future attempts will of necessity involve them tampering with the vortex. There. I said it. Please never repeat that insight. To betray that high a level of confidence would be bad.”

  “Oh you can count on me to never repeat any of this. I don't want to be associated with such stupidity.”

  “Thank you. Now, as to how to destabilize the vortex?”

  He grew suspicious again. “I'll tell you one way if you tell me one you've learned about as a result of your super-secret sleuthing.” He folded his arms and rested back.