Zeus is Dead

by Michael G. Munz

  Poppy was correct; she did indeed ask. A response was given. A bargain was struck. The cost of a doorway was a steep one, yet not so steep as to outweigh the cost of remaining in the Room indefinitely. Apollo consoled himself with the thought that he was better off without the thing he’d had to give up anyway. (As this narrative has previously stated, gods can have their stupid moments too, and they’re even more practiced at kidding themselves with specious justifications. They’re also better at shuffleboard, but that is neither here nor there.)

  In the Room, the Fates continued their work. As they always had. As they always would.

  So far as anyone knows at least.

  “It is ended,” Atropos announced.

  “Unnecessarily announced,” Lachesis said.

  “Nevertheless.”

  “We gave up far too much,” Lachesis continued.

  Clotho nodded. Atropos sighed.

  Poppy looked up from where she was trying to decide what to do with a box containing no spoons that someone had mistakenly delivered. “If it bothers you so much, why did you tell him anything?”

  “Predestination is a bitch,” Lachesis explained.

  “We foresaw our own compliance.” Clotho nodded.

  “There was no other choice,” Atropos said.

  “I really don’t get why you’d see yourselves doing something that you didn’t want to do and not even have a reason for it after you did it.”

  “There was a reason.”

  “Because it happened.”

  “There was no other choice.”

  “For us.”

  Poppy frowned. “That’s terribly circular reasoning.”

  “Yes. It works best.”

  “This is not to be mistaken for philosophy.”

  “We have neither the leather nor sunglasses for it.”

  “Nor the love of bullet time.”

  Poppy frowned. “This is like what you told me when I first arrived: that there is never choice, only the illusion of choice. Isn’t it?”

  “No,” Lachesis answered. “That was a lie.”

  “We were screwing with you,” Atropos explained.

  “But you believed us. Such is the value of inscrutability. A lesson for you,” Clotho offered.

  “So you did have a choice about telling Apollo, then?”

  “No.”

  “There is no choice, for us. We are the Fates. We are but characters in a novel.”

  “And not a very good one.”

  “Now fetch us some coffee, Poppy,” Atropos ordered. Poppy left the room to do so, wondering if her confusion would hurt her next evaluation. The three paused once she was gone.

  “We have entertained them,” Clotho surmised.

  “After a fashion,” Lachesis commented.

  “Irrelevant. We return to our tasks,” Atropos finished.

  “I shall miss the others when he sends them away,” added Clotho. The other two stopped to stare as they had known they would.

  “To which ‘he’ do you refer?” Atropos asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.”

  “You knew she would say that,” Lachesis said.

  “Yet I was bound to ask,” Atropos stated.

  “Yes,” remarked Lachesis. “I knew that.”

  “The humor grows old, Lachesis.”

  “It always was.”

  “Such is our fate,” Clotho remarked.

  “Please stop saying that.”

  The Fates continued their work.

  PART THREE:

  (INSERT QUEST HERE)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “O, resplendently convivial Dionysus, lord of wine and revelry! Deprive us not of your bombastic glory, lest we all wither and die of boredom upon the vine of life!”

  —first daily convocation of Dionysus (typically given midafternoon)

  “Free beer! (No fat chicks.)”

  —inscription upon a Dionysian temple frieze

  LAS VEGAS, whenever he’d seen it on TV or in movies, always struck Leif as a tremendous waste of light. Only when he was actually standing in the middle of The Las Vegas Strip did he realize how much of an understatement that was. Even in the late-morning daylight, everything was lit up―from the exteriors of the monster hotel-casinos to the thirty-foot billboard above the drug store and the lights of the myriad people who stood on the street corners and handed out card-sized fliers picturing scantily clad “dancers”. It was simultaneously amazing and irritating. The question of what else might be done with the electricity used to power this single street was, when he thought about it, a rather depressing one. Maybe that was why so many people there seemed to be drunk?

  On the other hand, he did like to gamble. He’d have to come back here some time when the love of his life wasn’t busy being a pawn in an immortal game of Battle Chess. All right, so she was technically a daughter of the king, so that made her . . . what . . . a rook? Did it matter? What was he babbling about anyway?

  Yet another man attempting to hand him another of what Tracy charmingly called “prostitute trading cards” jarred him out of his thoughts. Leif stopped and pointed down The Strip to where they’d purchased Dionysus’s obscenely expensive champagne offering.

  “Look!” he told the man. “You see all the way down there? That’s where we just walked from! You’re, like, the eighty-ninth guy out here who’s tried to give me one of these, and look at me! I’m carrying nothing! If I wanted them at all, could I possibly have gotten this far down the road without having an entire armful?”

  The man glanced at him, blinked, and promptly flapped the stack he held and offered a card again with a smirk that was as unhelpful as it was disinterested.

  “Fine!” Leif snatched it and hurried after Tracy, trying to use the card like a badge to clear him past seventeen other card-pushers along the sidewalk. He caught up to her on the escalator to the pedestrian overpass after less than perfect success.

  Tracy spared a glance at the now two dozen cards of vamping women he clutched in his hands and shook her head. “You know you don’t have to go with me, Karlson. I can handle this myself.”

  Leif dumped the cards over the side. Drunken cries of “It’s rainin’ babes!” came from below, moments before the squeal of tires and the crash of a fender-bender.

  “It’s no bother,” he assured her. “And I’m not leaving you alone. What if you need me? What if we split up and can’t find each other again?”

  And what if Dionysus made a pass at her? Jealousy faltered his steps at the very thought.

  “Just . . . let me do the talking when we’re there, at least.”

  “Right. Talking. Talking is good. What if talking’s not enough?”

  “That’s what this is for.” She tapped the Dom Pérignon vintage 1995 she carried in the box tucked under her arm. “It’ll be enough.”

  “But what if it’s not? What if you have to flash your—”

  He stopped and stared as they gained the top of the escalator, just long enough for the person behind him to give a snarky “out-of-the-way” cough. Leif sidestepped, stared just a little more at the tall, iron structure holding his attention, and then caught up to Tracy.

  “I just figured something out!” He beamed at her. “Look!”

  She glanced down the Strip to where he pointed. “That’s . . . oh!” She actually laughed. It was a good laugh. Leif beamed wider as she continued. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You’re not the one destined to climb it,” he said. “We might not need to go to Paris at all!”

  Still gazing at the one-fourth-scale Eiffel Tower that rose out of the Paris Las Vegas Hotel and Casino, Tracy snickered. “Oh, yeah, how terrible a fate that would be, huh? Nobody likes going to Paris!” She turned, smirking. “You know that’s still pretty damn tall, don't you?”

  “Er, well . . . yeah, but . . . It’s less of a climb. And I wouldn’t have to deal with the security team of a national landmark.”

  “Uh-huh. What
’s got less security than a Vegas casino, right? Come on. And keep your eyes open for Thad.”

  “How come you call him Thad but you call me Karlson?”

  “For one thing his name’s not Karlson, is it?”

  One of Dionysus’s first acts after the Return was to openly declare himself the true founder of Las Vegas. (His very first act was to make it rain beer over every in-progress Major League Baseball game, which swiftly resulted in the games being called on account of loss of concession revenue.) Very soon thereafter, he raised up his own hotel and casino, the Dionysian, and declared it his official off-Olympus abode.

  Dionysus built it on the site of Caesar’s Palace, which he had demolished. In a press conference given moments before the old structure’s implosion, the god explained that not only was it the perfect spot for the Dionysian, but he wouldn’t stand for a similarly classically- themed major casino so close to his own. Furthermore, he’d never thought a place so fabulous should bear the name “Caesar” anyway, as, quote, “Augustus was a prude, and Julius got his dumb ass stabbed.”

  Caesar’s descendants could not be reached for comment.

  Getting into the hotel’s grand penthouse was no problem for Tracy and Leif. There was a semi-hidden elevator to find and a keypad lock to contend with, but Thalia had left them a note with both the location and code before disappearing on her early-morning mystery errand. The elevator was so large, it had its own full-service bar and a security guard whose biceps were the size of a small child. He stared at Leif in a way that made him feel anything but welcome. Tracy didn’t even get a second glance.

  “I think he likes you,” she whispered.

  “Shouldn’t you take your glasses off?”

  “Why?”

  “Well . . . I mean . . . I think you look even cuter with them on, myself, but I’m thinking Dionysus might have more typically male tastes. First impression and such.”

  She frowned, though not as deeply as Leif suspected she might have wanted to. Thalia’s mood-booster was still in effect. “I have to be able to see, Karlson.”

  “Hey, if you’re you-know-who’s daughter, why are your eyes bad?”

  She glared at him.

  “Just trying to help.”

  “Well, don’t.” She glanced up at the elevator numbers. “You really think I look even cuter with them on, huh?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “Fine, then.” She slipped them off.

  “See?” he said. “I knew you’d do that, that’s why I—”

  “No, it’s not.” She grinned as the doors opened. “Let me do the talking.”

  “You already said that.”

  The penthouse was vast. Couches sat everywhere—some ratty, some opulent, yet all looking very, very comfortable and most strewn with men and women (more of the latter) who were relaxing, drinking, and generally enjoying themselves in whatever ways you could imagine, provided you’re not too uptight. Amid the couches were pool tables, tables cluttered with snacks, and large high-definition TVs displaying sporting events and video games. Self-service kegs were stacked high along one wall (when they arrived, Leif spotted two being newly tapped and an empty being changed out). Beside the kegs was a long bar stocked with bottles upon bottles. In one corner, a curved balcony jutted out above it all, its thick, transparent railing festooned with colorful pennants. Leif could make out the back of a huge TV poised on the balcony's edge and reflecting light off the walls behind it. A spiral staircase wound the thirty-foot distance up to the balcony’s left side. Descent via fire pole was possible on the right side. Plastered across both the balcony’s bottom and the back of the TV was the ecstatically mirthful visage of Dionysus himself, circled by grapes and gazing at everything below.

  “Reminds me of a frat party!” Leif had to shout to be heard above the music gushing from unseen speakers. “With better decor!”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” She pointed to the balcony. “I figure he’s up there!”

  “Safe assumption!

  “C’mon!”

  They made their way to the base of the staircase, where they were stopped by a stern-looking man at a podium who appeared to serve as a maître d’ and bouncer. The immediate area around the podium was somehow quieter, as if shielded from the sound pouring through the rest of the penthouse. Leif made a mental note to brag about Apollo doing something similar with him a few days ago.

  “I’m here to see the mighty, godly, and resplendently convivial Dionysus,” Tracy announced. Thalia had advised them to use that exact phrasing to signal that they were connected with the god’s temple rather than just regular party-goers.

  “We are,” Leif added.

  The maître d’ raised an eyebrow. He seemed to be the only one in the room who was not having a good time, and doing his best to be a sufficient counterweight.

  Indeed, Luthor Stackpole was most certainly not having a good time. Before the Return, he was the winner of Hanging OUT! Magazine’s “Best Maître d’ in Las Vegas” award three years running. Once Dionysus took direct control of the town, he insisted that Luthor serve him personally. Luthor had been on the verge of going back to school to pursue his dream of becoming a hydroelectric engineer, despite the obvious pay cut. To change Luthor’s mind, Dionysus dropped a dump truck full of money on his house (it crashed through the dining room ceiling—Luthor preferred not to ponder if the god knew he wasn’t home at the time). The god also promised him a free lifetime pass for the Hoover Dam tour. It seemed a fair compromise at the time, but that was before he knew he’d be working closely with the greatest man-child seen in the world since Nero. Getting out of his contract turned out to be impossible without trading his liver to some entities known as the “Stygian witches” for some reason, so he did the best he could to tolerate the noise, the immaturity, and the constant flow of groupies he was expected to regulate.

  The obscene amount of money that made up his salary also helped. Luthor just wished it would stop arriving via dump truck so he could release the team of roofing contractors he kept on retainer in the guesthouse. The weekly dam tours helped too. During the difficult times, he took solace in counting the days until the next tour. On really taxing days, the longing would radiate off him in waves.

  Leif, wondering at his own inexplicable hankering for six million tons of concrete, awaited the maître d’s response. “Well, we are,” Leif said finally.

  “Are you now?” said the maître d’ (also finally).

  Tracy nodded and slipped him a $50 bill in what seemed to Leif to be a rather practiced fashion. “It’s important.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he plainly lied, “but I’m afraid His Greatness is indisposed at the moment.”

  Tracy smiled. “I’m sure he is, but we come bearing gifts too. Do you know if he’ll be available soon?”

  “I am sure I do not know,” Luthor sighed. (Leif managed to resist pointing out that there was an awful lot of being sure going around.) “He is a god, and of the unpredictable sort, as you must know. And in any case, once he is free, he has a number of appointments waiting ahead of you, so you’d best find something else to occupy you in the meantime. I will call your name in the event he—”

  The maître d’ stopped, touched a finger to an earpiece and turned aside to listen. “I— . . . Yes, bombastic one. . . . Yes. . . . But, my lord, there are— . . . Well, yes, she— . . . About a thirty-six, I believe. . . . B cup. . . . Yes, your awesomeness, the cameras are most certainly high definition. . . . I will. . . . I won’t. . . . Lord, I feel it only necessary to point out that the gentleman who came in earlier is still— . . . Yes, great one, I can understand how you would find her much more . . .”—the maître d’ frowned as if swallowing an underdone rat kebab—“‘spank-tacular’ than the other gentleman, yes. . . . Very well. Rock on, my lord.”

  He lowered his fingertip to press something on the podium. A little gate to the stairs swung open to the sound of a guitar riff that Leif couldn’t quite place. “You ma
y ascend,” he told Tracy. “And . . . your companion as well, I suppose.”

  After a brief word of thanks, they hurried on up the stairs with Tracy in the lead and Leif admiring the view once again. Tracy, oddly, refused to respond to his question about how often she got called “spank-tacular.” There was the moment where her boot kicked back to narrowly miss his chest, but he figured that was surely just an accident.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I've never been entirely certain if the intoxicating effect of being close to Dionysus is an actual divine power or simply the result of thousands of years' worth of consumed alcohol seeping out of his pores. Regardless, it is a . . . unique sort of defense, isn't it?”

  —Athena (interview, Self-Defense Quarterly)

  TRACY ASCENDED THE STAIRS with a plan—or at least the semblance of one: Be respectful but not fawning. Keep her fascination at meeting another god under control. Treat this like any other business negotiation she’d had in the course of her career. And do not resort to Thalia’s suggested forms of persuasion. Tracy long ago decided that was her mother’s way, not her own—even if that way was likely responsible for her own conception. Tracy was dressed smartly, not seductively, despite Thalia’s suggestion she grab a dress of some sort from the hotel boutique. She would do this her way, no matter her physical gifts or Dionysus’s frat-boy reputation. Given that they’d had to wait until after 11 a.m. just to get the champagne and be sure the god would be awake, she’d have to do it her way and quickly.

  Dionysus sat on what Tracy had to admit was the most magnificent reclining chair she’d ever seen. Thickly padded and extra wide without seeming oversized, it sat on a dais of intricately sculpted green glass. The sheen of the leather upholstery was remarkably luxurious, while at the same time appearing just worn enough to radiate perfect comfort. Built into one side was an open cooler holding numerous beer cans. One arm held fittings for remote controls; the other contained some sort of video game controller, a cup holder, and what appeared to be nacho cheese. The footrest was slung high, and the back of the chair was gently vibrating.