Mjolnir

by B. C. James

  She grabbed the TV remote and turned on the news. Sleep always came more easily when there was background noise. The evening news was the perfect show to fall asleep to. It was not interesting enough to hold her attention and the soothing, monotone voices of the newscasters were like a sleeping pill.

  “…and on Sunday afternoon the Arizona Cardinals will do battle with the World Champion Oakland Raiders. Interestingly enough the Cards don’t have a quarterback to play in this game. Starter, Kerry Davis, has scheduled an elective appendectomy this week, backup Jason Welch accidentally shot himself in the foot while at home yesterday and third stringer Jesse Baese wandered into St. Michael’s Catholic Church after practice today and claimed the right of sanctuary. The team declined any comment on these incidents but insiders, speaking under condition of anonymity, claim that the quarterback problems stem from the reluctance to play against the Raiders defensive specialist, Thor. Back to you Monica.”

  “Well, Dan one thing we can be sure of, wherever the Raiders go, rain will follow. Phoenix’s meteorologist should have a rare slam-dunk with a prediction of showers all day Sunday. In other news…”

  Freya’s eyes sprung open at the mention of Thor’s name. A smile crossed her lips. She should be strung up by her knickers for not thinking of him sooner. Frey, before his well-deserved, and hopefully painful, death had mentioned that she AND Thor had refused Odin’s call to arms. The Thunder God may be a cement-head, but he was a very powerful cement-head; one who could protect her from just about anything. Perhaps she would not have to prostitute herself to Odin after all.

  A very simple plan formed in her head. She would just have to stay alive for another couple days, and then show up at Thor’s hotel room or at the game. That was pretty much where her plan began and ended. After that she would just let him kick the bejeezus out of anything that dared to attack her. All she would need to do was sit back, watch, and perhaps give a “Siskel and Ebert-esque” critique on the quality of the ass kicking.

  She fell asleep wondering if he was still angry with her about their breakup.

  Chapter 13

  Dennis Syrdon sat in his office chair and spun round and round. Things were slow today. It was only eleven in the morning and he had given away all of his pens ahead of schedule. This, combined with the fact that he didn’t feel like doing any actual work meant that he had to find something less productive to fill his time. He was bored and his chair was built to swivel. The rest figured itself out after that.

  After spinning for about five minutes, he pressed the button on the intercom.

  “Hey Holly Ann, get your cute ass in here…and bring your chair with you!”

  Holly Ann Makesh entered the room. She was blushing a little from her boss’s summons.

  “Now Mr. Syrdon,” she said with a sheepish little smile on her face, “Do we have to watch the sexual harassment film again?”

  “Go ahead, sue me! And where’s your chair?” Dennis retorted as he removed the gum from his mouth and slammed it to the bottom of his desk.

  “Mr. Syrdon, I really don’t think that it’s right for me to sit and spin with my employer,” these were words that Holly Ann never imagined would have ever needed to come out of her mouth.

  “Well then Holly Ann, you’re fired. Does that solve your problem?”

  “I thought I was still fired from not bouncing on the hippity-hops with you last week?”

  “Nope, remember I hired you back when you beat me at Rock’em Sock’em Robots yesterday?”

  “Ah yes, really sir, don’t you think you’re a bit too old for these toys?”

  “Nonsense! Toys are just the things adults invent for themselves but think they are too mature to play with. So, we give the kids all the cool stuff and all we have left is golf, tennis and internet porn.”

  Holly Ann hated conversations like this because in the end she had to admit her boss had something that resembled a point. And every time she could see his point she got sucked a little further into his world. It usually took a manicure, a pedicure, and three hours of the Discovery Channel to bring her back into mental balance with the rest of the planet that still believed spending one’s workday playing Twister with their secretary is socially unacceptable.

  “Well, sir, regardless…you don’t have time. You have the men’s prayer breakfast for the Christian coalition at one this afternoon…”

  “Um…One O’clock, Holly? For a prayer breakfast?”

  “Well, your breakfast is being linked via satellite to three other breakfasts around the country, and the guys in California didn’t want to get up at six in the morning just so those of us in the East and Midwest could have our bacon and eggs before lunchtime.”

  “Well, that makes sense, in an anal retentive sort of way.” Dennis replied.

  “You also have a call on line one, sir. He wouldn’t give me his name so I figured he could wait. All he said is that it was about the Grey Man.”

  For a brief moment an expression of concern crossed Dennis’s face. It was replaced with his trademark smile almost as soon as it appeared. Holly Ann recognized it only because she had become quite good at reading her boss’s moods.

  “Well, sir, I’ll close the door and let you take this call.”

  He nodded at her and picked up the receiver.

  “Didn’t I tell you never to call me here? Well, I don’t care since this call can be traced back to me? What do you mean he failed? How can the Grey Man fail? He’s a fricking supernatural being for God’s sake! Awwwwww the big scary demon can’t handle a little tear gas. Well, I don’t care about chemical reactions and his ethereal nature. Your demon is a pussy. Ok, fine…send him back after Freya when he feels better. What? You’ve lost her? Great, now she’ll go running off to Odin and we’ll never get her. Look you idiot, I need her as a sacrifice to Surt. How else am I going to get that demonic pain in the ass on my side? If you don’t get her to me alive you’re going to take her place on the sacrificial table, do we understand each other? Stop crying you idiot!”

  Dennis slammed the phone down and tried to regain his composure. He went over to his closet and took out a pair of neatly pressed khaki Dockers and a polo shirt. He was angry over the loss of Freya. For now, he would have to forget it, plaster a smile on his face, and play nice with the church folk. Once he was dressed he called Holly Ann on the intercom.

  “Hey hot stuff, tell me when the limo is here. Make sure to also call Mr. Bobson’s hotel and tell him when we are picking him up. Give him plenty of notice, there may be few reporters hanging around and I’m guessing he will need some time to get the hookers out of his room. And could you get me a cheese danish? I’m starved!”

  Chapter 14

  Syrdon strode through the banquet hall. Despite the fact that the Grey Man had somehow managed to botch what should have been a relatively easy task, Dennis remained in good spirits. He even chuckled about the Grey Man’s place in Irish mythology as a specter of doom. Any spirit hired from a culture that looked for the riches of leprechauns at the base of rainbows should not be taken too seriously. Besides, everyone knows that leprechauns are the charity cases of the ancient world. If not for some rather restrictive INS laws, and the fact that most people didn’t believe that they were real, the entire leprechaun race would be somewhere in the United States collecting welfare.

  Meghen was one of the servers at the Men’s Prayer Breakfast. Syrdon first noticed her when she rolled her eyes at Patrick Bobson’s speech. Dennis took this as a sign of no faith when the TV preacher suggested the Evangelists of the world should make some alterations in the Bible that would raise the tithe rate from 10% of a Christian’s income to 15%. He then said some things about how this was God’s will and the whole thing came to him in a dream. In reality, the young lady whom he had rented for the evening probably inspired the idea when he found out her rate had gone from $250.00 an hour to $300.00. Patrick then ended the speech with the word, “Hallelujah.” Meghen looked his way and shook her head as
she cleared the dishes.

  When Meghen got to Patrick, she double checked to make sure her tip money was still firmly in her pocket. She was cynical and didn’t seem to believe a word that came out of the mouth of somebody who made a living by claiming he could heal a person through the lens of a television camera. Syrdon found her cynicism very appealing.

  He expressed his admiration for her by writing a dinner invitation on a rare one-thousand-dollar bill and handing it to her as a gratuity. When she looked over the bill she also noticed that he had drawn devil horns and a “No Fat Chicks” tattoo on Grover Cleveland’s face. Once it had sunk in that she was holding a bill that was bigger than a month’s worth of tips, she immediately walked back to Dennis with her answer.

  She looked him in the eyes, smiled sweetly and ripped the uncommon currency into as many pieces as she possibly could before telling him, in no uncertain terms, what she thought of him.

  “I’m not for sale you pretentious bastard!” The words were barked out from between clenched teeth, but they were barked quietly. Despite how insulted she felt, something inside her kept repeating that it was a bad idea to publicly humiliate one of the business world’s most powerful men.

  “Of course, you’re not honey,” Dennis purred with a Cheshire Cat look on his face, “If you were, ol’ Patty boy would have beaten me to you. No offense intended, sweetie, I was just trying to get your attention. Apparently I did a damn good job. So, let’s cut through the crap, what are you doing tonight?”

  “What makes you think I would want to go out with you? I have pulled more charming things then you out of a box of Cracker Jacks.”

  “I’m sure you have, honey, but does a Cracker Jacks box have one of these?” Dennis added, as he pulled a Star Trek communicator out of his pocket.

  Meghen started to chuckle as he pulled more and more things out of his pocket. There was a Josie and the Pussycats backstage pass, a Hulkamania headband, something she couldn’t identify with George Takei’s face on it, a live salamander, and an old Washington Senators baseball card with Fidel Castro’s picture on it. Printed at the bottom of the card was the year 1949 and the word Rookie.

  “Stop, please stop. I’m actually terrified to find out what else you have in your pockets.”

  “I won’t stop until you tell me your name.” After saying that Dennis pulled out a rare lingerie ad from Victoria’s Secret that featured Bea Arthur.

  “Okay, okay, my name is Meghen, just please stop. I don’t think my brain can take any more.” Her anger had melted away, and she was now wearing a broad smile.

  “So, Meghen, what about tonight? Some friends of mine are having a bit of a gathering and I would love to bring you as my guest. What do you have to lose? I’m young, rich and wear an unusually large shoe.”

  The waitress dove into his repartee game, “Well, I didn’t give a damn about your money, but your shoe size is something else entirely. You should have opened with that.”

  She took out a pen and scrawled her phone number on a napkin.

  “My shift here ends at five so give me a call at about five-thirty and for God’s sake, please don’t have anything in your pockets when you pick me up…or up your sleeve.”

  “Don’t worry, Meghen, the only thing I will have up my sleeve is a recent blood test and maybe something with peanut butter on it, you know, for energy. Of course, a blood test doesn’t pick up crabs, so you will be taking your chances.”

  “Hmmm…see there you go again, making assumptions. What makes you think I will even let you do anything that would require a blood test?”

  “I’m not making assumptions. You can say no anytime you wish and then kick me in the crabs for being a jerk and I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Well, okay then, Dennis, you have a deal. It’s the least I can do actually, I doubt you will ever be able to paste that bill together again.”

  “Don’t even give it a second thought, the fun of being rich is I get to piss away as much money as I like and not worry about it. Do you want to rip up another one? I have a few more on me that I’m not emotionally attached to.”

  “That’s okay…I’ll see you tonight.” Meghen giggled a little and gave Dennis a light peck on the cheek, then headed off to the kitchen.

  At 5:45, Dennis called Meghen and arranged to pick her up at 7:00. This put him in a very good mood. She wasn’t exactly Ms. Right, but she was Ms. Right Now, and for the moment that’s all he was concerned about. He needed someone on his arm for the evening; in fact, it was vitally important that he not show up alone tonight.

  Because of his good mood, he had suspended the gentle elevator music that usually played in the halls of the Cathay building and replaced it with Halestorm. He passed an intercom phone on his way out the building. On an impulse, he punched in his code and made an announcement to the entire building.

  “Anyone who has found true love or at least something that bears a reasonable resemblance to it may have the day off with pay tomorrow.”

  Dennis was pretty sure that with that sort of opening, nobody in his employ would show up for work in the morning. Well, Holly Ann would probably still come to work. Dennis was fairly certain she would do this just to force him come in and do something productive. At times the two of them behaved like an old married couple; making concerted efforts to occasionally get under each other’s skin.

  Dennis buttoned his dark overcoat and made his way out of the building to his car. He had foregone his Hummer EV in favor of the 1968 Corvette today. A fiberglass sports car was not exactly the kind of vehicle that most people would consider driving during November in Michigan, but Dennis was not most people. He didn’t care about four-wheel drive and the snow it could push through; he wanted to make an impression tonight. It flattered his ego when people knew that not only was he rich enough to own a classic car, but he also had so much money that he could treat it like a Red Flyer sled and not really care.

  He turned the key on the black Stingray and listened to the roar of the 427 engine under the hood. He shoved it into first gear, did three or four donuts in the parking lot, and then sped out the driveway. The few employees who watched him do this applauded and waved their hats in the air as he left.

  He spent the next hour and fifteen minutes getting his hair cut and styled, then picking up flowers for Meghen. He drove up to her apartment complex and handed out pens to the few people he encountered between his car and her door. He knocked just below the 13B that hung below the peephole. He could see the B vibrate a bit from the rap. It was only held on to the door by one screw.

  For a moment he thought of pulling out his Swiss Army knife and fixing it but just then Meghen opened the door. She was dressed from head to toe in white. Her pumps were white, her stockings were white, her mini skirt was white, her blouse was white and even the ribbon that held back her hair was virginal white. Her lipstick, however, was a bright and shiny fire engine red. The contrast was breathtaking.

  “Hey, Meghen, great outfit! Are you trying to tell me something?”

  A coy look crept across her face. It was a look that was deeply at odds with her wardrobe. “Have you ever heard of the Madonna-whore complex?”

  “Of course, I have. It’s the reason most guys thank God every day that Christina Hendricks owns a little Catholic schoolgirl outfit. You know the one with the plaid skirt and knee socks.”

  “Well good, so you are familiar with the idea. Now draw your own conclusion on what message I want you to get.”

  He was pretty sure her interpretation of the complex was way off. She was dressed more for a Jenna Jameson or Joclyn Stone inspired psychosis, but he just laughed and let it go. Meghen’s smile grew wide. They hopped into his Corvette and headed off.

  “How adventurous are you, Meghen?” Dennis said spontaneously.

  “I’ll try anything once, and if I like it maybe two or three times.”

  “Well good, you will find a blindfold in the glove box. How about being a sport and putting it on?”<
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  Meghen opened the glove box and found a black sleep mask. With a nervous giggle she put it on and waited for what happened next. They drove for over an hour and Dennis charmed her with jokes, anecdotes, and stories from his life.

  The car slowed and then stopped. For the last twenty minutes she could hear the crush of gravel under the tires of the car instead of the smooth, even hum of rubber on concrete. It was obvious they had pulled off on to a dirt road some time ago. She began to wonder about the game they were playing. Meghen adored mysteries and loved the entire evening so far. He opened her door and put his finger across her lip.

  “Shhhhhhhh, from this point there is to be no talking.”

  She felt giddiness well up inside her. The boys she was used to dating would have simply taken her to a boring dinner and a movie. This was interesting and mysterious, and the sort of thing she had craved for the longest time.

  A cool breeze brushed her face and the heels of her pumps sank into the soft, snow dusted ground. She did not need her eyes to know that they were walking across a field. In the distance Meghen could hear the crackle of a fire. As they got closer she could feel the warmth of an open flame. The sound and intense heat indicated a bonfire. What sort of party had a bonfire in the middle of November? She allowed Dennis to guide her without fear. Even when he laid her down on a cold, rock surface she was not afraid. She only felt charged with excitement and curiosity. A giggle escaped her lips as she allowed Syrdon to do this.

  He placed his finger upon her lips again to quiet her and bound her hands and feet with what felt like velvet ropes. Once she was secured the mask was taken away from her face. She was looking up at Dennis but around him in a semi-circle were about twenty people in black robes and hoods.

  “Dennis?” she said with a worried tone in her voice.

  “Oh please, Meghen dear, call me Loki.”

  Loki rarely spoke his true name in public. He had been hiding under the Dennis Syrdon pseudonym for so long that he often found himself getting sucked into the business life of his corporate alias. It had gotten to the point where he had to set alerts in Outlook that reminded him that he was actually a very powerful god and could squash most of humanity like low grade meat, pressed into a George Foreman grill. Whether the name meant anything to Meghen was immaterial. It just felt good to be the God of lies again without all the deception. This was an irony of its very own that he would consider later.