A Lee Martinez

by Divine Misfortune (v5)

  “Lying by omission is still lying. And what about those red animals? When I specifically asked you about them, you said they were no big deal. But they are a big deal after all. They have something to do with Gorgoz, right?”

  “They usually go away after a while,” said Lucky. “So maybe I should’ve mentioned it. But I’m immortal. I bring a lot of baggage with me. I can’t be expected to remember every little incident from the past that might be of consequence today. It’s been a while since Gorgoz tried anything like this. I’d just assumed that he’d gotten over it by now. A few hundred years is usually enough for any god. Damn, when Ngai found out I slept with his wife he vowed eternal revenge, too. But now we play poker and laugh about it over beers. That’s the way it works. Maybe in the old days we could nurse a grudge, but that old-way bullshit doesn’t happen anymore. At least, it’s not supposed to happen anymore.”

  “But it did happen,” said Teri, “and it nearly happened to us.”

  “I’m on top of it,” said Lucky.

  “Stop lying.” She thrust her finger at him. “You’re full of crap.

  “I know you’re upset, Teri, so I’ll overlook—”

  “No. You’re not going to turn this around and make it about us. We didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the wrong one. You’re the one who let us down. We came into this straight. We did what we promised. And you promised to look after us, to help us out. And the last time I checked, keeping us from getting killed by some rogue god is your job.”

  He withered under her glare.

  “Do your job, Lucky. Or get the hell out of my house.”

  She marched away, going inside, slamming the door.

  “She’s just upset,” said Phil.

  The door opened. Teri stuck her head out.

  “And Phil, don’t you dare apologize for me!”

  She slammed the door shut again.

  Phil paused, torn between placating his god and his wife.

  “Go on, Phil,” said Lucky. “She needs you.”

  “Please, don’t smite her,” said Phil hastily as he ran into the house.

  Lucky sucked on the straw, even as the gurgling noise indicated that the cup was empty.

  “She’s right,” said Quick.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Lucky chewed on a piece of ice. “All I know is that if I confront Gorgoz, he’s going to kick my ass all across the Milky Way. And I’d rather not have that.”

  “Maybe if you tried apologizing, he’d forget the whole thing.”

  “First of all,” said Lucky, “I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong. Secondly, it wouldn’t make any difference. You know that. We’re way past the apology stage.”

  “You could move out.”

  “If I move out, they’re as good as dead. Without all the good fortune that comes from my presence, they’ll be fodder for Gorgoz’s minions.”

  They sat on the porch and ran over the problem several times. They didn’t know where Gorgoz was hiding. And even if they did find him, they couldn’t fight him. Lucky could keep Gorgoz’s followers in check for a while, perhaps even years. But even the most powerful god of good fortune couldn’t prevent every assassination attempt. Eventually, by the law of averages, one would succeed.

  The problem was bigger than two gods could handle. And Divine Affairs might be able to find Gorgoz one day and put an end to his reign of terror. But that day was a long way off.

  “Too bad we can’t question those two moronic assassins,” said Lucky.

  “They wouldn’t know anything,” said Quick.

  “Worth a try at least.”

  “Divine Affairs would never allow it.”

  “Yeah. Too bad. But what they don’t know can’t hurt us.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Why bother talking to the mortal when you can go right to the source? Does Morpheus still owe you that favor?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s time you cashed it in.”

  “What are you getting at?” asked Quick.

  Lucky smiled.

  “Oh no. He’d never go along with it,” said Quick.

  “Can’t hurt to talk to him, can it? And you forget”—Lucky winked—“I can be very persuasive.”

  “Should we tell them?” asked Quick, nodding toward the house.

  “No reason to get their hopes up just yet.”

  “You realize this is a long shot,” said Quick.

  “You’re forgetting something, buddy.”

  Lucky winked as the gods shot off into the sky.

  “Long shots are my specialty.”

  18

  It was Worthington’s job to keep Gorgoz happy. A steady diet of beer and snack cakes, a big-screen television with a complete cable package, a massage chair, a small river of blood. These were usually all it took. And as long as Gorgoz was happy, Worthington’s world was fine.

  Gauging Gorgoz’s happiness was difficult based on the god’s behavior. He never left the basement and he rarely smiled. And when he spoke, his voice was rough and dour. Even his laugh, the few times Worthington had heard it, was a joyless scraping thing. Worthington was forced to rely on other signs and portents.

  Six of his stocks had taken a big hit. And over a dozen people had lost fingers to faulty paper clips coming out of his Korean factories. And one of his real estate developments had burned to the ground, killing just over a hundred people. The deaths and mutilations meant nothing to him outside of requiring some out-of-court settlements. The incidents would barely register as a hiccup on his financial reports. But left unchecked, these omens could herald his undoing.

  Worthington grabbed a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and a bag of pretzels and headed to the basement sanctuary of his crabby god. The bright flicker of Leave It to Beaver illuminated his darkened lair. He didn’t take his eyes off the television as Worthington descended the stairs. Worthington kept his head bowed as he approached with his offerings.

  “O glorious master, who dwells in eternal darkness, from death you arose and death shall be your gift to this world. This humble servant—”

  Gorgoz snatched the beer and pretzels. He stuck a can in his toothy jaws and sheared the top off of it, chugging it down. Despite the size of his mouth, he managed to spill most of the beverage down his shirt and bathrobe.

  “Are they dead?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Master.”

  Gorgoz growled.

  “Am I not a generous benefactor, Worthington?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And haven’t I provided you with the wealth and power you pathetic mortals covet so?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And all I ask is complete obedience. Yet now you disobey me.”

  “I didn’t disobey.”

  “You have failed me.”

  “No, Master. It wasn’t I, but other disciples who—”

  “I don’t need excuses for a botched job. As most favored among my disciples, their failures are your failures as far as I’m concerned.”

  Gorgoz slit the bag with the long claw on his index finger. He grabbed a handful of pretzels and tossed them into his mouth. His oddly shaped mouth and teeth spewed crumbs and sticky drool as he decreed, “Bring the offending incompetent before me so that I might devour him for his ineptitude.”

  “I’m afraid he’s already dead.”

  Gorgoz’s bulbous eyes narrowed. “Disappointing. Was it a painful death?”

  “Most assuredly, Master,” Worthington quickly replied, though he didn’t know the details. His position of First Disciple among Gorgoz’s followers allowed him control over a network of unscrupulous individuals willing to do whatever it took to gain power. Even engage in illegal worship of forsaken gods. Yet even he wasn’t certain how far his reach extended because the followers of Gorgoz were a secretive lot. He made it a point to know only as much as he needed to know.

  He had direct communication with only a handful of others in the temple. And they, in turn,
had the same. Decrees among Gorgoz’s disciples were like living things, sent out into the world to complete themselves as disciples competed for his favor. It wasn’t the most efficient system in the world and it could lead to backstabbing and infighting within the temple, but these were necessary evils when you were following a god of chaos.

  “Seems like it might just be easier to get up and kill these mortals myself.” Gorgoz smiled sinisterly. “Might be good for me to get out of this place, roll up my sleeves, and do some personal smiting. Been too long, really. I really should stay in practice.”

  Worthington didn’t like the sound of that. He liked Gorgoz lounging in the basement. The dark god was too chaotic for him to be allowed to run around unchecked. All sorts of problems could arise then.

  Worthington fell to his knees and prostrated himself before Gorgoz. “I beg your forgiveness. Give me another chance. Allow me to slay these foolish mortals and prove my devotion. I am unworthy to bask in your horrid aura. How may I—”

  “Quiet.” The god nodded to the television. “I can’t hear Wally and the Beaver with all your ass-kissing.”

  Worthington stood and took a seat. Gorgoz chuckled as Wally called Beaver “a goof,” then muted the sound.

  “If I could go back in time, I’d give that Barbara Billingsley a good bang,” said Gorgoz. “And rip off Hugh Beaumont’s head. Preachy son of a bitch.”

  He leaned forward and for a second, it appeared as if he might actually rise from his recliner. But, of course, he didn’t. Worthington wondered if gods could get bedsores. Gorgoz’s greenish-blackish-reddish-grayish skin, what Worthington could see of it, was already moist and oozing and his ass was probably much the same.

  “I am displeased and demand a tribute of blood from all my followers as appeasement.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Quiet. I’m not finished.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The god snorted. “Each of my disciples must steal a thousand dollars and then burn it in my name.”

  He tapped his long black nails together.

  “Also, they must eat a raw gopher.”

  “A gopher?”

  “Yes, a gopher!” growled Gorgoz. “The whole thing!”

  “Even the bones?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “It’s just, well, you do realize that we mortals don’t have the correct teeth or jaws to eat a gopher? It might be a little difficult.”

  “Of course it will be difficult,” grumbled Gorgoz. “That’s why it’s penance. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be penance, would it?”

  “But—”

  He sighed. “You can put the bones in a blender or something if you have to.”

  “Blenders can’t break down bones.”

  “What about a rock tumbler?” suggested Gorgoz. “Something like that.”

  “That might work,” agreed Worthington, “but it still seems impractical.”

  Gorgoz shook his head. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to eat the bones. But everything else! So I decree!”

  “Even the fur?”

  “Everything!”

  “As you command, glorious—”

  “Will you shut up? I’m not done.”

  “You aren’t? Forgive me for saying so, Master, but isn’t this unusually harsh? Even by your rigid standards.”

  The basement quaked with Gorgoz’s displeasure.

  “What is it about these two specific people that has attracted your wrath?” asked Worthington. “If I may be so bold as to ask. How have they offended you? Does this have something to do with the raccoon god?”

  “You presume too much.”

  “I only wish to serve you better.”

  “Your lot is to do as I say. Blind devotion is all that is required to serve me.”

  “As you decree.” Worthington turned to leave, but he was interrupted by Gorgoz.

  “Five thousand and forty-three,” said Gorgoz softly.

  “I most humbly beg your pardon.”

  “Five thousand and forty-three followers,” explained Gorgoz. “That is how many the raccoon god has now. Do you know how many I have?”

  “No.”

  “Five thousand and forty-three.” The god snarled. “Make that 5,042. Do you see the problem now?”

  Worthington knew of Gorgoz’s rivalry with the raccoon god, though he didn’t know the origin of it.

  “If you would permit me, Master, to make a suggestion. If this bothers you, we could always send out an order to thin the ranks of this false god.”

  “No, it has to be these two.”

  Worthington had done some research on Phil and Teri Robinson. They seemed perfectly unremarkable.

  “He lives with them,” said Gorgoz. “In their home. They are his favored children, and for that sin, they must perish. And after they are dead, torn to pieces before his very eyes, he shall know that my power is greater than his and that he shall always dwell in my shadow.”

  He laughed, long and hard, and the walls began to bleed thick black syrup that smelled of old blood.

  “Oookay,” said Worthington. “If that’s all you’ll be needing then…”

  “Wait. I didn’t finish my demands of penance.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes. And as a final act of contrition I demand that… hey, what time is it?”

  “Five till nine,” replied Worthington.

  “Oh, Gunsmoke is almost on.”

  Worthington took advantage of the distraction and slipped away as Gorgoz started flipping through channels.

  19

  The Somnambulist Café sat on the edge of the collective unconscious of humanity. It was smallish. Or biggish. Or any size in between depending on what mortals were asleep at the time and what they were dreaming. Right now it was on the biggish side of smallish. The exterior resembled a termite mound while the inside was filled with furniture made of chocolate, including the chairs Lucky, Quick, and Morpheus sat in.

  The god of dreams sipped coffee from a cup in the shape of a life-size chicken. It was awkward to use. The handle on the side was small and inconveniently placed. Even if Morpheus had tried to hold it, it wouldn’t have been much good. Two hands were required to keep the chicken from wandering away.

  Morpheus yawned. “You can’t be serious.”

  Lucky had ordered a tuna melt but the moose-headed waiter had brought a feather between two neatly folded tweed sweaters. He pretended to nibble at it anyway so that Quick could do the talking. But Quick just used his spoon to stir his pink lollipop soup.

  “It’s against the rules,” replied Morpheus. “You know that.”

  “I know,” said Quick.

  Morpheus tried to give Quick a hard glare, but the god of dreams had trouble keeping his eyes wider than halfway open for more than a few seconds.

  “It’s unethical,” said Morpheus. “I am charged with safeguarding the realm of the human subconscious, and it is not a duty I take lightly.”

  “I know, I know. Believe me, we wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.”

  Morpheus set down his cup and stretched. The chicken hopped off the table and marched away, spilling coffee all over the cobblestone floor. A robotic waiter covered in jewels instantly delivered a fresh cup in the shape of a miniature television playing an episode of The Honeymooners.

  “Is this decaf?” asked Morpheus.

  The robot beeped in reply, and it seemed to satisfy the god.

  “I don’t want to be up all night,” Morpheus explained to Quick. “The answer is no. We gods of dream and reverie live by a different code than you divinities of the physical realm. We take our responsibilities very seriously.”

  Lucky cleared his throat and elbowed Quick. Quick shrugged.

  “Oh, for Ymir’s sake,” said Lucky. “Look, Morph. Can I call you Morph?”

  Morpheus yawned. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Morph,” said Lucky, “this is about responsibilities. There are two very nice mortals who are dep
ending on me to do the right thing and look out for them. That’s my responsibility, and I take it seriously, too.”

  The god of sleep rubbed his eyes. “I could get in trouble.”

  “What? You’re allowed to go in there, right? That’s your province, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not like it used to be,” said Morpheus. “The unconscious is highly regulated now. We aren’t allowed to muck about.”

  “Who said anything about mucking about? All I’m asking is for you to show me the way to one mortal’s unconscious so I can have a brief Q and A with his unconscious. I’m not going to plant any suggestions or steal his dreams or rearrange his mental furniture in the slightest. In and out, gone before anyone even notices we were there.”

  “I’m still not sure of the ethical—”

  “Screw it.” Lucky pointed to Quick. “You owe him, and he’s calling in the favor.”

  Morpheus said, “So that’s it then? That’s what it’s all about, Quick?”

  The golden serpent god’s feathers ruffled. “They’re really very nice mortals we’re trying to help.”

  “Okay.” Morpheus scowled, but it degenerated into a yawn. “But then we’re even.”

  The entrance to the collective unconscious was behind the café. From the outside, the realm looked like a giant warehouse. Nothing fancy or terribly metaphorical about it. Although that was really the symbolism of it. The unconscious looked like nothing from the outside. It was only beneath the surface that anything interesting was happening.

  There wasn’t a guard. Just a velvet rope with a warning sign about venturing inside with great care. The collective unconscious of humanity was a twisting maze of hallways. Mortals thought their dreams were unique to them, but the collective unconscious had a central casting office. But one giant spider or Amazon space princess was just as good as any other. The assembled phantasms and phobias of humanity roamed the labyrinth.

  “Hi, Morpheus,” said a passing five-headed mother-in-law beast.

  “Hi, Vera,” replied the god of dreams.

  Without a guide, it was difficult to navigate the labyrinth. Not dangerous but confusing. It could take hours to find the right soundstage. The doors were marked, but not in a reliable way. Some had initials. Others had faces. And some had cryptic symbols or pictograms. They passed a door with a cave painting of a man battling a gerbil in a top hat.