A Lee Martinez

by Divine Misfortune (v5)

  Morpheus led them down the halls. Lucky and Quick didn’t even try to keep track of the route. It would’ve changed if they’d tried to backtrack. Even gods could get lost in the realm of dreams.

  They stopped at a door inscribed with the name GERALD.

  “This is it?” asked Lucky.

  “This is it.”

  “But the guy we’re looking for is named Rick.”

  Morpheus said, “Do I tell you how to find winning lottery tickets?”

  “Fair enough,” admitted Lucky as the god of dreams opened the door.

  They entered the soundstage of Rick’s dreams. Props littered the set, which was in mid-construction. The cast of characters sat around, waiting. Building dreams was a complicated affair, and at least half of the cast would be shuttled out before the mortal architect fell asleep. Whatever passed through the dreamer’s mind, conscious and unconscious, would shape the show. This was why mortal dreams were so confusing. It wasn’t because the unconscious was revealing transcendent mysteries or the dreaming mind was unable to maintain a coherent thought. No, it was simply central casting and the prop department being unable to keep up with last-minute rewrites.

  “Hey, Rita,” said Morpheus to a Vegas showgirl.

  She nodded to him, sucking on a cigarette as a wardrobe assistant slipped her out of a pleather catsuit and into a pair of long johns.

  “Recognize this guy?” asked Quick, pointing to a lanky cast member concealed in a voluminous brown robe. His mottled arms were long and scaly. It was a dead-on likeness of Gorgoz except for the chubby face. A makeup assistant was still painting the spots on there.

  “This must be the place,” said Lucky. “Cripes, do you think he still looks like that?”

  “He always was slow to change,” said Quick.

  “Yeah, it’s no wonder he had to go underground.” Lucky chuckled. “That might’ve impressed the yokels at the dawn of time, but you have to update every so often.”

  They found the director of this mortal dreamscape sitting in a darkened corner, watching a small TV set playing out his waking life. He stared intently at the small black-and-white screen and strained to hear the low sound.

  “Excuse me,” said Lucky.

  The director looked up, put a finger to his lips.

  “Sorry to bother you, but—”

  The director repeated the gesture, this time following it with a loud shushing sound.

  Lucky stepped between the director and his television. “This will only take a few minutes of your time.”

  “Are you supposed to be in here? Where’s your authorization?”

  Morpheus waved a badge. The director checked it twice, then shrugged. “Okay. Whatever. I can never follow that show anyway. I don’t know what the hell that guy is doing half the time.”

  “We have some questions about Gorgoz,” said Lucky.

  The director shuddered. “Him? Did he send you? Are you here to punish me for my failure?”

  “We’re not with him,” said Quick absently as he picked through the catering cart. He sniffed a pig in a blanket. “We’re looking for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he needs to be stopped,” said Lucky.

  The director laughed. “Gorgoz is more dangerous than you can imagine.”

  “He’s old news,” said Lucky, “a relic.”

  “Precisely,” said the director. “He doesn’t care about the new rules. He’s still playing the game the old-fashioned way. It might limit his power, but he’s a lot more willing to use the power he does have. He’s a cornered beast. And he doesn’t give two shits about civilization or you or me or even himself. He sees himself on the top and everyone, mortal and immortal, is beneath him. And he’ll burn the world to a cinder rather than compromise that ruthless ideal.”

  The lighting on the soundstage dimmed as the director spoke. The crew put tints over the spotlights to tinge the air red. The carpenters quickly tore down the set as a new set of walls was wheeled in to make a shadowy and darkened room.

  Gorgoz’s phantasm grew taller and more menacing. He flipped his hood into place, hiding his face except for his two huge bloodshot eyes.

  “If you thought he was so damn dangerous,” asked Lucky, “why would you choose to follow him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” replied the director. “I needed an edge, and why would I settle with a small boon from a castrated deity when I could have access to all the raw power of a true primordial force? No offense about the castration comment.”

  “None taken,” said Quick.

  “And now it’s gone bad.” The director said, “Well, I guess I can’t complain. I made my decision. Nothing to do but watch it play out.”

  “You’re awfully calm about this.”

  “Hey, it’s his problem.” The director pointed toward the television. “Not mine.”

  Lucky pondered how the subconscious could be so blithely oblivious to the perils of its physical aspect. But then again, why should anyone expect a mortal’s subconscious to be any more logical than any other part of his mind?

  “Would you mind telling us where to find Gorgoz?” asked Lucky.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” said the director, “but I don’t really know. I did meet him once, but it was a secret ritual in an undisclosed location.”

  “Can you remember anything? Anything at all?”

  “It was a few years ago. The details are kind of fuzzy. It was a dark room. Dusty. Smelled like rotten fish.”

  Several stagehands rushed in, throwing sawdust into the air. Several others carried in buckets of carp, placing the buckets in out-of-the-way corners. The director walked over to the set.

  “There was a bunch of neophytes there. We all had on robes to hide our faces.” Phantasm players crowded the set behind him. A wardrobe assistant threw a robe on the director. “There was the traditional Dirge of Gorgoz.” He knelt before the phantasm in Gorgoz’s role. They started chanting.

  “Excuse me,” said Lucky, pointing to a robed figure standing beside Gorgoz. “Hate to interrupt, but who is that?”

  The actors in the memory kept chanting, but the director raised his head.

  “That’s Gorgoz’s First Disciple,” he said.

  “You didn’t see his face, did you?” asked Lucky.

  “Sorry.”

  They resumed their chant.

  Lucky picked his way across the stage, avoiding disturbing the ritual. He circled the First Disciple.

  “Morph,” said Lucky, “I suppose that since this guy didn’t see the face and this is just his memory we can’t see his face either.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Morpheus said, “No. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Why did you pause?”

  Morpheus half-paused. “No reason.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re holding out on me, buddy. You have to know a few extra tricks, right? Some kind of dream god cheat code.”

  “Maybe there is something I can do, but there are certain risks. Things can go wrong.”

  “What can go wrong? You’re Morpheus, god of dreams, master of the realm nocturnal, the big kahuna. Quick and I will stand aside and leave it in your able hands.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Morpheus waved his hand at the hooded assembly and spoke in hushed, reverent tones. “Right now, this is only a memory, a dim recollection of past events seen through one set of mortal eyes. But all memories, no matter how distant, no matter how distorted, have the shadow of truth underneath. Even the most imperfect memory is a window—”

  “That’s terrific,” interrupted Lucky. “Love the metaphysics. But we’re a little pressed for time.”

  “Basically, I just reach back and use my powers to re-create elements of the memory that the director couldn’t know.” Morpheus cracked his knuckles and clapped his hands. The lights snapped on bright and clear as everything was illuminated with the absolute light of truth. The scene froze.

  Lucky hopped back into the set and walked o
ver to the First Disciple of Gorgoz. He pulled back the hood.

  “I have no idea who this guy is,” said Lucky.

  “What did you expect?” asked Quick. “A major movie star?”

  “Would’ve made things easier.” Lucky searched the disciple’s pockets, but he came up empty. “That was a waste of time.”

  Morpheus snapped his fingers. “Check his pockets again.”

  The second search turned up a wallet.

  “How did you do that?”

  “It’s a dream. Who is to say that the guy didn’t have his wallet on him?”

  “Morph, I like your style.” Lucky found a driver’s license. “Can I keep this?”

  “Sure. What do I care?”

  The phantasmal player of Gorgoz chuckled coldly. “You are as ridiculous as ever, Luka.”

  “Easy, big guy,” said Lucky. “Don’t get lost in the part.”

  Gorgoz stood. He pulled back his hood. The actor’s face was gone, replaced with the twisted true visage. It’d been a few centuries since Lucky had seen Gorgoz face-to-face. He hadn’t gotten any prettier.

  “Easy, Gorg, ol’ buddy.”

  “Always with the endless obnoxious chatter,” said Gorgoz. “You blather on like a sideshow barker rather than a true god. It’s no wonder the mortals have lost their fear of us.” He roared, spewing slime and spit into the air. “You dare violate my domain, in the soul of one of my followers!”

  “I don’t remember him being so eloquent,” said Lucky.

  “He’s a manifestation of the director’s unconscious,” explained Morpheus. “Not an exact copy.”

  Gorgoz pounced, seizing Lucky by the throat.

  “Gorg, Gorgie, Gorgster,” choked the god of prosperity.

  “Quiet, you babbling fool,” hissed Gorgoz. “Prepare to suffer the consequences of your trespass.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Morpheus.

  “Uh-oh, what?” asked Quick. “What’s gone wrong?”

  “I warned you it would be dangerous. The simulation is out of control.”

  “Uh, guys,” squeaked Lucky. “Could use a little help here.”

  Quetzalcoatl sprang across the soundstage. He was batted aside with an offhand slap from Gorgoz, who chuckled with a low rasp.

  “Look at you, god of blood and death. Look at what they’ve made you into. Luka was always a fool. But you… you were worshipped by an empire.”

  Quick rubbed his jaw. Being immortal didn’t make him immune to pain, and Gorgoz, even in this form, packed a mean backhand.

  Lucky transformed into a hulking beast, forcing Gorgoz to release him. The set broke into chaos as the phantasmal players scattered in all directions.

  “Okay, Gorg!” roared Lucky as he pounded his huge fists together. “You asked for this!”

  He pounced on Gorgoz. The two gods tumbled through the set, smashing their way through the faux brick walls. The shudders and booms of their titanic struggle shook the soundstage.

  Quick and Morpheus waited a few moments. Neither god was terribly concerned. Immortality made even the most savage combat between deities an exercise in idiocy.

  “Should we intervene?” asked Quick.

  “This is my set!” screamed the director. “I’m in charge here!”

  Lucky flew through the air, colliding with the overhead scaffold lighting. It all came crashing down. Lucky, back in his shorter, Hawaiian-shirt form, crawled from the wreckage. Patches of fur were missing here and there, and half his tail had been sheared off.

  “For a simulation, he packs a helluva punch.”

  Gorgoz tore his way through the set. He leveled a finger at the director. “This is your fault. Not only do you fail me, but your weak mortal mind reveals secrets unfit for these fools to know. Now you shall suffer the consequences of your failure.”

  “He’s really into seeing people suffering consequences,” observed Quick.

  “Some things never change,” said Lucky.

  The director cowered behind the gods.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Morpheus. “He can’t hurt you. He’s just a phantasm playing a part. A bit too well, perhaps, but it’s still just a part. But you’re the director of this subconscious. You’re still in charge. You just have to remember it.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I am.” The director pushed his way past the gods and confronted Gorgoz’s enraged dream duplicate. “You’re fired,” he said smugly. “Okay, people. Strike the set. Let’s take a quick lunch break, then we’ll set up for sex dream number eight. Y’know, the one with the naughty librarian and the whipped cream. I think we’ve earned it.”

  Gorgoz decapitated the director with one swipe of his claws. The head rolled to Morpheus’s feet and glared.

  “Thanks for the advice, asshole,” grumbled the director before fading into oblivion. In the waking world, his physical aspect fell over dead.

  Lucky and Quick stepped away from Morpheus, as if to avoid any guilt by association.

  “That shouldn’t be possible,” said Morpheus.

  Gorgoz chuckled. “All things are possible to me. While all of you were belched forth from the primordial at the dawn of existence, I was already here. I am the ultimate embodiment of the chaos that birthed the universe, and when all this is dust, when every mortal life is snuffed, when every soul is crushed, when every lesser god is returned to the nothingness from which they were spawned, I shall remain. Only madness endures. Only entropy is endless.” He narrowed his orange eyes and grinned. Not easy with his messy arrangement of teeth and tusks.

  “So piss off, you little shits.”

  Gorgoz snapped his fingers. The soundstage exploded, consumed by a screaming blast of white fire.

  The gods were blown out the door and into the hall.

  Lucky shook the gray ash off his scorched flesh. “What the hell was that?”

  Morpheus wiped soot from his face. “That is a problem. But it’s not my problem. I’m done. I’m out.”

  The door opened and Gorgoz stepped out. Lucky and Quick braced themselves for another attack, but the phantom was back to his harmless original actor. He rubbed his temples and moaned, wandering off.

  “I was never here. Messing with Gorgoz is bad news.” Morpheus started walking. Lucky and Quick ran after him so as not to get lost.

  “But I thought he wasn’t even Gorgoz,” said Lucky.

  “He wasn’t. He was just a phantasm. But Gorgoz must have left something behind, some seed of power. That was real fire-and-brimstone stuff, right out of the Age of Legends. And it was just a leftover. It wasn’t even the real him.”

  Morpheus stopped and wheeled on Lucky.

  “I know you and Gorgoz have a thing going on. We all know he’s an asshole, and I feel for you. But if you’re thinking about going head-to-head with him, I’d advise against it. Just keep on doing what you’re doing. Keep your head down and wait for him to get bored.”

  “It’s been over a thousand years.”

  “So give it another thousand. Lay low. Don’t push your luck, Lucky. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He transformed into a swarm of butterflies and flew away, disappearing into the bustling hallways. Lucky and Quick pressed against the walls to avoid the crowds of phantasms and props being wheeled past.

  Lucky pulled out the driver’s license and stared at it.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind,” said Quick.

  “No, I guess I’m still in.”

  Lucky pocketed the license and glanced around the maze of corridors. “Do you know the way out of this place?”

  “I was hoping you did.”

  Lucky pointed down a random hall. “That way then.”

  “Do you know that’s the right way?” asked Quick.

  “Hey, I’m a god of fortune. Odds have gotta be pretty good.”

  20

  There was a line to Bonnie’s apartment. When she tried to enter, a man grabbed her by the arm.

  “Hey. No cuts.”

 
; “I live here,” said Bonnie.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Yeah, right!” She pulled from his grasp and pushed her way inside.

  “You just made the list!” He pulled out a notepad and pen. “What’s your name?”

  She pushed her way past the crowd, squeezing past the door-jamb. People threw her dirty looks, but she was in no mood to explain herself.

  Her apartment was jammed. She had to fight every step of the way, but she was pissed off enough that she had no trouble throwing elbows. After she bit someone who got too grabby, no one else dared stand in her way.

  The line ended in her kitchenette. Syph sat at the table, drinking tea with a woman whose hair was too blond and skin too bronze, making her look like a middle-aged Barbie doll who had invested just enough in plastic surgery to almost look human but who was an operation away from crossing the point of no return.

  “This is my turn!” said the woman.

  “This is my kitchen,” grunted Bonnie. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment,” said Syph. “We’re almost done.”

  The woman flashed a condescending smile as Syph continued.

  “Mortal, your story has moved my heart. Your ex-husband and his new wife shall be smote with boils that shall exude a foul stench. In return, you shall offer tribute of animal sacrifice and self-flagellation.”

  “Yes, about that,” said the woman. “I’m not really big on animal sacrifice.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a cute animal. It can be a snake or a frog or some other loathsome thing.”

  “I like snakes.”

  “You like snakes?”

  The woman nodded slightly as if admitting a crime.

  “Who likes snakes?” Syph glanced at Bonnie and repeated the question. “Who likes snakes?”

  “I can take ’em or leave ’em,” replied Bonnie.

  “I’d rather not kill any animals,” said the woman softly, “if it’s all the same to you.”

  Syph said, “Is self-flagellation acceptable then? Because I’m not doing this for fun. I have to expect some compensation. Boils aren’t as easy as you might think.”