Negotiations With God

by R W Sowrider

  “… That doesn’t sound very good.”

  “Yeah. That’s why it’s great. And you know what’s even neater?”

  “… I don’t really like where this is go—”

  Before Rowen could even finish his sentence, Delemor’s serpent tail had its fangs deep into Rowen’s thigh. “Owwww!!!”

  “How dare you not like where this is going!” Delemor roared, letting the serpent hold its bite a couple beats before slithering back under the table. “Now pipe down while I finish telling you the something that’s even neater.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Zip it!”

  Rowen nodded .

  “There was absolutely no point to the entire episode. It occurred two months after the emperor decreed the foundational policy of the new government in Tokyo.”

  “Huh?”

  “The outcome had already been decided. The war was over. You and your tigger buddies killed yourselves for nothing.”

  “…”

  “Rich, right?”

  “…”

  “But don’t be so down, little buddy. You’re all still folk heroes. You and your tigger cohorts, that is.”

  “I … uhhhh … ummmm …”

  “C’mon, don’t beat yourself up. You’ll be happy to hear that you’ve earned another chance. Sure, you had the personality and intelligence of a slightly retarded lemming, and for most of your life you were about as entertaining as a tree, but you scored some points by going out in that blaze of glory. With bonus points for the pointlessness. Now get outside and wash that revolting stink off so we can chat about your next shot.”

  The cool mist provided a modicum of relief as Rowen did the walk of shame down to the bathing facilities.

  The cream-colored shampoo provided further comfort as Rowen felt near instant rejuvenation upon rubbing it into his scalp.

  As he basked in the transcendent tingling, he noticed a tiny brown bear reclining on the middle pine cluster of the miniature evergreen tree.

  While tiny, the jovial-looking creature was immensely fat and proudly displayed his cleanly shaven chest as he surveyed the area with bloodshot eyes, occasionally taking a swig from a ceramic jug that was close to twice its size.

  Without warning, a mob of worker bees managing to collectively manipulate a club hammer, flew directly above the miniature bear and pounded his entire body with one sharp stroke.

  Rowen’s eyes almost popped out of his head as he watched the poor creature explode into a million pieces and the bees flew away as suddenly as they had come.

  Dumbstruck, he sat there motionless until he heard the sultry voice of Aphrodite. “Care for a drink?”

  “Yes, please,” he replied, the bizarre scene already an afterthought.

  “I’ve got some other things to attend to,” Aphrodite said as Rowen savored the delectable beverage. “But I’m sure I’ll see you again soon in some form or other. Feel free to have a dip by yourself when you finish washing.”

  Rowen couldn’t help but ogle Aphrodite’s curves as she walked back up the path and disappeared out of view.

  After draining the remainder of the divine concoction, Rowen waded into the soothing water and drifted away on a tranquil current.

  Before long, he came upon the same island as last time and again saw Zeus drooling all over the orb in the center.

  “Hi Zeus,” Rowen called as he walked up the beach.

  “Rowen!” Zeus replied, smiling excitedly. “You are a Godsend. Your rape strategy could not have gone any better!”

  “…”

  “I morphed into that fair wench’s husband and made sweet, resistance-less love to her all day and all night.”

  “Wow. Well, I guess it’s good that she didn’t feel like she was being raped …”

  “Yeah, why not. Anyhoo, she even bore me a son. He’s a wonderful boy. Cunning and powerful. The little dude killed two poisonous serpents at the tender age of two. The wife’s a little pissed about it, though. In fact, she’s the one who sent them.”

  “Your wife sent snakes to kill a 2-year-old?”

  “Yeah. Oh shit, here she comes now. Her name’s Isis—Goddess of Revenge, Forgiveness, and Unfortunate Homonyms Such As Those That Make You Sound Like A Terrorist. She’s a total nightmare. I suggest you get the fuck outta here as quickly as possible.”

  “But she’s your wife. Are you saying that you don’t like her?”

  Zeus snort-laughed. “Wow, you haven’t been around long have you, boy?”

  “But then why did you marry her?”

  “Because I’m a face man. And she had the prettiest face out of all my sisters.”

  “Your sisters?!”

  “Sorry, kid. Can’t get into it now. Toodles.”

  Zeus disappeared in a flash as Isis floated toward the island and … well … beached herself.

  Rowen’s jaw dropped as he took in the sight.

  Isis’ head was that of one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Long, lustrous auburn hair, dazzling sapphire blue eyes with thick, dark lashes, and glowing, rose-colored cheeks.

  The rest, however, was a completely different story. She had the body of a manatee, the dorsal fin of a shark, and the skinny legs of a feeble goat.

  Rowen couldn’t help but stare as she laboriously pulled herself onto the beach before slumping over into what Rowen imagined was her sun tanning position.

  Once settled, she turned to Rowen and gave him a listen-and-obey-you-little-shit look. “Don’t ever talk to Zeus again.”

  “Rowen!” Delemor boomed. “How dare you harass a divinity, you impudent puke! Get back in here so we can get down to business.”

  “Goodbye, ma’am,” Rowen said, nervously. “I mean, goodbye Mrs. Isis. I mean, Goddess Isis.” Rowen bowed profusely as he backed into the water. “I’m very very sorry.”

  After drifting to shore and scrambling back up to the chamber, he once again sat reverentially on his heels across from Delemor, seated high on his throne.

  “What can I do for you this time?”

  “I’m honestly kind of at a loss. I keep trying to live good lives, but I don’t seem to be making any progress.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “So I’m not really sure what I should do.”

  “Right again. How’s about we play a little game. I say a word and you say the first thing that pops into your teeny tiny little brain.”

  “… Okay.”

  “Aphrodite.”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Boobs.”

  “Delightful.”

  “Sex.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I think we’re onto something. Even your pee brain must see it by now.”

  “I … I’d like to become an adult.”

  “Done.”

  “And … I’d like to try sex.”

  “Hell yeah, little buddy. I think you’ll even like it.”

  “And … if possible, I’d like to enjoy being an adult.”

  “I like the sound of that. How so?”

  “I … I guess I’d like to be popular with the ladies. Naturally.”

  “A ladies man, eh? I’m in a generous mood today, and if little Rowen wants some charm and confidence, how’s about we give little Rowen some charm and confidence. Anything else?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s much different, but I’d like to enjoy adult life, adult parties.”

  “Gotcha. Kinky orgies with gorgeous co-eds on ecstasy fisting you. Done and done.”

  “No, no. I don’t mean that. Just partying. Like at bars and stuff. ”

  “Oh, okay. I hear you. Just your average partying with booze, bitches, and music, eh?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d put it like that, but yeah. Just normal adult partying.”

  “Sure. I can’t see how that could go wrong. Done and done. Anything else?”

  “Well … if possible, maybe I could have a connection to Verixion?”

  “A what?! A
‘connection’?! What do you mean by ‘connection’?”

  “Maybe I could call on the Gods every once in a while if I need some help.”

  “You can always call on the Gods every once in a while if you need some help. Whether we answer or not, that’s a different story.”

  “Well … Maybe you could answer?”

  “I’m afraid that will depend on you, your situation, and whatever mood we’re in that day.”

  “So, …”

  Before Rowen could even begin his response, Delemor’s serpent tail was hissing in his face.

  “Okay, understood. Hopefully, I can do the right things to merit an answer.”

  “Good luck with that. But back to the topic at hand. While I am in a generous mood today, you’re asking to be a rock star with special powers to channel the Gods, so I’m gonna need some serious concessions in return.”

  “…”

  “Let’s move on to your physical traits. You’re gonna be wall-eyed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like cross-eyed, but the opposite. One of your eyes is always gonna be looking out.”

  “Can you still see okay like that?”

  “I think so. To be honest, I’m not sure. But you’re gonna be partying so hard you’re not gonna care.”

  “… ”

  “And you’re gonna be exceedingly tall and lanky.”

  “Exceedingly? Like, I’m gonna stick out?”

  “Hell yeah, you’re gonna stick out. That’s what you want, right? Popularity? To go along with that monster personality, you’re gonna have to accept the monstrous body that goes along with it.”

  “…”

  “And how’s about we throw in a busted, bulbous nose for kicks?”

  “But I thought I was gonna be a ladies…” Rowen cut himself off sensing that a snake bite was imminent if he dared question Delemor.

  “What’s that?” the reptilian deity bated.

  “Nothing. Perhaps it’s time for Mrs. Po’s drink?” Rowen asked, hopefully.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s enough. You’re lucky you caught me in such a good mood today. The cards are really stacked in your favor this time. Meng Po! Your concoction please!”

  As usual, Rowen received the bitter drink from the darling old hunchback and dutifully dug in.

  Meng Po hovered over him as he drank. “Be careful what you wish for, Rowen,” she said. “Cause you just might get it.” She punctuated her warning with ominous cackling.

  For what seemed like the first time, Rowen felt like he might be able to grasp what Meng Po was getting at, and as a wave of understanding began to wash over his face, Meng Po leaned in close, removed her coke-bottle glasses, and looked Rowen dead in the eye.

  He was taken aback not only by her seriousness, but also by the fact that one of her eyes was neon pink, and the other was made of glass and filled with swirling white smoke.

  “Seriously, Rowen,” she said. “Don’t be wishing for no gonorrhea of the throat.”

  As everything went black, Rowen once again heard the maniacal laughter of the sweet old deity.

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  Late 19 th Century AD

  The day that Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra, commonly known as Sandra, were crowned Tsar and Tsarina of Russia was at once glorious and tragic.

  Glorious not only because of the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding, but because the young emperor and empress were truly in love.

  Tragic because during the celebration, when rumor spread that there was not enough beer and pretzels for all the commoners outside the banquet hall, a stampede ensued and 1,368 people were trampled to death.

  Many saw this as an omen of things to come.

  Some said it was a premonition of the fall of the royal family.

  Others said it was a premonition of the fall of Russia herself.

  But most just viewed it as a really crappy day.

  ***

  Grigori Rasputin, who would go on to be known as the Mad Monk, the Holy Devil, and the Miracle-Working MaleWhore, but in his day went by the nickname Rowen, was born to a peasant family in a remote Siberian village.

  Growing up, he had always had a keen interest in three particular subjects: Morals, the supernatural, and vodka.

  Morals because the principles behind right and wrong seemed so subjective and malleable. So debatable. And thus, so intriguing.

  The supernatural because he had always felt the presence of, and a connection with, the many deities inhabiting this world.

  And vodka because it makes everything more fun and getting what you want a lot easier.

  As a young man, Rowen set out on his first pilgrimage to the Holy Monastery of Abalak where he spent nearly three years learning to read and write, as well as studying sacred text, prayer, and the monastic lifestyle.

  While he enjoyed learning contemporary religious and spiritual thought, he found the monastic life to be too restrictive and dogmatic, and was put off by the habit of certain monks to engage in extracurricular activities among themselves.

  He decided to become a wandering monk and it was on this second pilgrimage that he began tapping into his mysterious power of healing.

  At the third holy site that he visited, he came across a young man and his father as they were being consoled by a priest.

  “I’m very sorry, my sons,” the priest said. “God works in mysterious ways.”

  “But there must be something we can do,” the young man pleaded.

  “You have done everything there is to do,” the priest answered as soothingly as possible. “You have consulted all the doctors, tried all the medications, and most importantly, you have come to us. We will pray for your mother.”

  “And all we can do is pray, too?” the father said in desperation.

  “Yes. It’s in God’s hands now.”

  Rowen took a swig of vodka from his flask and staggered over to the group. “What’s the trouble here?”

  The three men looked up at him in surprise. Rowen made quite the figure. He was a head taller than all of them, wore a long, greasy black robe, and had a long disheveled black beard to match his long, disheveled black hair .

  “It’s his wife,” the priest said, patting the father on his shoulder. “It appears that God will be welcoming her into Heaven soon.”

  Rowen glared at the priest, sizing him up. “Hooey,” he said, waving his hand in the priest’s face and turning to the young man and father. “Take me to this woman. I will fix her.”

  At first, the men were taken aback, but having no other alternative, they quickly decided to lead Rowen back to their home.

  “I’m not sure whether this man is a healer or a hobo,” the young man whispered to his father. “But there’s something in his eyes.”

  “Is there anything we can get you?” the father asked as he ushered Rowen into their old wooden house.

  “Vodka,” Rowen replied.

  Without hesitation, the young man brought him a glassful.

  “Where is she?” Rowen blurted out.

  “Upstairs,” the father replied, leading the way to the master bedroom where his wife lay in bed, her unblinking eyes glued to the ceiling, her hair damp, and her cheeks glistening with sweat.

  Rowen stood over the bed and appraised her condition.

  The woman continued to stare at the ceiling, apparently unaware that anyone had entered the room.

  Rowen turned to the young man and father. “I will take the sickness from her.”

  He then turned back to the woman, held the glass of vodka to his chest, and mumbled the following in a language that clearly was not Russian. “Great God, Dionysus, thank you for this drink. I receive it in your honor. Please heal this woman so that we may drink and sing and drink and dance in your honor and glory. Praise be to you.”

  Rowen then downed the vodka, dropped the empty glass on the floor, and leaned over the woman.

  As he gazed fixedly into her vacant eyes, he put one han
d on her forehead and the other on one of her boobs.

  Suddenly, the woman seemed to snap back to life and she locked eyes with Rowen. Her head and torso shook, and her eyes began to twitch. An expression came over her that was pure fear.

  At the precise moment that she opened her mouth to let out a blood-curdling scream, Dionysus—God of Mischief, the Drink, and One-Night Stands—sucked the illness clean out of her.

  As Rowen lifted his hands from her, a look of relief washed over the woman’s face and she gave him a big smile before conking out.

  Rowen turned to the men. “She will be fit as a horse come morning.”

  “It’s a miracle!” the father cried out, rushing over to his wife’s side, falling to his knees, and clutching her hand to his cheek.

  “How can we ever thank you?!” the young man asked.

  “Vodka.”

  ***

  Rowen’s supernatural relationship with Dionysus was a kind of virtuous cycle. The more praising and paying tribute to Dionysus he did via songs and toasts, the more he was able to cure the sick and feeble, and in turn the more he was able to drink and pay tribute and so on and so on.

  Clearly, Rowen had the ideal relationship with God. Not an institutional one, or a vicarious one, but a personal one made all the more enjoyable by their mutual interest in vodka, dance, and women.

  As Rowen wandered around Siberia from holy site to holy site, word quickly spread of his healing power, charisma, and booze-fueled celebrations .

  No sooner did he arrive somewhere than did the townspeople ask him to perform a miracle. At the same time, not only did they make preparations at the local tavern for a celebration, but they also readied the town’s holding cell in case Rowen’s voracious sexual appetite led him to target an unwilling party. However, after one look into his hypnotic, penetrating eyes, even the most faithful of wives were up for a roll in the hay. So in practice, the cells generally wound up being occupied by drunk, jealous husbands sleeping one off.

  It wasn’t long before his reputation grew to the point that the Bishop of Siberia sent a letter of recommendation to the Bishop of St. Petersburg who welcomed Rowen to the nation’s capital.