Divine Misfortune

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 cha

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 depending 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.”