Divine Misfortune

“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.

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 wi

“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.