A Martinez - Divine Misfortune

“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.”

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.”

“That involves a whip or something, right?”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“I don’t have a whip.”

“Buy one,” said Syph. “I’m sure they still sell them.”

“You could probably make one out of a jump rope,” suggested Bonnie as she searched through her fridge for something to drink.

“I was hoping I could just offer you some cash,” said the woman, pulling a thick wad of bills from her purse. “How about a thousand dollars? Would that be enough?”

“Sold,” said Bonnie, snatching the money.

“Hey, that’s my tribute,” said Syph.

“Well, if you’re going to rent out my place as your temple, I think I should get something for it.” Bonnie peeled five hundred dollars off, stuck it in her pocket, and gave the rest to the goddess.

“Very well. This tribute is acceptable. However, in addition to this, I shall require you to slam your hand in your car door. Do this, and I shall be pleased. But the boils will only last two weeks. I’m not running a charity.”

“Yes, goddess. You are as wise and beautiful as you are-”

“Yes, yes.” Syph waved her away. “Go on then before I change my mind.”

The woman left. Bonnie stepped in front of the man next in line. “One second, please.”

The man was about to protest when Syph said, “It’s all right. She’s the… head priestess.”

“Yes,” agreed Bonnie. “ Private church business. So back off for a minute.”

The man relented. Bonnie exercised her priestly authority and pushed the line back as far as the crowd would allow so she could talk to Syph in semi-privacy.