Kevin Hearne - Hammered

I squatted down and chuckled, hugging Oberon around the neck. Be good , I told him. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll go find a new place to live .

Oberon said.

I think that can be arranged . I escorted him to the car and he jumped carefully into the backseat. I shut the door behind him and waved as Granuaile drove off.

I sighed happily, replaying her kiss and still enjoying the faint traces of her scent, while simultaneously feeling guilty for even permitting it. I hoped she would do that again someday, and I berated myself for wishing it.

A last meal of the world’s finest fish and chips awaited me due north at Rúla Búla, so I shook myself out of my trance and walked that way, determined to savor my last few hours in Tempe.

“Hey, Siodhachan!” a man’s voice boomed from behind me, and I ducked instinctively and pivoted on my heels to meet an attack. My right hand flew to the camouflaged hilt of Fragarach over my right shoulder, but I relaxed and left it sheathed when I saw there was no threat. A fit-looking African man was standing in front of Trippie Hippie and laughing at me. “Wow. You’re even more paranoid than the last time I saw you.”

I felt acutely embarrassed not to recognize someone who knew my true Irish name. He looked friendly, but I had no idea who this guy was.

“Come to Jesus,” the man said, smiling hugely, with his arms open and inviting embrace. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt in predominantly reds, yellows, and greens, with a white peace sign screen-printed on the front of it. He had on a pair of relaxed-fit blue jeans, and his Chuck Taylors were classically black. He appeared to be an affable sort, and his voice and rugged good looks reminded me of that guy from the Old Spice body-wash commercials.

I still couldn’t place him, and it was supremely annoying because I should have been able to. Random strangers don’t know my Irish name—most of my current friends don’t know it either, including Granuaile. And it’s not like he just made a lucky guess: Siodhachan hasn’t exactly been in the top one thousand baby names for quite a long time. Whoever he was, he had to truly know me from the old days, or he had a connection with someone who did. I almost took a look at him with my faerie specs, but then I hesitated. What if he really was Jesus? If I looked at him in the magical spectrum, my retinas would fry like eggs. I chose to inquire verbally instead.

“Would you like to speak to me in Aramaic?” I asked him in that language. “I can’t recall the last time I spoke it. Can you?”

He switched to Aramaic without difficulty. “Of course I can,” he replied. His smile remained broad and highly amused. “We spoke it together in England when we were moving around all that treasure of the Templars and planting false clues. You know, I have really enjoyed the results of that little visit to the planet. The theories have been endlessly creative, and it’s put food on the table for many a nearsighted scholar.”

“Jesus, it really is you!” I rose from my crouch and accepted the offered hug, and we pounded each other’s back in a properly masculine fashion. “This is excellent, man; you look good. Who came up with this look for you?”

Jesus gave a small jerk of his head over his shoulder at Trippie Hippie and switched to English. “One of the patrons in this store gave it to me. Wanted to update my image,” he explained.

“What’s not to like, right?” I asked, returning to English myself. “I imagine this is a far sight more comfortable than the half-naked crown-of-thorns routine.”

“That’s an understatement. But I especially appreciate that he imagined something closer to my original skin color. It doesn’t get much better.”

“No doubt. I was just on my way to grab some lunch. Fancy a bite?”

“You buying?” Jesus grinned.

“Sure, I’ll pick up the tab. How long have you been here?” The light turned green again and we walked north up Mill Avenue.

“I arrived just before you showed up,” he said. “Heard from my mother you wanted to have a beer.”

“That’s right, I told her that. She was very kind and blessed some arrows for me. And I’m flattered that you decided to accept my invitation.”

“Are you kidding?” Jesus snorted. “I’m grateful to you. I tell you truly, nobody ever wants to just hang out with me. If they’re not asking for explanations or intercession, then they’re sharing too much information. ‘Why, Jesus? Help me, Jesus! Oh, Jesus, that feels good, don’t stop!’ That’s all I hear all the time. You’re the only guy who asks me to go have a beer anymore.”

“There was someone else you used to drink beers with?”

“Bertrand Russell.”

“Oh. He of little faith? Well, I’m glad I could give you an excuse to come on down.”

“I must tell you that I have an ulterior motive,” Jesus said. “I would not wish you to think later that I had told a half-truth by saying I have simply come down for a beer. But business can wait.”

We passed an extraordinarily sunburned man in wraparound sunglasses busking with his guitar. He was strumming “They’re Red Hot”—an old blues tune about hot tamales—and singing the infectious lyrics in a gravelly voice. His open guitar case rested on a planter beside him, and Jesus wagged his head back and forth a little bit and got his shoulders into it too. “What a delightful riff,” he said. “Do you know who wrote this song?”

“I believe it’s by Robert Johnson, a Mississippi Delta blues man.”

“Truly?” The Christian god stopped dancing and looked at me. “The same one who went down to the crossroads?”

“The very same.”

He laughed and continued walking north, shaking his head. “My adversary is thumbing his nose at me, I think. It is enjoyable, though, to be surprised like that. These brains can’t handle omniscience, so I’m a little slow on the uptake.”

Behind us, the guitar player suddenly stopped playing and said, “What the hell?” I looked back to see him staring openmouthed at his guitar case, which was inexplicably—miraculously—filled with dollar bills. He whooped and hurriedly closed his case.

“I think you just made his day,” I said.

“It was easy enough. Small green pieces of paper.”

We arrived at Rúla Búla and I opened the door for my companion, waving him in. We sat at the bar directly opposite the door and ordered our beers. I asked for a Smithwick’s; Jesus thought it was a good day for a Guinness. We both ordered the famous fish and chips, and I asked to see the whiskey menu.

“They have a menu specifically for whiskey?” Jesus said.

“Oh, yeah, and it’s amazing stuff. They have some liquid courage back there that’s over sixty years old. Want to do a shot with me?”

“No, I’d better not,” Jesus said, waving his palms crosswise in front of him.

“Aw, come on, I’m buying.”

He paused, then said, “Well, all right, I suppose it’ll be a new experience.”

Awesome! I’d just bullied Jesus into doing a shot with me. Nobody would ever believe it, but I didn’t care. We ordered the insanely expensive stuff, seventy-five dollars for a 1.75-ounce pour of premium Irish whiskey, because if you’re doing a shot with Jesus, you don’t buy him scotch. We raised our glasses to Irish brewers everywhere, and the smoky liquid burned us smoothly as it fell down our throats.