Divine Misfortune (2010) (20 page)

“You realize this is a long shot,” said Quick.

“You’re forgetting something, buddy.”

Lucky winked as the gods shot off into the sky.

“Long shots are my specialty.”

It was Worthington’s job to keep Gorgoz happy. A steady diet of beer and snack cakes, a big-screen television with a complete
cable package, a massage chair, a small river of blood. These were usually all it took. And as long as Gorgoz was happy, Worthington’s
world was fine.

Gauging Gorgoz’s happiness was difficult based on the god’s behavior. He never left the basement and he rarely smiled. And
when he spoke, his voice was rough and dour. Even his laugh, the few times Worthington had heard it, was a joyless scraping
thing. Worthington was forced to rely on other signs and portents.

Six of his stocks had taken a big hit. And over a dozen people had lost fingers to faulty paper clips coming out of his Korean
factories. And one of his real estate developments had burned to the ground, killing just over a hundred people. The deaths
and mutilations meant nothing to him outside of requiring some out-of-court settlements. The incidents would barely register
as a hiccup on his financial reports. But left unchecked, these omens could herald his undoing.

Worthington grabbed a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and a bag of pretzels and headed to the basement sanctuary of his crabby god.
The bright flicker
of Leave It to Beaver
illuminated his darkened lair. He didn’t take his eyes off the television as Worthington descended the stairs. Worthington
kept his head bowed as he approached with his offerings.

“O glorious master, who dwells in eternal darkness, from death you arose and death shall be your gift to this world. This
humble servant—”

Gorgoz snatched the beer and pretzels. He stuck a can in his toothy jaws and sheared the top off of it, chugging it down.
Despite the size of his mouth, he managed to spill most of the beverage down his shirt and bathrobe.

“Are they dead?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, Master.”

Gorgoz growled.

“Am I not a generous benefactor, Worthington?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And haven’t I provided you with the wealth and power you pathetic mortals covet so?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And all I ask is complete obedience. Yet now you disobey me.”

“I didn’t disobey.”

“You have failed me.”

“No, Master. It wasn’t I, but other disciples who—”

“I don’t need excuses for a botched job. As most favored among my disciples, their failures are your failures as far as I’m
concerned.”

Gorgoz slit the bag with the long claw on his index finger. He grabbed a handful of pretzels and tossed them into his mouth.
His oddly shaped mouth and teeth spewed crumbs and sticky drool as he decreed, “Bring the offending incompetent before me
so that I might devour him for his ineptitude.”

“I’m afraid he’s already dead.”

Gorgoz’s bulbous eyes narrowed. “Disappointing. Was it a painful death?”

“Most assuredly, Master,” Worthington quickly replied, though he didn’t know the details. His position of First Disciple among
Gorgoz’s followers allowed him control over a network of unscrupulous individuals willing to do whatever it took to gain power.
Even engage in illegal worship of forsaken gods. Yet even he wasn’t certain how far his reach extended because the followers
of Gorgoz were a secretive lot. He made it a point to know only as much as he needed to know.

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 channels.

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.”

“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 winning lottery tickets?”