In The Lap Of The Gods Read online

  When he opened his eyes, he found himself surrounded by the bulk of the Heavenly Host, blazing swords sending black plumes of smoke curling into the sky. He could hear Eve sobbing in the distance, “No, no, no,” as he felt himself being lifted helplessly into the sky. He turned his head as the distance began to separate him and the love of his eternal life and saw Adam, post-hole digger in hand, eyeing the pomegranate tree closely. Lucifer closed his eyes as he took a bite.

  Lucifer stopped pacing and went outside his cabana to the soda machines. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. His face and back were drenched with sweat. The ancient past was always like a bad acid trip for him. He chugged the last half of the bottle and walked down the rickety wooden steps to the beach.

  There was a scattering of beach chairs and umbrellas under the palm trees. A few people looked up and waved at him and he waved back. The ocean breeze caressed his face and he wiped the burning tears from his eyes. Surf’s up.

  “Hey Beelzebubba!” a friendly voice shouted, and he turned to see Poseidon stretched out on a large chaise lounge, waving a couple of beers at him. “It’s hotter than Hell today, ain’t it pard?” His laughter erupted from the depths of his barrel chest, and Lucifer eased down on the chair beside him, taking one of the offered beers.

  “You are one sad devil,” Poseidon said. “You’re not thinking about HER again, are you?”

  “My melancholy blues,” Lucifer replied.

  “Man, you have to get beyond that.” Poseidon gestured down the beach. “There are a lot of fish still swimming around in the ocean of love.”

  “That’s really poetic. Have you been browsing through greeting cards at the bait and tackle shop again?”

  Poseidon barked another laugh. “You have to quit living in the past. You need to get out some, pull your nose out of those books you like so much. Thomas Pynchon? The great American tranquilizer.” Poseidon rubbed some oil on his broad shoulders. “Would you do my back?” he asked.

  Lucifer gave him a sharp glare and Poseidon shook his hands in feigned fear. “No, don’t torment me. Please, no, no, no! Don’t use the pitchfork!” He laughed again.

  “Poseidon, you are such a prick.” Lucifer looked out over the waves. “There are wheels are in motion as we speak. When everything comes together, I’m moving back to Earth and claiming it for my own.”

  Poseidon spluttered his beer. “Are you out of your freaking mind? You’re not really going to do it, are you? What about the ten billion people in the way? Do you really think they are going to bow to you and give you the keys to the planet?”

  “Unfortunately for them, they won’t get that opportunity. I’ve made...other arrangements.” Lucifer thought for a moment, listening to the surf pound the shore. “You’re here by choice, being an immortal Greek God, right?”

  “Yep,” Poseidon said. “When we fell out of favor, most of us Gods decided to make a clean break from Earth. All of us abandoned Olympus and made our way here.”

  “To be together?”

  “Absolutely,” Poseidon agreed.

  “It’s the same concept I’ve been considering for Mankind,” Lucifer said. “Earth has turned into a big metaphysical joke. Jehovah has abandoned it like a baby in a dumpster, and I think it’s time to make a change for the better, for Mankind’s sake.”

  “Total annihilation is better?”

  “It will be painful at first,” Lucifer agreed. “But think about children reuniting with their long-dead parents and ancestors. All of the ancient races, gone like autumn’s leaves, getting back together. Eternal life, Poseidon, in death.”

  “Man, oh man,” moaned Poseidon. “That is some heavy duty thinking. I can see Holy War Part Two coming to my front door. I think I’ll just mosey back to my place and lock all the doors and windows.” He stood up, swaying like a giant palm tree. “You can’t get to her. The Creator swore to protect her from you after you botched things up for them at the Garden.”

  “The Creator thought he had them trained like a couple of barking seals, but he was wrong,” Lucifer answered. “He never expected that his beloved creations would use their free will to choose their own path over a life of worship of the great and almighty Jehovah.”

  “With a little help from the man with the tail,” Poseidon added. “What about your ex-wife? What does Lilith have to say about all of this?”

  “Lilith is all for it. In fact, she’s pushing it hard. After I’m gone, she wants to revitalize this world with my original vision for Mankind. Peace, love, and brotherhood. She wants to do something big here. I’ve been letting Hell run on autopilot for a long time, and I think it’s better for everyone this way.”

  “I never really understood why you dropped out of the torment business. What happened?”

  Lucifer remembered that moment well. As time ticked off the clock with no end in sight, there were just too many damned people. His demons were working around the clock and there just weren’t enough personnel to go around. One morning Lucifer had went for an inspection and witnessed one of his henchmen talking to a large group of recent arrivals. “Think of the worst thing you’ve ever done. Now picture yourself, let’s see, covered with big nasty spiders while you were doing it. Okay, I have to go now and drive some iron spikes in a few ears. Keep thinking that until I get back.”

  From that moment on, he decided it was time to get out of the torture and torment business. It was time to retire.

  “It’s a long story,” Lucifer replied. “But the main thing is that I’m going back to the Garden with my new Eve and lead the life I was meant to lead. And I’m renaming some animals. Alpaca. What the hell kind of name is that?” He got up and headed back to the cabana.

  Poseidon watched him go. Tragedy, thy name is Lucifer, he thought. He drifted down the beach toward his place, feeling the warm sand between his toes.

  Chapter 4[4]

  From Absalom Jones’ Dream Journal

  Some dreamed of pretty girls, blonde hair, blue eyes, Becky Johnsons. Dimples and a hand gently touching your forearm.

  When I was a young man, I dreamt of ancient times. King Arthur, armored with his Sword from the Stone, stood by me in the crowded hallways of my school, gazing steadily at Jimmy Ashton, third grade bully extraordinaire. Sweat trickled from Jimmy’s head as Arthur gripped Excalibur, threatening to pull it from its sheath, fingers tensing, Jimmy fumbling in his cruddy jeans pockets, dropping extortion nickels, the fruits of his bigger-than-thou threats. Arthur’s hand on my shoulder.

  Championship seasons. The bottom of the ninth. A game-winning homer, holy cow that’s a winner! Swooning adulation and ticker tape parades.

  Spaceships and astronauts. Tang for breakfast and giant steps for mankind.

  Julius Caesar, conqueror, builder, bringer of civilizations joking with me, putting a laurel of ivy on my head, proclaiming me Emperor of Missouri.

  Charlemagne, giving me advice. A giant Dear Abby, tall, brooding, contemplative.

  Many a long night I fought giants of the Earth with Judas Maccabaeus. Lost creatures, forgotten by God, feared by men, who rose from the dark caves of the East, smelling of brimstone and bitterness. Joshua sometimes joined us, his horn at his belt, telling stories, some seemed true, some seemed far-fetched, Jericho, and how he was the one who parted the Red Sea, not that pompous Moses. David, the first in the line of mighty kings, argued with Godfrey of Bouillon about the nature of the Middle East, their voices rising and falling. I could hear them through the tent flaps, the desert silent, the moon a giant in its own right, a Cyclops of the sky, peering at me silently. Hector of Troy, sitting by himself, cursing Achilles, cursing Hera, cursing the darkness.

  When I was four, we moved from Indiana to the true Midwest of Missouri. I gazed out the back window of our Plymouth, watching home fall away by the mile. No more white picket fence or my special tree. Moving. Crying. Loss.

  Alexander the Great, the conqueror of lands from the Orient to Hercules Bounds, had spoken to me the night be
fore. A giant bonfire crackling and a million campfires dotting the fields. “When I was your age,” Alexander said, “I was afraid of everything. Snakes. Demons. Girls. Regardless…” He gave me that smile, the smile that he always gave me, a smile that appeared to be a billion miles wide. “I always moved forward. Tuesday’s gone. But tomorrow, tomorrow my boy, is another day.”

  Okay, my mom was reading me Gone with the Wind when I was in utero. As you can imagine, dreaming can be a quirky business. Hey, did you know that Margaret Mitchell actually based her Rhett Butler character on Clark Gable? My Dad told me that one time, but he was a giant bullshitter, so you might want to look it up to make sure.

  When I was a young man, I dreamt of ancient times and ancient men.

  Or did they dream of me?

  Chapter 5[5]

  He had too much to dream last night.

  Every night.

  No matter how difficult a day he had, Absalom Jones always had a hard day’s night. Eyes slipping shut was sweet peace for most, but another life to live for him.

  Tuesday night was a tough road. The world was a new one, verdant green sky peppered with slate clouds. Gnarled trees ringing a dusty, cobblestone street.

  Plus, as usual, there was danger in some form lurking just outside his range of vision.

  He felt the comforting press of bandoliers across his chest. Shotgun shells were still missing, having been used a couple of nights before in a bloody vampire shootout in an undefined location during the 1970s. Absalom tried to will more shells with no success. Sometimes if he thought hard enough, he could manipulate objects. In this dream, he was limited to his own wits.

  The weight of an unfamiliar Remington was reassuring, but many times guns were useless. Misfires were frequent and often bullets had no apparent effect on the enemy. You never knew when or where things would work and when things wouldn’t.

  He stopped when he heard noise to his left. His hearing seemed acute, so he hoped his eyes were sharp as well. Absalom slowly swiveled his head, noting his extreme wide-angle vision. He squinted and focused only to see fine lines spider-webbing across the faux stone of an ancient looking saloon.

  Earthquake.

  On cue, the ground shook lustily, bucking up and down. He could see the cobblestone street rising like a wave. Brick surf was up. It was time to run.

  Absalom turned and broke into an Olympic-style sprint, racing in the opposite direction of the approaching danger. The clickety-clack sound of the wave sounded like a baseball card in the spokes of a kid’s bicycle. It would overtake him quickly and wake him up. The wave caught him and sent him airborne, screaming into the green sky.

  Breathing heavily and trying to slow his jackhammering heart, he rolled over and reached for his wife, searching for Evangeline’s auburn mane, soft, swirling, gentle.

  His hands grabbed frosty air. The woman of his life was still dead and gone.

  Drenched in sweat, he drifted off again, to face another struggle.

  Chapter 6[6]

  Absalom sipped his morning cappuccino and scrawled a string of words into his dream journal. His elegant cursive was an odd counterpoint to the horrid tales that spilled onto the lines. The brick wave. Hiding from giant flying ferrets. A room piled high with the swollen, dead bodies of the waiters on the Poseidon Adventure. He knew Evangeline’s body was in there somewhere, but the more bodies he dug through, the more bodies that appeared, like sand falling back into a hole you dug.

  One of these days I’ll find her.

  He needed to get over to his bookstore, make a little money. Evangeline’s life insurance had long run out and the meager royalties from his non-blockbuster first novel barely paid the rent and covered a few six-packs of Corona with the occasional lime. His second novel, a festering mess of loose ends and internal inconsistencies, languished in multiple notebooks scattered throughout his hovel. His agent didn’t call anymore so the pressure was off for him to finish it.

  “Hey boss!” It was Fat Boy, his light-bulb shaped assistant, darting with remarkable nimbleness through the morning traffic. Pushing six-two and sporting the thickest mutton chop sideburns in Florida, he hopped between cars until he reached Absalom.

  “French vanilla?” he asked, snatching up Absalom’s cup and chugging it down his massive stovepipe throat.

  “Stop.” Absalom said. “That’s my urine sample. I think I have the clap.”

  Fat Boy nodded nonchalantly. “Taste like herpes to me.” He licked his lips lasciviously and tossed the empty cup onto the table. “That nasty old expensive book you got at a garage sale sold online last night. Looks like you cleared 500 bucks on that moth-eaten tome.”

  “Then consider yourself employed for another week,” Absalom grunted.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Fat Boy grinned, pirouetting like Baryshnikov and slapping the waiter on the ass before dashing back across the street, this time ignoring traffic, causing a few screeches with accompanying horn. Scorched rubber wafted through the morning air to Absalom, tickling a spot somewhere in his brain, and he made another note in his journal.

  “Another cappuccino, sir” the waiter asked.

  Absalom chewed his lower lip, completing another gory memory in his journal with a flourish. “Fuckin’ A, I guess,” he said, nodding. He picked up the Everyday section of the newspaper and flipped through to the comics.

  “So Hagar the Horrible, what’s happening on the Grand Viking Adventure today?” he said.

  Chapter 7[7]

  A dozen armor-clad men sat around the campfire, fighting boredom and each other.

  “Don’t eat that jerky, you jerk.”

  “Who are you calling a jerk?”

  “You, you jerk!”

  The Mongols starting wrestling on the ground, punching and kicking at each other. A warrior named Angara banged his fist against his brother Akha’s helmet and cut himself on one of the strips of metal covering it. He cursed and called on Tengri, the god of the sky, to strike Angara down where he stood. It was unlikely, however, since Tengri was tending bar in the City of the Beermeisters and was too busy trying to keep up with the Happy Hour rush.

  Mukali looked at them with disgusted understanding. They had been conquerors, fighting bloody battles, and performing the most efficient pillaging and plundering of their era. Yet here they were, reduced to quibbling amongst themselves for the last 700 years.

  When Mukali died and arrived at the Hub, he was positive that this was the lower world. The holy men had taught the Mongols that when they arrived, they were to wait for the call of Erleg Khan, the ruler of the lower world. The Great Khan would reincarnate the brave Mongol warriors back to their proper place on the steppes. Mukali had milled around with a host of others, laughing and talking, waiting patiently for the call.

  The call that never came.

  He looked up at the alien stars and remembered all those nights of sitting around the fire next to his tent, telling stories and drinking. He remembered his favorite pony. He pictured it eating the growing grass in the twilight after a hard day’s fighting. He remembered his wife.

  Mukali sighed. He sure missed his pony.

  “Hey, Genghis Kahn, the boss is looking for you.”

  Mukali slowly stood up. He hated the flunkies that worked for Lucifer. He had told them an infinite number of times that his leader’s name was really Chingis, not the bastardized variation he had heard a hundred times in this dismal place. Moronic demons.

  “Tell him I’ll be right over,” Mukali answered.

  The demon smiled with razor sharp teeth. “Don’t dawdle. He don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Mukali looked at his crew. The fight was over and now they were laughing and drinking what passed for an intoxicant here. It was a disgusting concoction called lite beer. He could piss in water and make it taste the same, but at least it was cold and you could get drunk on it. Eventually.

  Everything has been a lie. All my religion, all my beliefs, my whole life was a giant charade. I’m never goin
g back to the home of my ancestors.

  And now, to top off another dreary day, Lucifer is probably going to send me on another beer run.

  He touched his saber at his side, thinking of past glories, and trudged slowly to Lucifer’s cabana.

  Chapter 8[8]

  Noah was old. Very old. Very very old.

  “Pass me the bottle,” he said to Cush, his great-grandson. Or was it great-great grandson? Noah couldn’t remember anymore. Too much wine and too much mileage.

  “Here you are, Father Noah,” Cush said, interrupting his reverie. When the Patriarch didn’t respond, he waved the bottle directly in front of the old man.

  “What is it, young Shub?”

  “Cush, honored one. I am called Cush.”

  “I like Shub much better,” Noah smiled wryly. “One of the zebras on the ark was called Shub. A noble animal, that was. I used to ride him out on the poopdeck. Great footing and could turn on a shekel.” He nodded at the young man. “I think I’ll just call you Shub from now on, me being the Patriarch and all.”

  Cush nodded, grimacing inside. Shub. What a stupid name for a boy OR a zebra, whatever the hell that was. You might as well call me Moses or Aaron or something made-up like that.

  Noah eyed the youngster. The boy was bright and a bit of a smart-ass. Quick-witted and not prone to the plodding dull thoughts of a pragmatist, Shub was a prime example of the newest generations of people. “Life’s too short,” Shub had once said to him, “to give much thought to what you’re saying.”

  Before the Flood, people lived a very long time and tended to ponder things a little bit more, which made the lines at restaurants move exceeding slow. Many years had passed since the Deluge and life spans had shortened considerably. The Tribes had forgotten about the incredibly long lives that were once commonplace and now considered reaching sixty or seventy years as normal. Noah attributed his excessive years to clean living, which most people dismissed as the mumblings of a senile old man. That suited him just fine. Tucked underneath his bed was the key to Noah’s longevity and he didn’t want anyone poking around his stuff. I deserve to keep them all. I have seniority.