Ares slammed the table again, but Ogbunabali caught his mug before it could spill.
“You don’t let them go. This isn’t catch and release.”
“You haven’t heard the story.”
“Fine. Tell it to me. But let me get another drink first.”
Ares ordered three tequila shots and downed them one after the other before allowing Ogbunabali to continue.
“It was a couple of weeks ago,” said the death god. “I was on referral. Picked up some contract work from Fury Central. They’re always short staffed. I get this order that this young mortal, twenty-five years old, has transgressed and now needs to be punished. Nothing new. I’ve done it thousands of times, track down some poor idiot who dared break some sacred law, kill him as an example. Standard procedure.
“Usually, they don’t tell me why, and I don’t ask. Nature of contract work. But this time, I don’t dispatch the mortal as soon as I find him. I stick around and watch him for a while. I don’t know why. Call it morbid curiosity.”
“Bad move,” said Ares. “You can’t get too close to these mortals. I’ve seen enough promising young warriors die ignobly on the battlefield to know that.”
He frowned as the faces of countless nameless mortals flashed through his memory. He remembered them all, even if he didn’t think of them often. Even a god of war could find the recollection frightening in its sheer volume. He countered the memory by distracting himself by humming along with The March of the Gladiators blaring out of the sound system speakers. The tune wasn’t nearly as terrifying since the circus had taken it for its own, but it still warmed Ares’s blood.
Ogbunabali sat quietly while Ares struggled to focus again.
“Ah, yes.” Ares cleared his throat. “Got a bit distracted there. You were saying something about following this marked mortal around. Please, continue.”
“So I’m following him, and I know there’s something wrong because he has the stain of offense upon him. But it’s not right. There’s something off about it. It was like he was marked, but he wasn’t acting like it. Transgressors almost always manifest some sign of guilt, some gnawing subconscious pressure that they’ve done something horrible. They might wash their hands excessively or become hermits or quickly become exhausted from sleep plagued with nightmares.
“It’s not universal. Some mortals are just so amoral that they just don’t feel anything about it, but those types don’t usually end up on my radar. And when I run into them . . .” --Ogbunabali shivered.-- “ . . . there are mortals even gods should fear.
“But while I sense regrets in this kid, and while he isn’t without sins, I don’t end up sensing any cosmic-level wrongdoing on his part.
“It’s difficult to explain, but it comes down to this mortal is just not giving off the right vibes. So I call Fury Central, and I ask what his crime is. They don’t want to tell me at first, but I keep pressing until I get a supervisor who passes me to another supervisor who passes me to another until I finally find someone who knows and who is willing to tell me. Turned out the mortal was in a car accident. Ended up putting the guy in the other car in the hospital. But here’s the catch. The other guy in this incident just happens to be a demigod, and while his injuries aren’t life threatening, his divine parent takes offense and has enough pull with Fury Central to contract a hit.”
“Well, if he dared hit a demigod, it seems an open and shut case,” said Ares. “I can see feeling bad for the poor sod, but he wouldn’t be the first mortal to earn the wrath of the heavens by simply making a wrong turn.”
“That’s what I thought first, but it still isn’t sitting right. So I do some research, check the accident reports, interview a few witnesses.”
“A bit out of step with your usual obligations, isn’t it, Og?”
“I know, but I couldn’t stop myself. I look into it, all the while making excuses to Fury Central that I’m only waiting for the right time to strike. For maximum ironic effect, I tell them. And the more I find out, the less I like. The demigod in question was driving drunk. Ran a red light. And while he got the worst of it, my mark didn’t come out unscathed. He ended up breaking his leg in a couple of places, and he’s stuck with a limp, even after recovery. Meanwhile, the demigod gets a miraculous recovery, via mom or dad’s connections, and is barely inconvenienced by it in the end. Everyone agreed that the mark wasn’t at fault, and that it was a miracle in itself that he wasn’t killed.”
“Hardly a miracle,” said Ares. “Just a bit of luck.”
Ogbunabali laughed. “Exactly. All things considered, he’s lucky enough to not die, and now, I’m supposed to kill him.”
“I find it hard to believe you haven’t killed mostly innocent mortals before.”
“I have. Not every mark is guilty of slaughtering their children and serving them in a stew. The man who killed the last Mauritian flying fox had committed no great sin, but it was still my job to see him punished for the offense, so I did.
“But this case was just too petty. Worse, it was wrong. I didn’t end up laying a finger on him.”
“But won’t they send someone else?”
“Do you think they’re that organized? I call in and report justice has been delivered, the kid’s name is crossed off their score sheet, tossed in a dead file somewhere. End of story.”
“Surely, there must be some manner of confirmation process.”
“Volume is high. The odds are slim that anyone will do any checking. I’m keeping an eye on the situation, just in case.”
“So you’ve appointed yourself this young mortal’s protector then? What tribute does he offer you in return that can be worth the risk?”
“None. He doesn’t even know I’m around, and I intend to keep it that way.”
Ares scratched the stubble on his chin. “Sounds a bit odd to me, Og.”
“I am a god of death, and I don’t imagine many mortals would take much comfort having me watching over them, and if I told him, I’d have to explain everything. That wouldn’t be very comforting either. It’s better this way.”
“It’s your call,” said Ares, “but I can’t say I understand what you get out of it.”
“I don’t really get anything out of it,” replied Ogbunabali. “That’s what makes it worth doing. You should try it sometime, Ares. If only for a chance to see new horizons.”
Ares chuckled. “I think not. I prefer my horizons exactly where they are.”
The gods enjoyed the rest of their meal without discussing anything more troubling than the weather. Afterward, they settled the check and made plans to meet up sometime next decade. The god of death transformed into a flock of bats and flew from the restaurant and into the night.
Ares, nursing a scotch and soda, sat in the booth. When closing time came around, he walked aimlessly through the city streets, lost in his thoughts, until happening upon a fender bender that drew his attention.
What would’ve been a simple act of exchanging insurance information became more violent as one of the drivers, a hulking brute already teeming with aggression, responded poorly to Ares’s presence. The brute grabbed the shorter, meeker man by the collar and shouted at him.
The god of war didn’t normally notice these events, any more than the gods of rain might notice the clouds that trailed alongside them. But this time, Ares did notice, and he would’ve happily watched the stronger man smack the weaker fellow around, as was the rightful way of this world as far as the god of war was concerned. He decided to switch things up for once.
Ares filled the meek mortal with the tiniest portion of righteous strength, and with one mighty strike, the brute was laid low. The winner stared at his hands, amazed at what forces had seized him, even more amazed at what he’d managed to do. Then, to Ares’s surprise, the mortal helped the larger man up and apologized. What would’ve surely cooled Ares’s blood with disgust, he now found intriguing. There was none of the conqueror spirit in this weak mortal, and he was hardly worthy of what Ares had
to offer.
And yet . . .
Perhaps, mused Ares, he had limited himself by sticking with only the more belligerent of these creatures. Perhaps there was something to be said for helping the little guy for no other reason than to see how it might play out.
The drivers exchanged information, and got back into their cars. The meek mortal noticed Ares watching him. Ares waved, and the mortal waved back.
Ares put on his helmet and pondered eternity. Even for a god, it was a long time, and there might be something to be said for expanding one’s horizons, after all.
“I’ll be seeing you around, friend,” he said to the Hyundai’s driver.
The god of war transformed into a red stag and bound away into the sky.
###
PIZZA MADNESS
Chasing the Moon
My original ode to H.P. Lovecraft was a tough nut to crack, if I can be honest. Chasing the Moon drove me a little bit crazy. In the end, I was very happy with the way it turned out, and when I think about it now, if it hadn’t been so difficult, I’m not sure it would’ve been the cosmic horror story it ultimately became. This short story, an homage to Poe with Lovecraftian influences, was easier. Maybe I sacrificed enough of my sanity to the original novel to make it so.
My ending began at Pizza Madness.
“I’m here about the delivery driver job,” I said.
“Do you have a car?” asked Mr. Han.
I nodded.
He dropped a stack of pizzas before me, along with a slip of order forms. “Deliver these.”
This was how my doom started. There was no warning, no crack of thunder. There were only pizzas to deliver and minimum wage plus tips. So it went that I delivered those pizzas and collected my earnings. I would go home, and my girlfriend would complain about the stench of grease and cheese. I would shower to appease her. It worked, but after a few weeks, I could still smell it. It oozed from my pores, and even if no one else acted like they could detect the odor, I knew they could. Even if they couldn’t.
My girlfriend, I can’t remember her name anymore (though I think it started with an A) sat farther on the couch from me. She laughed less. She couldn’t wait to jump in the shower after sex. After a while, I could smell the pizza on her.
How terribly it reeked. How awful that horrid perfume of peperoni and kalamata olives.
“You should get a new job,” she’d said once.
I nodded as if I agreed, but what she couldn’t understand was that I’d been marked by the pizza in a way that could never be undone. I’d spent too many hours serving the pizza to ever escape it. I wasn’t a delivery driver. I was its chauffeur. People didn’t call for me. They called for the pizza, and when I brought it, they were never eager to see me. It was the pizza they desired, and I was merely a beast of burden to be smiled at, to be given a few extra bucks for my service. Even this was only to ensure that I had a car and enough gas to keep doing this.
Pizza Madness held me in its clutches. Escape was impossible.
My girlfriend broke up with me sometime after that. Time became meaningless to me. There were only the days when I delivered pizzas and the days when I didn’t, when I sat in my apartment, stared blankly at a television, and thought about the deliveries I would have to make soon.
I think harsh words were exchanged in the breakup. I think she said ugly things in an effort to stir my passions, and I would have loved her for that if I could’ve. As we shared one last hug, I smelled the dough in her hair and the sausage wafting from her neck, and I realized if she didn’t leave now, the pizza would claim her forever too. So I did my last sensible act and released her, hoping it wasn’t too late. As she walked into the night, crying, I thought I should feel something. But my soul was clogged with cheese and marinara sauce, and if there had been something between us, it was buried so deep that I’d never find it again.
Once she was gone, I had more time to devote to the pizza, and I was happy for a while. Pizza Madness needed me in a way that no one else could. Pizza Madness would always be there for me so long as I had a car and knew my way around the city. I drove its streets with unhindered purpose, and sometimes, through the windshield, I would see strange creatures and a sky alive with a thousand, thousand pitiless eyes staring down at the city.
None of them saw me. I was too small to be seen. I was an insignificant thing, but I had the pizza. It was enough. It had to be. It was all I could ever have.
I started picking up more shifts. Mr. Han was happy to give them to me. He didn’t ask why. Mr. Han served the pizza too. He knew why.
My last dinner with my family was a holiday of some sort. I can’t remember which, though I think it started with a T.
I think they asked about my life. I mumbled my replies, and all the while, I thought about how empty their expressions of concerns were. They didn’t care. They’d never cared. My sister (her name started with an R, I believe) gave me one last hug. It was a tentative frightened embrace, no doubt repelled by the aura of cheese I carried with me at all times.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she said.
“Uh huh.”
I don’t think I ever saw her again after that. Although once, while on a delivery, someone who looked like her tried talking to me. I simply ignored her.
People stopped calling me for which I was grateful.
I was content. Not happy. Happiness was a lie reserved for other people, but as long as I had the pizza (or more honestly, as long as it had me), I could live, knowing my purpose in a way that few men did.
Then I saw him.
The Old Man.
I’d never seen another delivery boy at Pizza Madness. I assumed Mr. Han had others for those days I didn’t work, but now, I always worked. There was no need for another. I had dedicated my life to serve, and I asked for nothing in return save the knowledge that the pizza needed me.
But on that day, I realized that this was untrue. I could always be replaced. I was nothing. I was a mote of dust riding the city streets with no purpose, no reason for being. This was made clear by the Old Man. He walked out of Pizza Madness carrying a box, and a consuming weakness staggered me. He might have been a customer, but Pizza Madness never had walk-ins. He wore the official red and yellow jacket that I wore. By the time I recovered my senses, he had climbed into his own car and driven away.
I confronted Mr. Han. “Who was that?”
“Delivery boy,” he said.
“I’m the delivery boy,” I replied.
Mr. Han, his hands kneading dough, shrugged. “He’s the special delivery boy. He handles special deliveries.”
“I can handle special deliveries,” I said.
He shook his head. “You don’t want that job.”
He was right. I didn’t want it.
But I needed it.
Mr. Han dropped my latest stack of sacred deliveries on the counter. “Get to work.”
I performed my duty as always, and I was convinced if I showed Mr. Han my true devotion, he would get rid of the Old Man (I think his name started with a B or C) and give me all the deliveries.
He didn’t.
Every day, I’d ask. Every day, he’d shake his head.
“You don’t want that job.”
More and more, I’d see the Old Man. We’d pass each other on our duties, but we were never in the shop at the same time. Always he carried one pizza. Always, he would mock me. My pizzas were ordinary things, but he had the special deliveries. Wasn’t I worthy? Hadn’t I given everything I had? What more could it ask of me?
I knew the answer, but it was only while eating my nightly dinner of pepperoni and cheese that I accepted it.
So one day, I shirked my sacred duty. I walked out with a handful of pizzas that sat in my passenger seat, getting cold. They whispered their dark desires to me, but I ignored them as I waited.
Waited for the Old Man.
How long I waited, I couldn’t say. My deliveries grew angrier with each passing moment, but the rage o
f the bubbling cheeses faded as it cooled. It was empowering to realize that while the pizza was greater than I could ever be, I still had some power over it.
The Old Man appeared eventually. The shop had closed, but I knew this was only a trick. I waited, and as I grew hungrier, I contemplated eating one of my deliveries. It was a terrible thought, an abandonment of everything I believed. I didn’t do more than think about it, but even then, I wondered if my sins had already damned me, despite my months (years? decades?) of service.
The darkened door to the shop opened, and the Old Man stepped out, carrying his special delivery. He drove away, and he must have surely seen me following him. But the delivery was everything, and I respected his dedication, pale as it was next to my own.
He came to a stop in front of an old apartment building, and while he crossed the street, I plowed into him. He only stood there as my headlights bore down on him, and though I saw his face for only a moment, I thought he was smiling before he bounced off my hood, smashing his head into the windshield glass. His body rolled to a stop.
I hadn’t thought about witnesses, but there were none. The street was empty, as unlikely as it might seem, and as I scrambled to check on him, I was sure to grab my tire iron. The Old Man lay in a broken, twisted heap. Somehow, he’d managed to keep hold of his delivery. I grabbed the battered box, but he refused to release it.
“Let go!” I screamed. “Let go!”
He looked up into my eyes. His face was covered in blood and bruises. He spoke, barely understandable with his broken jaw and blood-filled throat.
“You don’t want it.”
I could see that he was every bit as dedicated to this task as I was, but in the end, I couldn’t allow him to live. I offered him as my sacrifice to the pizza, the second greatest offering I could grant. I can’t remember doing it. I can only remember the red-soaked tire iron, and how, even dead, he refused to release the box until I broke his fingers. His dying grip was pressed into the cardboard.
I realized a thousand witnesses had seen my act. They stared down from the sky, and for the first time, they saw me. For the first time, I was important enough to be seen. I cackled with delight, clutching the box to my chest, jumping into my car and driving home without delay. The special delivery wanted to be opened, but I waited until we were safe in my apartment before doing so. Anything else would’ve been profane.
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