“But you must leave Pompeii,” I insisted. “The volcano will kill everyone.”
“I’ll light a candle to appease Vulcan, God of Fire, if that will make you happy,” replied Maria sarcastically. “I’m not leaving my home.”
“No, that will not make me happy. Let me give you a ride north.”
“What about my mama? It would be so wrong to abandon Mama and travel without a chaperone.”
“Your mother can come, too,” I promised desperately.
“She won’t leave Pompeii either. Mama has never left Pompeii.”
“Is she a slave, too?”
“Yes, of course. Mama cooks on day shift.”
“Good. I will buy you both and force you to come with me to Rome.”
“Ha! Good luck with that. Mama still won’t go. She’ll think you are a perv. Are you a perv?”
“What? No! I just want to save your life, and maybe date you later.”
“So you are a perv. I knew it!”
“I’m buying you from Joe in the morning. It’s a done deal. Get used to it. Pack you things, and be ready to go.”
“Perv!”
* * * * *
Maria still refused to leave without Mama, so I threw a bag over Maria, tied her up, and tossed her into the back of a pizza delivery wagon. Then I contacted Mama, a big pizza-loving woman, at her servants quarters. So that’s what Maria is going to look like years from now, I pondered.
“I purchased you and Maria,” I announced in my most authoritative patrician slave-master tone. “Pack your bags, you’re going to Rome.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” argued Mama, a pizza slice in hand. “Pizza Hut is my home. I would starve in Rome.”
“I’ll feed you.”
“You say that now.”
“Maria won’t leave without you, so you’re coming, whether you want to or not.”
“What are you, a perv?”
“Stop saying that! Why does everyone think I’m a perv just because I want to save your lives from the volcano?”
“You’re a cultist?” asked Mama, swallowing the last of her pizza and backing away. “I’m calling the cops!”
I kicked in the door as she tried to slam it shut. I attempted to throw a bag over Mama, but the bag was too small. She kicked and screamed, rousing the neighbors. “Help! He’s a perv!”
Mama charged, tackling and driving me back out into the street. Losing my balance, I fell as she pounded my face with her ham-hock fists. She tried to gouge out eyes with a fighting fingernail, but I blocked her jabs. Neighbors gathered to watch, taking bets. Fortunately, someone summoned the police. Urban cohorts separated us and rescued Maria from the wagon.
“I bought these two slaves,” I explained. “I was just teaching her some manners when you arrived.”
“He’s a perv!” accused Mama.
“There’s no law against being a perv,” advised the urban cohort, surveying Mama. Questioning my taste in companionship, he shrugged. “To each his own.”
“He’s also a doomsday cultist!”
That did it. Cohorts swarmed over me, administering a good old-fashioned Pompeii beat down, and placing me in chains. Damn cops! I was carted off to jail in my own delivery wagon.
“Listen to me!” I shouted, rattling chains bolted to the wall. “The volcano is going to erupt any day and bury all of Pompeii!”
“Shut up, boy!” ordered the cohort, laid back, his feet kicked up on the desk. Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco spit.
“Do you hear me?” I asked, avoiding that last spit. “You’re all going to die!”
“So, you admit you’re a doomsday cultist? Are you a Jesus-freak, too?”
“What? No! I admit nothing. I want a lawyer, and a phone call!”
“You’re lion bait, is what you are,” commented the cohort, examining my nine-millimeter pistol from a pile of artifacts taken when I was searched. He picked up the gun. “What is this?”
“It’s a Christian flute,” I answered. “Put the end of the barrel to your lips and pull the trigger. It makes beautiful music.”
I’ll be damn if he didn’t do it. Blew his brains out all over the desk. Oh well, shit happens. I grabbed the cohort’s keys, freed myself, and offered to release other prisoners. Most refused to go.
“Oh hell, no,” replied one wretched soul. “You cultists get fed to the lions. “I’m just in for disorderly conduct and drunk in public. I’ll never piss in a fountain again.”
“I’ll go!” pleaded another prisoner, isolated in a cell by himself. “I don’t believe your volcano prophesy, I just want to be free.”
“What are you in for?” I asked suspiciously, not wanting to let a serial killer or whatever loose on society.
“I lit a candle in silent protest at a public calcification.”
“You’re a liberal Democrat?”
“Yes.”
“No way, José. You’re staying.”
Chapter 27
After surviving a vicious assassination plot, Emperor Julius Caesar invited me to join him in his luxury box as the Coliseum. The main event would be Brutus and several Democrat Senators being fed to the lions. Also, there would be the usual Christians on the menu.
I felt some trepidation about attending the games. I suppose Brutus and the Democrats had it coming. But the Christians? I don’t know. I suppose they were stupid for defying Rome, but it’s wrong to kill people just because they’re stupid. Romans believe there are too many stupid people in the world, and that herd should be culled and thinned out. They have a point, in that I sometimes look at people and think, Really? That’s the sperm that won? But I’m against labeling people. I believe in removing labels and letting the problem of stupid people sort itself out on its own, without government intervention.
“Do you have Mormons in America?” asked Caesar. “Rome has become infested with them.”
“Yes,” I answered. “But we keep most of them contained in Utah.”
“What do you know about Mormons?”
“Most are hard-working good Christians. Many raise big families.”
“Troublemakers, eh? I thought so. I’m feeding the lot to the lions, along with Brutus. That will teach them to go door to door, bothering people.”
To ease my conscience, I visited Brutus in his dungeon, to wish him luck at the games and in the afterlife. Brutus was a nervous wreck. His cell was right next to the lion cage, and the lions kept reaching through the bars, taking swipes at him. It didn’t help that the Romans placed a waiver of liability sign above all cages stating, ‘This lion appears closer than it is.’ The man literally pissed himself with each swipe. Taking pity on the condemned, I passed Brutus a small baggie of marijuana.
“Smoke this,” I offered. “It will calm you before the Grim Reaper takes you.”
“It’s the lions that need calming!” exclaimed Brutus. “They’re going to eat me!”
“Blow smoke at the lions through the bars,” I suggested, trying to be helpful. “Maybe those bad boys will mellow out.”
“That’s a good idea,” replied Brutus after taking his first drag, blowing smoke at the King of Beasts. The lion didn’t seem to mind.
“Or, maybe the weed will just give the lions the munchies.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Good luck in the arena, I’ll be cheering for you. I bet five gold aurei you die last.”
* * * * *
Romans really know how to put on a good show. The matinee was hilarious. Elephants chased Dodo birds wildly around the arena, stomping the little feathered munchkins flat. The crowd cheered their approval with each splat, throwing coins to the trainers.
Next came the main event. Brutus and his conspirators huddled chained in the middle of the Coliseum. They didn’t have long to wait. The lions entered on a platform raised from an underground labyrinth of hidden tunnels and chambers. However, the biggest lion appeared to be a bit wobbly, eyes bloodshot and stoned out of his mind. His girlfriends wer
en’t much better. The crowd booed, throwing rotten fruit and vegetables.
“What the hell is wrong with my lions?” fumed Caesar. “Heads will roll over this debacle!”
“Does this mean Brutus is pardoned?” I asked uncomfortably.
“Fat chance of that!” he said, extending his fist to the crowd, thumb down. “Run them over with elephants, and make it quick!”
The elephant trainers prodded their charges back into the arena, squashing all the conspirators. Brutus stood his ground, defiant to the end, the last Democrat killed. Ka-ching, I won my bet!
The Praetorian Guard rousted a few Christians to round out the card. The mob cheered as replacement lions sauntered in. All was right again in Imperial Rome. Advertisements already were going up about feeding pushy Mormons to the lions next week.
Following the show, I joined Caesar for an orgy. Roman orgies start with a feast. We sat at the head of a long table, eating pork and horse meat, drinking wine, and talking politics.
“I want to talk to the most powerful man in America,” demanded Caesar. “You will provide me with an introduction.”
“You want to meet Bill Gates?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes, as soon as possible. I want all of Imperial Rome connected to the Internet as soon as possible.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You still owe me for the loss of my ships. Make it happen, or else. With your help, I am going to rewrite history.”
“Good luck with that.”
“By the way, I got an interesting scroll from Cleo.”
“Cleo?”
“Queen Cleopatra. She says she knows you.”
“I get around,” I confessed nervously. “We Americans are part Phoenician. I was born in Arizona.”
“Cleo thinks you are a time traveler. That would explain a lot. She thinks you are the key to conquering the world. What do you think of that?”
“What part of the world?” I asked, stalling.
“All of it. She suspects you have access to lots more Beretta guns. Is that true? She thinks all Americans carry guns.”
“The right to keep and bear arms is guaranteed to all in the Second Amendment of the Constitution,” I advised.
“Even plebeians and slaves?”
“To all citizens,” I corrected. “America has no slaves.”
“Are you nuts? I cannot even imagine the chaos that must cause in your cities.”
“Gun ownership prevents abuse from tyrants,” I explained patiently. “Tyrants. You know, people like you. Americans don’t like dictators. We value freedom. That’s why Brutus tried to kill you, don’t you think?”
“The Senators are still upset I crossed the Rubicon,” sighed Caesar. “But, it’s all a bunch of bullshit. I need more Berettas.”
“I have no more.”
“You gave Cloe a nine-millimeter, and a lot of batteries.”
“I didn’t give Cleo anything. She stole my gun. That won’t happen again.”
“That’s ballsy talk, Joey. Remember who you’re talking to. I’m your best friend in Rome, your God, and your Emperor. If you are packing heat, hand it over.”
I reluctantly gave Caesar my concealed nine-millimeter. Our barbarian slave dates, Olga and Anna, joined us, seductively finger-feeding us grapes and pouring more wine. I was absolutely stuffed. Servants passed around empty bowls. “What’s this for?” I asked, getting quite drunk. “Dessert?”
Caesar didn’t bother to answer, vomiting into his bowl. Others followed suit. Being a sympathetic vomiter, I retched uncontrollably. Puke splashed out of my bowl onto Olga. Servants quickly cleaned the mess, and we began the process of eating and drinking again. Holy shit! For Romans, the words ‘drink responsibly’ only means don’t spill your wine. Olga poured more wine down my gullet. The hairy German girl was beginning to look good, but I was filling ill.
“I think I’m going to pass out.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Caesar, slapping me on the back. “You can’t sleep now; we’ve only just begun this orgy. What are you, a pussy? Sleep is like being dead, except with less commitment. It’s early!”
“Are these girls safe?” I asked, apprehensive that ancient Romans might not be fully aware of precautions against sexually transmitted diseases.
“Don’t worry,” answered Caesar knowingly. “I brought as many sheep intestine condoms as you will need, so freshly gutted, they’re still warm. Trust me, they’re safe. I always tell the truth, even when I lie.”
“I feel better.”
“Sex with barbarian girls is hot,” bragged Caesar. “At the end of the day, it’s what makes conquering the world worthwhile.”
“No more food!” I complained, pushing grapes away. “I just want to get laid before I pass out and die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Joey is from America,” explained Caesar to the girls. “Americans are always in a hurry, something about freeways and faster modems.”
Everyone nodded knowingly.
* * * * *
Bill Gates would not come to Ancient Rome. No surprise there. Instead, Julius Caesar was transported to the Belly of the Beast, the Microsoft campus at Issaquah, Washington.
“This is Julius Caesar?” asked Bill Gates, sizing up his guest. “WTF, he don’t look so special.”
“How is it that a little wimp like you is the most powerful man in America?” asked Caesar, trying not to show his surprise at the fabulous surroundings. “I’ve fornicated with bigger women than you.”
“I have a clear vision for the future of the world,” replied Gates, shaking hands macho Roman style. “You are not in that future.”
“You threaten me?”
“I will delete you faster than junk mail for a healthy prostate.”
“This is business,” I interrupted, stepping between them. “Can’t we all just get along?”
“No!” they chorused.
“There’s only room enough for one man to rule the world,” bristled Gates. “You’re looking at him.”
“I am both man and God,” boasted Caesar. “I care not of your mortal trivialities. I want my empire wired to the Internet. What will it cost to make it happen?”
“No can do,” argued Gates. “Computer simulations strongly indicate that if Rome is wired to the Internet, your legions will become addicted to video games, allowing Attila the Hun to slip past and sack Rome. I cannot in good conscience risk changing history so dramatically.”
“I’ll pay in gold.”
“You have a deal,” agreed Gates, shaking hands again, now best of friends.
“We will celebrate with an orgy!”
“I don’t think so. Melinda would be pissed.”
“Fine. Before I go back, I want to at least tour America. I want to see the Grand Canyon, purple mountains’ majesty, Lakers at the Forum, and Trojans at the Coliseum. I will go to Vegas, baby!”
* * * * *
Julius Caesar celebrated with a night on the town in Las Vegas. Assured by me that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, he prepared for the orgy of all orgies. I tagged along as the Emperor’s wingman. Immediately attracted to Caesar’s Palace Hotel Casino, Caesar was met at the entrance by a greeter dressed as a Roman centurion.
“What are you doing here so early?” asked the greeter, checking his watch. “I’m not due to be relieved for hours.”
“You’re armor is a disgrace,” admonished Caesar. “Polish your breastplate immediately. You look like one of those tardy Trojans.”
“You’re one funny dude,” replied the greeter nervously, not wanting to risk losing his job and going back to Walmart. “Speaking of Trojans, OJ was on the casino floor playing blackjack.”
“OJ Simpson?” I asked, hoping for an autograph. “Is he still here?”
“Take me to this Trojan who dares to enter Caesar’s Palace,” ordered Caesar, drawing his sword as he scanned the crowd of tourists.
“Take a hike, pal. I’m still on duty.”
Caesar brushed past t
he greeter to the blackjack tables, easily finding OJ at a high-stakes table, surrounded by fans. Caesar tapped the big Trojan on the shoulder with the tip of his blade. “OJ! I wish to talk to you!”
“Holy shit, can’t you people leave me alone?”
“No offense, but you appear to be more Nubian than Trojan,” advised Caesar, upon closer examination. “It’s a good thing, too, because I kill Trojans on sight.”
“Man, you white people get more weird every day,” replied OJ, shaking his head. “Did the Promotions Department put you up to this?”
“I am Julius Caesar, in town on my own initiative for the orgy. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, too.”
“Are you a Trojan, or not?”
“Those days are way behind me now,” sighed OJ, turning to a friend. “Man, this cracker is nuttier than a squirrel turd.”
“Actors, they’re all drama queens. Just play along.”
“Yeah, you got that right. Okay, it’s show time. Let’s do this. Caesar, do you play cards?”
“I’ve been known to partake in some camp gambling with my men,” answered Caesar, not wanting to appear too enthusiastic. “Remember, gamble responsibly.”
“Yeah, right. Have a seat.”
Caesar casually tossed a pouch of Roman gold coins onto the table. The dealer looked back to the pit boss for instructions. The pit boss shrugged, assuming this was all a public relations stunt about which Corporate had once again neglected to inform him. After examining the coins, he authorized credit for twenty thousand dollars in chips.
Caesar bet five dollars on the first hand. He lost, but the count was good, all low cards. The next hand, he went all in. That got the pit boss’s attention. Phones rang, cameras zoomed, security was alerted. The dealer dealt Caesar a blackjack! He threw his cards down on the felt.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaimed, going back to the minimum bet.
“Sir, do you have a Player’s Card?” asked the pit boss, realizing he’d been had.
“No.”
“May I see some ID?”
“Shut up, fool. I can’t track the cards with you constantly jabbering in my ear.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine Page 13
