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- Chapter 9: Dionysos pleads his case and is sent back to Hell
- Chapter 8, section 10: Let’s make a deal
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CHAPTER 1, section 1: Dionysos
THE SCRAGGY-BEARDED FACE in the mirror leaned in, grimaced, yawned, and stuck out its tongue.
Pushing back into the couch, Dionysos shoved the stump of a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips and threw his feet up onto the dressing table. Some of the table’s contents went flying to join comrades on the floor. Others simply skittered aside cautiously. Examining himself from various angles, he announced, “Not bad for 45 centuries. Happy un-birthday old man,” and belched.
The glass of 25-year old Brora single-malt whiskey didn’t stand a chance. Its demise swished past his gullet and spread warmth throughout his body. He closed his eyes and let colors swarm over him like demented wasps.
Much better, yes. Soften the edges; blur the border between self and world. He especially liked the worlds that showed themselves after a solid swig of single malt. Ingenious creatures, those Scots.
Ever since he took up residence again in the more civilized (so-called) parts of the world back as the 20th Century sang its sordid swan song, he grew increasingly thankful that he had introduced fermentation to mankind. The two seemed to be getting along just fine. Oh, a little squabble here, a little prohibition there. Nothing unexpected from such inattentive students. He had done his part, giving detailed instruction on the proper way to crush, age and consume the grape. Some mortals were quite diligent, and surprisingly creative (the Scots coming to mind). Others, tho’…
Pounding on the dressing room door was followed by a muffled, “Hey Swamp Thing, you ready yet or what? We got a crowd to wow, and Your Highness is the only thing outta place.”
Dionysos roared.
The door swung open. On the other side stood a leather-clad ruffian munching on a pomegranate. He rolled his eyes when he saw Dionysos, “You ain’t even maked-up yet!”
“Welcome in, great Mixmaster Nakalos. Close the door and witness.”
Dionysos got up very slowly and gargled the last of the highland nectar. He swallowed deliberately and shook himself out like a dog after a swim. When he finished, the horns on his forehead, the lengthened incisors and the glowing red eyes made him look like a poorly disguised demon.
“Hey!” Nakalos sputtered around a mouthful of seeds, “How come I don’t get to do that?”
“Satyr dear, if you were to show up on the runway of this here fashion show wearing your natural cloven-hoofed goat legs, and your natural rancid goat odor, you may get a giggle or two but we’d never get a gig again.”
A hail of purplish seeds spat from the satyr’s mouth.
Dionysos grinned, “Next week we start a stadium tour. Big, world wide, lots of mortal butts in the seats. S’cool then—promise.”
Nakalos glowered, “Le’z go.”
On the way out, Dionysos grabbed another pomegranate from a bowl by the door and sank his teeth into the bloody fruit.