Chapter 8, section 6: too fucking much

It was well into the next day, and he began to feel the effects of overabundance. Suspicions about the situation had turned into full-blown terrors about the nature of the error he might have made in letting things unfold rather than second-guessing them as he normally would. If this wasn’t his long-lost sister getting payback, then who was it and what were they after? His mind raced even as the African woman handed him off to a spark plug Latin American mulatta. Had he gotten sloppy and let his true identity out of the bag around some human enemy? Probably not, and even if so—and it was highly unlikely that any mortal enemy would believe something so outrageous—mortals were generally only after material gain. He had no fear of losing anything material, so that was nothing he would worry himself over. The thought that ate at him while he sampled delicious human enjoyments was the possibility that his captor was a deity from another pantheon. The Olympians had not been the only group to face the loss of worshippers through history. In fact, whole successions of civilizations had marched across the ancient world. Most of these predated the rise of Greek culture, and almost all had faded without a trace and been long forgotten. All records of their existence and all references to them were destroyed by time and its agents. If any references remained, they were made unintelligible or unbelievable by lack of evidence. Each of these civilizations included personifications of universal forces, and as long as there were universal forces, their personifications would persist. So he could be facing one of the really ancient ones.

These women’s mastery of their vital energies gave that thought weight, and it terrified him. It distracted him enough so that he almost resisted the charms of the mulatta. When he realized that she wasn’t only a woman, he snapped back to the evidence of his senses with a jolt. A suspended moment of skipped heartbeat, then he burst out laughing at the huntress’ subtlety. For another indeterminate eternity, he enjoyed this hermaphrodite, content that he had been correct in his assessment of the situation. This was indeed a family affair, and as such he would gorge himself when offered a feast and ask the cook about the recipe later.

The next few courses tasted quite delicious, and he let himself savor the flavors, until one tasted somewhat familiar. When she was joined by two others, he laughed and cracked a very bad girl-next-door joke. The three held him down and slapped him in triplicate. They then proceeded with an accelerated program of chi-depletion therapy.

By the time the three of them were finished, he had no idea what quarter of the day it was or how long he had been incarcerated. In fact, for the first time in his memory succulent mortal flesh was uninteresting. Tolerable, but not interesting. He was also not in control of either his senses or his muscles. Not the first time for that state, but the precipitating events were certainly unique in his experience. He was relieved when they did not ask him to change the bed sheets, although one of them could very well do it in his absence.

He barely made it into the shower under his own steam. As he stood gratefully under the water, the walls seemed to bend and warp, pulling themselves towards him and away again. When he pushed himself out of the bathroom, the three Amazons-next-door stood laughing with Lizereli. The seriously rumpled clothes he had worn to la Terrasse Magnetique—however long ago that was—lay in a casual heap on the even more seriously rumpled bed. The women stopped talking and stared as he weaved over to the bed and dressed himself unsteadily. He hoped that the set of assumptions he had built up about the situation were right, or he would feel mighty foolish. It was possible that it was some unknown deity or mortal enemy, but if so it was too late to do anything. It was too late in any case. The chocoholic had been fed not one, but three whole cases too many of chocolate, and he had lost control of his senses. The rest was irrelevant.

The three neighbor-warriors passed through the door and picked up the same type of high-tech weapons that he had seen on his way into this worn-down wearing-down chamber. Lizereli, again in battle gear, flipped one out from behind her back and lowered it at him casually.

He raised his arms and said, “Aww, just when life was starting to get good.”

She smiled at him indulgently, “Protocol. It’s time for you to pay a little visit to Sergeant Hunter.”

“Sergeant… yah, I get it. I’m the prey, right?”

She cocked her head and one of the other women snorted laughter. “Well,” Lizereli said slowly, “If you’re a hunter who plays with your food before the kill, then I suppose you’re right.”

“So what’s your sergeant want?”

Lizereli shook her head, “My orders are to fuck you until you can’t walk straight, then bring you in. She said it would take a while, but I admit I’m impressed with your stamina. I seriously doubt you can go anywhere without running into something now, so we’re off to see the sergeant.”

Hermes whistled, “The wonderful Sergeant of Oz.”

“Git.” She shoved the business end of her weapon at him.