That was another difference between Chris and us. Thor and I kept
whatever we earned and used it for our own pleasures. At the moment,
we’d gone
cross-cultural, him chasing Nymphs when he wasn’t trying to pick
up Hebe and me working my way through the roster of Valkyries. Chris
distributed his income as alms among his needy fellows. If he hadn’t,
they’d have been a ragged band of beggars. Their sense of sin kept
them out of most resort jobs.
“You god-stealing, fat, ugly, cheap, over-the-hill, outdated slut goddess, get away from my Ares.”
I turned as Aphrodite announced her presence. She shrugged off her fur coat, a gift from Loki when she’d cheated on Ares a few centuries ago, and stood in her long, tight gown like the infuriated, jilted escort she was. Astarte spun off the stool. They closed, their fingers curled into claws as they raked at flesh, tore clothes, and pulled hair. Patrons jumped out of the way and cheered.
“Shouldn’t somebody stop them?” Chris asked.
“Not without my thunderbolts,” Thor told him.
“It took a golden net to catch the pretty one,” I explained. “I wouldn’t mess with the fat goddess if I had Poseidon’s trident.”
Ares remembered he was once the god of war, jumped off his stool, used his strength to separate the two brawling goddesses, and said, “Ladies, please abide by the rules of the Geneva Convention.”
Aphrodite reached in her gown and took out a cast-iron skillet. She rapped Ares alongside the head, knocking him cold. The patrons cheered loudly.
“Dionysus won’t like this mess,” lisped Ganymede.
“I don’t like Dionysus,” Astarte said. “He didn’t
cast me in the last
community theater production.”
Dionysus was at rehearsal. When he came in, he’d blame Ganymede for the wreckage.
“Dionysus knows a cow isn’t beautiful,” Aphrodite told her rival.
Astarte screamed angrily and lunged at Aphrodite. The skillet thudded against another head and the Semitic goddess joined her stolen lover on the barroom floor.
Aphrodite looked around and said, “Take me home, Hephaestus.”
“Not while you’re carrying Hera’s skillet.”
“If it keeps Zeus from chasing Europa and his other bimbos, I figured it would teach my god not to mess with the greatest bimbo in deific history.”
I didn’t want to take her home–neither her place nor mine.
Aphrodite couldn’t understand that. Never mind that she’d
taken up with Ares when she was my mate because, as she put it, beauty
belongs with glorious war instead of dirty labor. Her nature was vanity.
How could I not
want her favors?
“Get out,” said the Valkyrie I’d pinched earlier.
Aphrodite raised the skillet. The Valkyrie picked up a barstool. Just as she had at Troy, Aphrodite fled. The Valkyrie hugged me.
“Stay put,” she said. “Have more mead. I like my gods mellow on the nectar of the Norse.”
She’d bruised my ribs with the hug. I hoped she didn’t break a couple of my bones when she turned passionate.
Chris’ cell phone beeped. He answered it.
“Right away,” he said.
He clipped the phone back on his shorts, drained his tankard, stood,
and said, “It must have been a great rehearsal tonight. That was
Mama Ceres. Dionysus sent out for pizza. I have to deliver it.”
“Do us a favor,” Thor said loudly.
“What?”
“Don’t tell Dionysus his joint got wrecked. I want to see
his face
when he walks in here.”
The various gods and demigods boozing out the nor’easter laughed
raucously. If we were lucky, Dionysus would return in time to see Ares
and Astarte lying on the dirty floor. None of us would summon Asclepius
to patch them up. Loki could write yet another editorial saying it proved
corruption in the resort, forcing Zeus to thunder out a defense of his
baby boy Ares, weak excuses which Hermes would present as the truth.
That would get Osiris more votes.
Chris left. The Valkyrie brought Thor and me more mead and stood still
until I pinched her. That got me a kiss that momentarily sucked the
air from my lungs. She left and I looked up to see Hebe flirting with
Thor and Priapus joining the slumming Oreads. It was a typical night
in the resort of the outdated gods.
