Trouble in the Multiverse

By Ashwyn Firedrake

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462841134

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Trouble in the

Multiverse

Ashwyn Firedrake

Copyright © 2010 by Ashwyn Firedrake.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PRAISE TO THE GODS

PRELUDE

CHAPTER ONE

BACKGROUND

CHAPTER TWO

THE SCIENTISTS

CHAPTER THREE

LEAVING FOR EARTH

CHAPTER FOUR

DEATH OF SAMUEL TORRANCE

CHAPTER FIVE

TORRANCE GOES TO THE UNDERWORLD

CHAPTER SIX

LIFE AND DEATH OF MOONEY SPARKS

CHAPTER SEVEN

MOONEY SPARKS MEETS SAMUEL TORRANCE

CHAPTER EIGHT

ZEUS AND HERMES GO TO EARTH

CHAPTER NINE

ON THE FIRST DAY…

CHAPTER TEN

THE GODS ON TRIAL

CHAPTER ELEVEN

UNEXPECTED VISITORS

CHAPTER TWELVE

JUDGMENT

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN THE HALLS OF OLYMPUS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BAD NEWS AND MORE BAD NEWS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PARLEY

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WAR!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TRIUMPH OF THE GODS

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER

PRAISE TO THE GODS

HAIL, Muses!!!

Ashwyn Firedrake here, the blind butcher of Middleburgh.

All honor I shower on you.

You inspire me.

You animate my withered writing hand, enabling it to scurry across the page, albeit in a left-to-right fashion.

You grant me the privilege of describing those events and heroes that I shall never see—me, Ashwyn Firedrake, sightless from birth at the whim of Anake.

May it be your will that my work should stand forever as a monument to your benevolence.

Alas, I beseech you, fair sisters, to grant me one small reward for my labors. To wit: that I shall remain ever youthful in body and spirit, romping forever with the nine of you on a glorious, overstuffed featherbed, as the groom of a June bride with all of her attendants.

Next I pray to Pallas Athena, that you may shower me with enlightenment and bless my thoughts and my words. I ask also that you grant me agility of foot so that I do not tread unwittingly on another man’s copyright or activate his car alarm.

Lastly I honor mighty Zeus, who thunders from the cupola of majestic Olympus, for it is you who elevates the beggar and withers the proud and renders judgments straight and righteous. It is you who bestows on me the time, talent, and treasure, necessary to squander my remaining days on this Earth in praising the Pantheon. May you, Father Zeus, always smile favorably on me, a poor wretch with no family, and never view my existence as just so much Minotaur refuse, wedged in the treads of your striding sandal.

PRELUDE

These were bad times for the Olympians.

Rendered increasingly superfluous with the fruition of the Second Millennium and the advent of the Third, they found themselves totally forsaken by the people of Earth. While man not only survived, but prospered, right through Y2K’s predicted apocalypse, the gods could command little respect, with regard to Earthly business.

That’s all right.

The gods didn’t care.

They were indifferent.

The shape of things on Earth, it wasn’t the fault of the gods. Therefore it was of no great concern to them. Lulled by eternal life into flaccid indifference, they lounged on Olympus, while evil regimes battled below for the allegiance of the populace. The cold truth was, not since the days of the Trojan War had the antics of man captivated the gods.

That Trojan War, it was a bloodbath. Every one of the Olympians chose sides in that affair and passionately supported their teams. And they might well have continued to entertain themselves down through the ages, with the activities of the Roman legions, the sack of Constantinople, the German blitzkrieg, and the rise of kick-boxing. But over and above all of these phenomena, the Trojan War remained unique. Indeed, after its conclusion, things were never again the same in Olympus.

With respect to the Trojan War, one would be correct in deducing that never before or since has man so excelled at heroism, paired with a grudge-driven perseverance that bordered on the pathological. But that glorious race of Heroes, who clashed on the plains of Ilium, bore scant resemblance to the degenerate creatures, holding sway over the worldly affairs of the Latter Days.

It’s a shame, but Modern Man tended to dismiss the Trojan War as just so much mythmaking. Sad but true, barely one in a hundred college graduates of the early 21st Century nurtured any concept of what actually precipitated the conflict. And studies have indicated that no more than half of these students could locate on a globe even the hemisphere in which Troy rested. Needless to say, they knew nothing of Agamemnon and his penchant for world domination. They paid little tribute to the unmatched beauty of fair Helen. They dwelt not on the physical prowess of brave Achilles. Indeed, all they could recite with confidence was how the foolhardy Trojans hauled a gargantuan wooden horse, not at all constructed to scale, into their own city square. And somehow, this action gave rise to some archaic sexual adjunct for the prevention of disease, if not pregnancy.

About all any learned professor would admit about the Trojan War—if it ever indeed occurred—was that it shaped up as little more than a regional feud, cloaked so far back in the mists of time as to remain of little consequence to the modern day-trader.

But that professor would be wrong.

If busting a cap in the ass of a doofusy, panty-waisted Austrian Archduke, joyriding around in the Balkans, could stir up a world war, then stealing a noble king’s bride, right from under his nose, could easily do the same.

Imagine, Joe DiMaggio is at bat, trying to extend his record-breaking hitting streak. And at that very moment, someone swipes his golden blonde girlfriend from her box-seat, right behind the third-base dugout. Well, there’d be heck to pay! The perpetrator would have to deal with a roster full of young pin-striped heroes, wielding corked bats and firing rising fastballs. Odds are, he’d never smuggle his buxom treasure out of the Bronx, much less back to that secret room he’d painstakingly excavated beneath his basement.

But on the off-chance that the madman got clean-away with the girl, it would surely raise a big stink on the national news. And the affair would probably inspire another poet, blind and crippled in body as well as in soul, with nothing else better to do than sit around all day listening to Kenny G recordings, to compose a blank-verse a saga describing the entire ordeal of restoring the vivacious sex kitten to the side of her Yankee Clipper.

And that brings us back to the sublimely crafted Helen—she of creamy complexion and willowy limbs. Well sir, if somebody stole a woman like that from me, I know what I’d do—I’d launch a thousand ships to get her back.

And that’s exactly how the Greeks felt too.

As for my story, it must begin with the Trojan War. And for the ignorant, unwashed masses, I offer the following by way of synopsis.

Paris, handsome son of Priam, king of Troy, was asked to choose the most desirable from among three goddesses.

No, wait.

The trouble really started earlier.

Back in the day when Poseidon, God of the Sea, and Phoebus Apollo, fearsome archer and gifted lyricist, pitched in to raise the walls of Troy.

No, I don’t need to go back that far.

Okay, for the purposes of this story, let’s lay the blame on Eris, the evil Goddess of Discord. She’s the one who crashed the marriage banquet of King Peleus and the sea nymph Thetis, later to become the mother of Achilles. If Eris had just been invited, straight up, like all of her friends, certain globe-shaking events might never have come to pass. But some goddesses can be so catty.

Snubbed and stinging from the effects, Eris decided to drop by unannounced. And she really showed her ass. After being told to leave, she cast down a golden apple, labeled for the fairest in the banquet hall. That was a title to which many a woman laid claim. But rather than argue forevermore about it, the ladies decided to appoint one man as judge. Now, since Paris was regarded far and wide as the handsomest mortal who ever lived, he was summoned to choose from amongst three finalists—Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite.

Hera!

Now, that’s a laugh!

Flat-footed, cow-faced, and disagreeable as a frost giant, she was a stranger to rare beauty. Oh, her body was a work of perfection, exquisitely sculpted to rigorous standards and pleasing in all particulars. But her skin color fell to the wrong side of alabaster. Then there were the freckles, the unsightly splotches, the occasional fall sore, and what resembled a smallpox vaccination scar. And her hair, while silky and shiny, could only be accurately described as an unappealing mouse-brown, whacked off way too short and always laying flat against her head, like she’d just risen from a long sleep in a ski mask. The face, aside from the aforementioned skew toward the bovine, featured a severe upper lip, and the way she routinely jutted out her lower jaw and clenched her teeth shied many a suitor away from her presence.

Despite the overall untoward effect on the eyesight of others, Hera still had to be considered beautiful, if only because she was the sister of Zeus. And when he dressed up as a woman, most gods admitted he looked a lot like her. Maybe, in Narcissistic Appalachian fashion, that’s why he married Hera in the first place.

Hera labored under moderate marital discord, quarreling bitterly over Zeus’ infidelity, while she herself remained chaste, unable to decide if she preferred to torment her husband with the piano wire dick-noose or the cast-iron scrotum clamp. Hera couldn’t say she ever loved Zeus. Indeed she loathed him to the point that she hoped he’d never experience a peaceful moment, let alone an ecstatic one. Four millennia of marriage can do that to a person. But she figured that staying together to the bitter end was a whole lot easier than splitting up all their stuff.

Meanwhile, Zeus was running around, fathering more children than the Culligan Man. And maybe all these concerns manifested on Hera’s visage and rendered her long odds on winning any bona-fide beauty contest.

Pale eyed Pallas Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, was the second participant. And Paris would certainly entertain some sort of death wish to vote against her, since she was the most favored daughter of Zeus Almighty.

Pallas Athena was born in a most unorthodox manner. Zeus had fathered her out of Metis, who was the daughter of Tethys and Oceanus, the river that encircles the Earth. Before the child was born, Gaea and Uranus, long deposed grandparents of Zeus, warned that if Zeus ever produced a child with Metis, it would one day grow more powerful than he. Most likely they were just messing with Zeus. Unwilling to take a chance, Zeus chose the prudent course—he swallowed the pregnant Metis. She lodged in his thigh, where she eventually was delivered of her child. Soon after that, Zeus endured, like, the worst migraine headache the Cosmos has ever seen. In exquisite discomfort, he finally summoned Hephaestus who, in the role of midwife, brought Athena into the world by splitting open Zeus’ noble skull with a bronze axe. And it took Zeus a good thirty minutes to heal up from that wicked gash.

Anyway, Pallas Athena burst forth, fully-grown and clad in complete battle attire and wielding a sharply pointed spear—no doubt the source of Zeus’ headache.

Pallas Athena was a spectacular creature. Gray-eyed or owl-eyed, depending on whom you asked, she was the goddess of book-learning, with a passing interest in both warfare and nursing. The owl was her bird, Athens was her sacred city, and the olive tree, which she planted atop the Acropolis, was her most exquisite creation. She also found time and inspiration to invent the flute—not that she ever blew a note on it. She’d have to puff out her cheeks and disfigure her exquisite features to do so. For similar reasons, she never played the trumpet—also her brainchild. In addition to the musical instruments, she fashioned the Teflon skillet and other assorted pots and pans. She also designed the plough, the rake, the yoke, the chariot, and even the ship.

With respect to the beauty contest, Paris knew well that Pallas Athena was a staunch defender of female independence and, like Artemis, remained a virgin, mostly from outright stubbornness. Paris also suspected that a man could never be much more than a drinking buddy with Pallas Athena. After all, he was well acquainted the tragic story of Pallas, a Titan who once sought to woo Athena. They say Pallas got her bridle off, but when he tried to stroke her saddle, she slew him forthwith, adding his name to hers as a dire warning to other potential suitors. And Paris certainly didn’t want his appellation tacked on to the litany of her titles.

Pallas Athena surely would have won the contest, had not Aphrodite entered the mix.

Ah, Aphrodite!

She sprang into mature womanhood from the potent foam gushing from the severed genitals of Uranus, as they were swept along by the surf.

And that’s another story.

But the point is that Aphrodite was made out of good stuff—primordial stuff.

Neat-ankled, to say the least.

She whose body was trim and graceful; lithe yet voluptuous.

She of the curling lashes.

She whose lean, silky legs bore no razor stubble or unsightly pores.

She who washed her flowing auburn locks twice a day, with the most fragrant of perfumes.

She who indulged in regular milk baths, not because she needed them, but just because they were so much fun.

She who bore not even a hint that she hadn’t cleaned herself properly.

She whose mere presence guaranteed that a full-grown man would spray like a year-old tomcat.

But I shall speak no more of the incomparable beauty of Aphrodite, that most seductive creature ever fashioned under the watch of Helios.

Otherwise the tomcat’s problem will surely be my own.

Well, anyway, back to the beauty contest.

This was definitely not the kind of competition in which the entrants would need to demonstrate patriotic fervor or voice any insight concerning world peace. Rather, it was a straight-up affair, with bribes proffered to ascertain that Paris rely on his soundest judgment. Pallas Athena promised him access to a sample of her bountiful wisdom. Hera vowed to concentrate megalomaniacal power in his hands, topping it off with the dubious honor of giving her a sponge bath, albeit with the use of robot arms. But Aphrodite shamed them both, surrendering not her own body—because that would be inappropriate—but as a worthy proxy, the most beautiful mortal woman in the world.

Regardless of the bribes on the table, Paris would’ve been retarded not to choose Aphrodite—if this beauty contest was really on the up-and-up, as opposed to the kind concerning the aforementioned world peace bull-crap. And for Hera to finish anywhere other than dead-last in any group of three, the other two contestants could not be goddesses, but whores three days dead.

Without a second thought Paris declared Aphrodite the winner.

Good for Paris!

Consequently, short of vowing eternal vengeance on his head, Pallas Athena and Hera silently agreed to give him a really hard time from here on out.

As for the fairest creature among mortals, there was little question.

That would be Helen, daughter of Zeus and currently the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta.

All the Oracles and soothsayers said so.

Helen was hatched from a large white egg, the product of a union between Zeus and Leda, sister of Castor and Pollux. The wonder of it all was that Helen remained the only beautiful Earth creature who had never been wooed by Zeus. And this spoke volumes as to how Zeus was losing some of his fire.

First chance he got, Paris seduced Helen and spirited her away to the Troad.

King Menelaus promptly protested to his power-hungry brother, Agamemnon, who saw this as an opportunity to destroy once and for all the power and prestige of those stallion-breaking Trojans who, while loving their horses, would be the first to point out to the gods how those useful creatures would be better off with claws instead of hooves.

Wasting scarcely two minutes of movie footage, Agamemnon assembled an imposing allied army, supplied by the Greek states, with which to sack Fair Ilium and exterminate the Trojans, that noble race descended from Electra of the Pleiades.

The God of Trouble intervened before the Greek fleet could wet their keels.

Actually there was no God of Trouble, per se. In this case, the divine intervention came from Artemis, a goddess of impeccable Olympic pedigree. She was the daughter of Zeus and Leto. Apollo was her twin. Together they were born on the island of Ortygia—or maybe on Delos, depending on whom you ask.

Now, one matter needs to be addressed.

Each goddess’s ankles were more exquisite than the next. Trim, graceful, neat, slim—these descriptive terms applied to each. But Artemis owned additional attributes that separated her from others of her kind. Her luxuriant, flowing blonde hair complemented her low-cut, high-riding buckskin outfit. And she practiced a seductive way of slinging her bow over her back, which was guaranteed to drive men wild. Alas, Artemis remained the shy virgin huntress who desired the solace of the woods and mountains, maintaining a motherly instinct only for the suckling young of wild beasts. Of these, her favorite was the deer, and it bruised her very soul when one was slain at a distance of over fifty yards, by what she considered non-sporting methods—say, rifles, air pistols, or even paintball guns.

One other thing about Artemis—she was a virgin by conviction, just like Pallas Athena. And no, those two weren’t gay on each other, or anything like that. At least, not on a regular basis. In fact, Artemis loathed sexuality, cringing at physical contact from man or woman. Back in the old days, during childbirth, women often prayed to Artemis to ease their pains of labor—because other than biting down on a strip of leather, what else did they really have? And women who were blessed with swift and painless deaths were said to be slain by the arrows of Artemis.

As for the amorous arrows of men, few of them ever filled her quiver. And one, a young man named Actaeon, who caught sight of Artemis bathing naked, paid the ultimate sacrifice. Before he could whip out his credentials, she changed him into a stag, to be run-down and torn apart by his own hounds.

One man Artemis did love was Orion, her partner on many a hunt. Eos, goddess of the dawn, loved Orion as well. And rather than share his affections, Artemis slew him in a jealous rage. Then she grew penitent and all, as gods are wont to do. Thereafter she largely foreswore relationships with any men. But she did set the unfortunate Orion in the night sky as a sort of constellation prize.

Bottom line: you just didn’t want to mess with Artemis.

The Greeks knew this well enough, but still they surely did something to set her off.

Ostensibly Artemis’ anger resulted from the failure of the Greeks to offer her their first fruits as a sacrifice. But some scholars spoke of how she was peeved not to have scored honorable mention in that beauty contest. She certainly wore the most intriguing outfit. On the other hand, being a child of the forest, she just never bothered to fix herself up all that much.

Anyway, the sympathies of Artemis definitely lay with Troy and, whatever her reasons, she conspired with Boreas, Notus, and Eurus, the winds of the North, South, and East, to bottle up the Greek fleet in their home port. Checked mightily, the Achaeans could only wait—and wait—for a fair breeze.

Finally Calchas, an unlicensed soothsayer, was consulted, and she divined right away that Artemis was highly out-of-sorts. Furthermore, Calchas said, the sacrifice of a royal maiden was the only way to put things right. It was a steep price to pay, but that’s just how vindictive females in godly or human form have always acted when they’re on their periods.

Here’s the kicker.

Not just any royal maiden would do. It turns out that Iphigeia, the very daughter of Agamemnon, was the only candidate in the whole kingdom who qualified as both a royal and a maiden. And the same Artemis, who would recite an earnest prayer over any fallen stag, bore no mercy for poor Iphigeia.

By and by, the unpleasantness was attended to. Blood spurted, people wailed, Artemis was appeased, the winds blew favorably once more, and the Greek ships sailed. And by the time the opposing armies engaged beneath the walls of Troy, all of the gods had chosen sides.

Taking things in alphabetical order, Aphrodite cast her lot with the horse-taming Trojans, since Aeneas was her son. The warmonger Ares always backed Aphrodite, on the off-chance that he’d receive some loving from her. Likewise, the other two A’s, Apollo and Artemis, always stood together as a team, and they pulled for King Priam and his people as well. Lastly, Leto and Xanthus, the River God, also supported the Trojans—like anybody gave a hoot about having their help.

Foremost among the allies of the Greeks stood Poseidon. Though he’d helped to raise the walls of Troy, Poseidon could not refrain from favoring a seafaring people. Other Greek stalwarts included Hera, Athena, Hephaestus, and Hermes.

So in large part, it was the H’s against the A’s.

And suddenly the Triple Alliance of the First World War begins to make more sense.

But what of Zeus?

Though this was a time when he still talked and acted tough, he chose to play the role of neutral Switzerland, because Hera got all bent out of shape whenever he opposed her directly. Yet neither could he bring himself to support her.

Long story short, the siege of Troy dragged on for ten dreary years, though for much of that time the players didn’t even realize they were at war. Even at that, the big green flies of death found more work than they could handle, subletting many of their responsibilities to the wild dogs and carrion birds.

Ajax popped off.

Hector slew Ajax.

Achilles dispatched Hector, with a rage better reserved for Agamemnon.

Achilles took one in the heel. Tetanus set up, and he died young.

In the end, the Trojans were utterly destroyed, ostensibly by the two-pronged attack of lust and curiosity. However, some analysts claimed that the Greek victory was due to Pallas Athena, who held in the hollow of her hand Nike, daughter of the Titans Pallas and Styx.

And Nike was the very embodiment of Victory.

CHAPTER ONE

BACKGROUND

The centuries since the Trojan War flew by like newsprint in a whirlwind, and with the advent of every fresh day, complacency tightened its grip on the Olympians. Not exactly complacency—more like total indifference, especially when it came to the business of Earth.

The First World War tangentially grabbed the attention of the Olympians, though they remained largely apathetic as to its outcome. But when the bombs of World War II began to rain, with the resultant horrors far eclipsing anything those Trojans and Greeks ever inflicted on each other, some on High began to suspect that the gods had vacationed long enough. And Zeus was so alarmed that he almost got off his ass to do something about it.

Militant Ares was the first Olympian to enter the action in World War II. He came down on the side of the Axis Powers, of course, and he rode a tank and held a general’s rank, as the ballad goes. But this naked war of aggression wasn’t solely the fault of Ares—not by any means. Like any other soldier of fortune, he was just having fun with it. Aside from Ares, the other Olympians failed to muster much interest, finally accepting the fact that most men would rather enjoy a slice of fresh-baked apple pie than world peace.

It was at the Battle of Stalingrad, where the art of Urban Warfare was duly perfected, that Ares caught a volley from a burp-gun, wounding him painfully in the thigh. Insane with rage, Ares drew himself to his feet and seethed, Let the coward who inflicted this wound come forth and engage in mortal combat, and I shall slay him as he stands!

By way of reply, a second missile found its mark, embedding itself again in the ass-cheek—I mean, thigh—indeed practically in the same location that scarcely had time to heal from the first slug.

Immediately thereafter, Ares returned to Olympus, once and for all revealing himself as a coward who bellows in pain when he suffers anything worse than a hangnail. Nor would he ever again entertain discussion of returning to Earth. After all, he reasoned, what chance for total world domination is there, when the piss-ants follow a different philosophy than the jungle cats?

—whatever that means.

Somehow, against long odds, mankind sorted out things. And with no assistance from Above, this Second World War was brought a close. Immediately the terrestrial powers set to work, planning a third. Because, as Ares often quipped, Killing is second nature to them—and to me.

And that, right there—sowing the seeds destruction on mankind and reveling in the aftermath—is the main reason why his parents, Zeus and Hera, always hated Ares.

Now we move forward in time to the year of that Olympiad in which the big Russian slew a Western-bloc figure-skating judge with an errant hammer-throw.

One brisk day, punctuated by racing clouds interspersed by volleys of stinging sleet and shafts of golden sunlight, the gods lounged in abject idleness. And nobody languished better than Zeus, God of Thunder. In fact, ever since the Fall of Troy, Zeus was all warred-out. Largely confined to Olympus for the past thirty centuries, he paid little heed as humanity grew up, all by itself, with no parental supervision whatsoever.

Hera reclined nearby in a comfortable, padded chair. These days, since she found it too much bother to allow a lion cub to rest on her lap, she sat alone. Silently she studied the face of her husband and brother. Though Zeus had existed through several Sothic Cycles, he’d held up well. His features were pleasing. His beard contained just the proper admixture of salt and pepper. And his teeth were straight and pearly white, perfect only to the extent that one could not quite mistake them for dentures.

Used to be, Zeus spent much of his time seducing young maidens. But no matter how much he bragged, Hera figured he hadn’t covered thirty mares since the B.C. years. Lately his manhood had slipped permanently below the ecliptic. And was his hair thinning? Indeed, was Zeus already relying on a primitive form of the comb-over? Old in mind and body, no longer spry or excessively horny, nowadays Zeus mostly just sat around and smoked. Other times, he walked aimlessly from room to room in the great palace, straightening books and dishes and clothing, hoping to maintain Hera near a basal level of bitching.

What’s that smell?

The voice belonged to Ares, who sprawled on a divan in the far corner of the Great Hall.

What smell? asked Zeus, at best only mildly interested.

That—just now reaching my nostrils… replied Ares. Red heifer?

No, absolutely not, declared Hermes. That’s sandalwood. And it indeed imparts a lusty aroma, but nothing like the searing flesh of a fattened red heifer.

Oh, said Ares, unimpressed. And the three gods returned to inner contemplation.

Zeus reclined, gazing through the overhead skylight, watching a pair of gigantic cloud tits race across the sky. That wispy white group resembled the decapitated Medusa, arms outstretched, beseeching young Perseus to return her head. Below her, as if from the bowels of the Underworld, the Perseus figure held up the trophy, just out of her reach.

The clouds morphed.

Perseus was no longer tormenting Medusa. Rather, Mary Queen of Scots was coming into sharp focus, with her own magnificent breasts, but likewise headless torso…

Next thing they knew, all Olympus was astir with word of the capture of an intruder. This being, which resembled both the gods and man, was nabbed lurking about the fertile fields. Luckily he was waylaid before he could work much mischief. And this was all thanks to Hephaestus, whose sophisticated network of claw-traps, trot-lines and bank-poles had finally, at long last, snagged an alien life form.

That creature, there was something strange about him—so strange that he could never blend in with the Olympians or with their guests.

Guests!

That was a joke.

Nobody could remember the last time a visitor had graced the supper table.

Ares, glory-seeking as usual, preceded the captive into the Great Hall at Olympus. But the little man behind him, he did all the work. And that man was Hephaestus, the gnarled one.

Beloved son of Hera, despised stepchild of Zeus, Hephaestus was crippled in both body and spirit. And no one voiced it aloud, but some figured that a good bit of the fault lay with Hera, who was incapable of producing a worthy offspring, all by herself. Such was apparently the case with Hephaestus, conceived without the aid of man or god, whom she bore out of spite for Zeus’ infidelity.

Hephaestus resembled the notoriously clumsy type, the kind you don’t want in close proximity to crystal glassware or delicate electronic equipment. But in truth, he was agile as a mountain goat, and his mind was sharp as a freshly stropped straight razor.

Hephaestus bore a penchant for being cast out of Olympus; hence his lameness. The first incident took place after a shouting match with his mother, with whom he quarreled on a daily basis. This time she lost her temper completely and booted her son from the realm. That shook him up, but not too badly. If nothing else, Hephaestus was always resourceful. He quickly found his way back home and embarked on a grandiose building plan, raising mansions for the gods to curry their favor.

For some reason, Hephaestus still loved his mother, and his signature moment occurred one day when he defended Hera so fiercely in a spat with Zeus that that the God of Thunder lost all patience and forcibly hurled Hephaestus out of Olympus—way out. He fell all the way to Earth, crashing onto the island of Lemnos. Since Hephaestus had no paratrooper training, he twisted both ankles and curved his spine unnaturally as a result of the rude landing. From that day forward, Hephaestus was painfully lame, and he turned into a permanent cripple.

Hephaestus journeyed back to Olympus for the second time after which, among other things, he fashioned armor and a shield for the great Achilles. He also summoned his talents to produce a golden throne for Hera, one that grabbed her hard and wouldn’t let go. Despite the protests of all Olympus, Hephaestus held Hera there a good while, finally agreeing to release her only after Dionysus got him drunk and confounded his senses. Still, Hephaestus wasn’t that drunk, and as a condition for Hera’s release he demanded Aphrodite for his wife.

Those two were married forthwith.

And boy, was that a bad idea!

That brief liaison scarred Hephaestus emotionally for the remainder of his life.

Hephaestus the Cuckold.

That’s what the Olympians forevermore called him, what with Aphrodite taking lovers most any time she pleased. But Hephaestus, he patiently endured this and other insults. Like, when his gorgeous wife snored or read a book during his own rare sack time with her.

The Twentieth Century had been rough on Hephaestus, what with some of the Olympians taking to calling him Kaiser Wilhelm, even though Hephaestus’ arms were stronger than Sheffield Steel.

Even as Hephaestus hobbled into the Great Hall, dragging his quarry, Ares delighted in mocking the gnarled man’s limp. But the other Olympians noticed neither Hephaestus nor Ares, but only the heavy-chained prisoner in tow.

Head of the household and sensitive to appearances, Hera immediately began fussing and fuming to the help. What a mess this place is! It looks like a pigsty in here! I can’t stand all of this clutter and disarray. And how long has it been since anyone dusted, around this joint?

But Hephaestus paid her no mind, ushering his unwilling guest into the presence of Father Zeus, who sat languishing at table, for lack of any better way to kill time. Seated to either side of the God of Thunder were Pallas Athena and Hermes, arguably his favorite children. Standing at loose attention nearby were Ganymede, the cup-bearer of the gods, and Hebe, whose job was to serve ambrosia.

Just as Laudanum was the drink of poets, so was ambrosia the food of the gods. And a general approximation of the recipe would include a cup of sugar, a gill of goat milk, and a stick of butter.

Hebe was Zeus’ daughter, out of Hera, but he tolerated this child anyway, despite the manifestation of several less endearing traits of the mother. Truth was, as far as his own daughters were concerned, Zeus was crazy solely about Pallas Athena. With fondness he remembered her mother and the tryst that led to her conception. As for Hebe, he couldn’t exactly say how or when she came into being, but Zeus tried to like her—no, really he did.

One last goddess forced her way into the scene—Iris, the messenger of the gods. She sat nearby, bored all to hell, unable to remember the last time she’d borne any correspondence worth her time and effort.

The six of them lounged around on the dais, lifeless, as if reluctantly posing for a Flemish master. Finally Zeus asked, All right, what’s this all about?

Hephaestus hemmed and hawed before finally summoning the fortitude to declare, Great Zeus, I have captured this intruder within your herd—a satyr, it seems, masquerading as a full-blooded goat.

Zeus frowned and chastised poor Hephaestus. Zeus doesn’t like tattle-tales.

Since when? challenged Hera, rising to the aid of her spastic son.

And Ares added, You know, Hephaestus here, he’s been having trouble keeping Earth’s sleeping monarchs out of his forge, beneath Mount Etna. And now the big idiot thinks he’s finally caught one.

And Hephaestus turned his eyes to the floor, embarrassed.

Meanwhile, the captive had morphed into a more respectable form, this one devoid of hooves and horns and shaggy bodily hair. The resultant manlike creature, thin enough to prod Jenny Craig into adding more deep fat to his dietary regimen, would easily have stood six and a half feet in height. But, cursed with the poor posture common to lifelong peddlers, he scarcely cleared six feet. Okay, six-two—tops.

Zeus didn’t much care for his guest’s receding hairline, or for the way the windblown residual was thinned and speckled with random wisps of gray. And worst of all, some of these fly-aways reached unsightly lengths of six inches or more.

But none of that mattered to the visitor.

In his own mind, he thought he looked good.

Still, you’d think a self-styled super-being would take more pains in fixing himself up.

The individual’s beard was short—no, wait a minute, it was no a beard at all. More like an unsightly patch of stubble, standing at attention, eagerly anticipating its weekly shave. The deeply tanned skin spoke volumes as to the downside of excessive exposure to the potent rays of Helios. And one glance at those piercing black eyes suggested that this visitor majored in complete chaos, with a minor in moderate mayhem.

Then there was the matter of his outfit, for he was certainly not dressed in the height of Achaean fashion.

What were those shoes?

Weejuns?

Oxblood in hue, fresh out of the box, and still perfumed with that delightful factory polish, they were the instant envy of every god, male and female alike.

And no socks!

Didn’t this being care not at all about maximizing the longevity of his flashy footwear?

His bare legs reached, way up to short-shorts of some fluorescent green paisley design. They might have passed for swim trunks. Whatever their intended purpose, the pants clashed mightily with his lavender tank-top, revealing chest hair as unsightly as that on his head.

Strictly prohibited on Olympus, those latter two items of apparel elicited a pained expression from Zeus, who demanded, Identify yourself forthwith.

The string-bean of a man maintained silence, standing there, shifty as a she-weasel.

Umm, he says his name is Legion, Hephaestus reported, —whatever that means.

Legion? What kind of name is that? Zeus inquired.

It means he is known by many appellations, observed Pallas Athena, peeved at her father’s ignorance.

Hermes studied the stranger. From his extensive travels around the Earth, Hermes knew a whale-blubber burp from a borscht fart, and he was pretty sure this individual had been eating radio wire. He conveyed the suspicion to the ear of Zeus, adding, Horns, tail, hooves, and no doubt mustache hair around his genitals—just like Pan. What can it all mean?

Zeus considered for a moment before speaking. I believe I know this entity. He is not of mortal cloth, accidentally venturing too close to our realm. Rather, I suspect he is the fallen angel Lucifer, of whom I have studied much. Tell me sir, am I correct?

Hey, can a deposed Tsar chop wood? said the visitor, by way of reply. Then he flashed a wide smile, accompanied by a pleasant, baritone laugh—about the pitch one might expect from the Cretan bull. Motioning toward Hephaestus, he added, And what’s with my escort, here? Did he get hit by the school bus? And did his face catch on fire and get beat-out with a track shoe?

No, Aphrodite derisively retorted. That’s just Hephaestus, our resident manual laborer, and if he’s been burnt once on his forge, he’s been burnt a thousand times.

And all the gods joined in the laughter at the expense of poor Hephaestus.

At the conclusion of that brief comic interlude, the prisoner calmly stated, You are very much correct in your assumption that I am the great Lucifer, temporarily venturing forth from my realm. But you see, these days mine is a low threshold for boredom, what with no pressing business Earthside.

That’s odd, remarked Zeus. I would imagine you’d keep eternally busy down there, breaking up worship services, tempting with the Seven Deadly Sins, flaying martyrs, messing with politics, fixing baseball games…

Lucifer said, "You know, I worked hard for centuries, and I pretty much had my way with things, up until the rise of Constantine. That’s when, for a season, this church stuff threatened to turn all men holy. But I never relented. Not when the Stylites sat on their pillars. Not when the monks and the nuns cloistered themselves in their monasteries and convents. Not even when the faithful starved and maimed themselves, all for the greater glory of their aloof god. No, I persevered, starting little brush fires here, creating crop failures there, until finally in 1453, Constantine’s magnificent city fell to the Turks.

"The loss of the great bastion of Constantinople, and the resultant Diaspora of ancient Greek learning, led directly to the Renaissance. And with the opening of the minds of the people through the printing press, this led to the Reformation, splintering the faithful into countless sects, each fussing and fuming with their neighbors, all powerless to curb the wicked nature of man. At this same time, the Inquisition shifted into high gear. Then North America was discovered and subsequently raped and pillaged. And this led to the ruination of New World Man—the only race that never really wanted anything to do with me. Next came the Enlightenment, with its microscopes and telescopes probing the very small and the very large. And after those instruments raised so many questions about the nature of man and his nugatory place in the Cosmos, my job was rendered largely superfluous. If I’d known modern science was such an effective tool for the damnation of the soul, I’d have nurtured its development, way back in Bible Times.

Like I said, nowadays there’s really not a whole lot left for me to do. I mean, I’ve taught mankind to create plastics, convincing him that he can use things once and throw them away with a clear conscience. And I know what you’re gonna say about those Number One’s and Number Two’s being so easy to recycle, and all. But mark my words: the day fast approaches when the horror shall be made manifest. Man shall drown in his cesspool of pop bottles, and not even your Hephaestus will know a gosh-darned thing about how to fool with them.

If there was a monkey in the room, Pallas Athena would be the first to bring it to everyone’s attention. And, listening to the stranger’s soliloquy, she had grown increasingly agitated. Finally she erupted. Enough of your sugary words and convoluted sentence structure! Surely the real Lucifer would have more on the ball than you—traipsing about Olympus like you own the place.

The visitor said, No I’m Lucifer, all right—I really am. Trust me on this. I’m just trying to make the point that mankind is so corrupted that I need do nothing else to ensure his utter damnation. And with my game over, what else is left to me, other than to get out and explore new places and meet new friends?

And stare through people’s windows, while they’re changing their armor? added Pallas Athena.

Zeus said, I empathize totally with our guest, for I myself wallow in a landlocked milieu of ennui.

And all of Olympus stopped to marvel at the chief god’s ability to squeeze two hackneyed French words into the same sentence.

Zeus continued, glancing down at his body, Indeed, I’ve just negotiated a most difficult time in my life, one in which I didn’t even recognize these arms and legs as my own.

No shit?

It’s absolutely true, Zeus assured Lucifer. And I often wonder, why do I waste my time caring for these bothersome appendages?

Me too, Lucifer responded enthusiastically. I feel the same way. But I guess such cyclical inner turmoil is a mere downside of eternal life. Indeed this is the very reason that I now find myself temporarily at your mercy, confined like a trout in a holding pond, humbly submitting to your indomitable prowess, ready to grovel for any hospitality you might extend to me.

Lucifer bowed low, before taking a seat in the most comfortable hard-backed chair he could find.

Zeus rose and walked about, as if in deep thought, occasionally pounding fist into palm or stroking his beard. Finally he addressed the captive. "Noble Lucifer, I’d very much like to hear the rest of your story, but this tale is something that all of Olympus should share. I beg you to suffer loose confinement here in my citadel until I can summon my fellow gods into session.

It would be my pleasure, said Lucifer graciously, realizing he had no choice in the matter.

Great. I know they’d just love to meet you.

And so it was done.

Several days later the assembly convened.

The Olympians had not met in formal session for quite some time. Oh, there’d been the usual smattering of wedding feasts and holiday celebrations, but other than those, few cared much about getting together these days. And certainly nobody wanted to dance to the tune of Roberts Rules of Order.

But this was no ordinary occasion.

The Olympians turned out with the force of a heavy quorum, though somewhat shy of perfect attendance. In fact, of the twelve, only two were missing. Five of the six goddesses were seated—Hera, Pallas Athena, Hestia, Aphrodite, and Demeter. Nobody really expected Artemis to show up, considering how she rejoiced in shunning men and gods alike, preferring the hunt where she could commune with her precious animals. Besides, her presence may well have introduced too much beauty into the great hall. And—who knows? The mysterious visitor might well have lost control of his manners, if not his good sense.

As for the men, one of their numbers was absent as well. This was Hades, full-blooded brother of Zeus and supreme ruler of the Underworld. Hades didn’t get around much—not because he couldn’t, but just because he preferred the familiarity of his own demesne.

Zeus was in charge. In addition, Ares, Hermes, and Apollo answered the roll call. The fifth god was Poseidon and, being last to show up, he staged a grand entrance.

Zeus rose and administered the usual greeting. Welcome, Brother Poseidon. Shaker of the Earth, Master of Horses, and Ruler of the Seas—both the Euxine and the Axine.

Poseidon walked up to Zeus, and they embraced warmly.

The oldest brother of Zeus, Poseidon shared similar facial features. But where Zeus’ dark hair and beard were tinged with red, Poseidon’s leaned toward a lighter shade—probably because of spending so much time in the water. Considering himself a co-equal of Zeus, Poseidon commanded the sea, as well as all rivers and streams connecting directly to it. He’d accomplished great deeds over his long life. He created the bull and the dolphin, and he’d given man the first horse. In addition, he’d slept with a deluxe assortment of comely sea nymphs, fathering sons who could run dry-shod, even across the oily waters of present-day Earth. As for his mode of transportation, Poseidon owned a horse-drawn land carriage, as well as a sea chariot pulled by Tritons, creatures that were half man and half fish.

Well, well, well, boomed Poseidon, picking a sardine from his teeth. Lucifer, captured out of his bailiwick. This is truly a rare sight.

Rare as queen’s milk, agreed Pallas Athena, seated as always to the right of her glorious father.

Zeus said, I apologize. I should’ve called a meeting long before now, but you know how it is.

Somewhat rankled, Poseidon replied, Damn right, you should have. Don’t you ever pay attention to your suggestion box?

Sure I do, answered Zeus. "When it