Chapter 35
711 Words
Chapter 35
A loud crash jerked Jeremy from a dream of hot hardware and slippery software.
“Need to get out more, Jeremy old pal,” he told himself. Living alone as much as he had, he’d long since settled in comfortably with speaking to himself. “Erotic dreams about computers, not a good sign.”
The crash of a smashing bottle brought him the rest of the way back to his surroundings. He’d sacked out on one of the giant pillows beneath the Ruben’s harem oil painting.
Cassandra had chosen another person-sized pillow beneath the velvet dogs and their poker game. Her pillow was empty.
Another smash rattled around the room.
Jeremy struggled out of the pillow’s embrace and staggered his way back into the hall. The heavy red of torchlight had been replaced by the sun shining in through a translucent ceiling he’d not noticed the night before. A ceiling of ruby red glass that made the room swim in fiery-Hell red.
The smashing glass had come from the left. Near the bar.
Once he got there, the problem was obvious. Loki had rolled off the bar in his sleep, apparently the first crash. His body lay unmoving, though an uncertain groan emanated tentatively into the room, perhaps seeking a listener who might care.
The cavalcade of smashing glass was coming from the continuing fall of bottles. Most landed on him and the volume of his groans almost rose to the level of a curse. Other bottles shattered noisily on the floor about him.
A cat.
A large cat.
A very large, mangy, long-haired, white cat with crossed eyes, one blue and one green, was slapping bottles down from the back of the immensely well-stocked bar to rain down upon the prone Demi-God. He was already a couple inches deep in shattered glass, liquor streaming off his body and creating a small rivulet along the floor.
Jeremy waved an arm to shoo the cat away and was greeted with bared fangs and a hiss that might have ruined the day of any mere lion or tiger.
Maybe he’d go check on Virgil.
No change there except the poet had stopped drooling. Plastered back in the bucket seat with a nasty black eye coming up from when he’d smacked his face so hard on the wheel.
He decided to go in search of Cassandra and breakfast.
He found her hunched in front of the computer terminal. A cup of coffee that no longer steamed by her left hand. She didn’t react to his approach, so he read over her shoulder.
Historical rectification of fact vs. rumor is not within purview or interest of this program. They say they slept with you. Fact or fiction, why should I care what’s in the historical record.
“But they all lied.”
So? Sue me!
“Okay! If you won’t fix the historical record, what else can we do to them?”
Something nasty?
She nodded as she typed, “Really nasty!”
Hmmm! What if we make them all impotent after supposedly bedding you?
“What would that do?”
Jeremy felt that it was a little obvious, “It would make everyone believe that you were so good, none of them ever found satisfaction again.”
She spun around and barely managed to not send her coffee flying.
“What? Where did you come from? I thought you were still asleep.”
Then she blushed bright red. It was amazing to think that a woman of that age was upset about who claimed to have slept with her, and could still be embarrassed by it. She spun back to face the screen and pulled her gray hair forward until there was no way he could see her face.
That would make everyone believe that you were so good, none of them ever found satisfaction again.
“Are you sure you don’t have an audio pickup?”
No, why?
“Jeremy just made the same observation. Word for word.”
Oh, the kid is up? Good! How ya doin’, Kid?
“Tell it I’m fine. Just a little confused.”
Cassandra keyed it down.
Good. Proves you’re alive.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She typed for him as he responded.
If you’re confused, it means you’re alive.
Cassandra moved aside and he slid into the chair.
“Dead people are no longer confused?”
Shit no! They’re just as confused, they just don’t notice. Look at that sad slob of a poet. Trying to create Heaven from Hell for no reason he can find or bothers to look for. That’s dead. Doesn’t matter if you’re treading the mortal coil or the immortal one. It’s all a matter of attitude.
- Writer
