Divine Misfortune

7

Civilization had taken the bite out of the divine powers, regulated and tamed them aside their mortal followers. The heavens could offer a boost, but they no longer built empires or razed continents. The good ol’ days of sacking and pillaging a village and offering up the souls to your god were gone. Roger Worthington suspected he would be lousy at sacking and only a modestly talented pillager at best so he didn’t mind. But he also knew that, aside from being somewhat handsome (emphasis on the somewhat), he wasn’t exceptional in any way, and if he was going to get ahead, he’d have to offer blood, sweat, and sacrifice to do it.

If it didn’t have to be his, so much the better.

There were still real gods out there, untamed powers that both mortal and immortal authorities wanted forgotten. They’d been forced underground, worshipped by secret cults in hidden temples tucked in darkened corners. Their influence had faded, but they still knew how to get things done. And they didn’t care where their blood came from.

Worthington ’s first cult had been a complete waste of time. They followed an obscure wisdom goddess who promised to open their minds. In the end, it’d just been an excuse to get high and talk about the secrets revealed when you played Beatles records backward. Harmless fun, but Worthington wasn’t in it for fun. He was in it for power.

The next god was more promising. They met in the storeroom of a Pancake Hut, after hours. It wasn’t much of a temple, but it got the job done. There he joined in paying tribute to an exiled volcano god who promised to split the earth and devour civilization, placing his followers on top in the new world order. It sounded promising, and the tremors accompanying every blood offering were a nice show. The peak came when someone managed to get hold of an elephant. That was a lot of blood, all right. Their god slurped it down with gusto, and a quake in Singapore killed a few thousand people. But it was a far cry from the fall of nations, and Worthington found himself wondering if maybe his god was taking credit for someone else’s divine wrath or, even more annoyingly, possibly just an ordinary earthquake. Even if it had been the work of his god, it would take a hell of a lot of blood to bring about the end of civilization. Worthington wasn’t willing to put that much effort into it.

He abandoned the cult. A tremor split the earth and devoured the Pancake Hut a week later. The untamed powers were outlawed for a reason. Even compared to the capricious nature of gods, they were unpredictable and dangerous. The cult could’ve been destroyed because of some perceived sin. Or perhaps out of boredom. Or quite possibly by accident. That was always the risk.

Worthington was undeterred. He found two kinds of gods in his quest. Impotent deities who promised much but never delivered and powerful forces who refused to act because they feared the wrath of the other gods. It was four years before he caught his break.

In China, he discovered a death god cult. Tribute was easy. Once a month, all the members were required to draw straws. The loser was fed to the god. By then, Worthington had grown inured to such risks. He climbed the ladder of leadership by submitting to the sacrifice lottery twice a month, then once a week. Then two or three times a week. Eventually, every day of his life was decided by a flip of a coin. The others were impressed by his dedication. As was his god. And when he finally drew the short straw and was placed on the altar, he suggested that perhaps a god would do better to sacrifice his less enthusiastic followers rather than his most devoted servant. And the death god agreed with him.

With all the power of his god focused on him after that, he made a small fortune. It was more work. And messier. His god needed blood, and Worthington was the only one to make sure he received it. But Worthington developed a relatively risk-free system, and his prosperity continued. He could’ve remained comfortable the rest of his life. After five years, he realized it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

His god was a jealous god, and all too eager to devour any offending souls. But Worthington had learned something in his dealings with the temple underground. There were civilized gods. And there were untamed gods. And, hidden away, nearly forgotten, with names whispered in fear by mortal and god alike, there were savage gods. Their powers were enormous, but their demands were of the most primitive variety. Blood and souls, chaos and madness. They wanted the heavens and Earth to run thick with gore, to see mortals and gods tear each other to pieces. To revel in a single moment of boundless, primeval terror. They weren’t above a little sacrifice either, but it did take something bigger than an elephant to get their attention. Fortunately, Worthington had the power and influence to provide it.

His old god wasn’t happy with the transition, but he didn’t make a fuss. And when the god of ugly death meekly backed down from Worthington ’s new master without so much as a whimper, Worthington knew he’d made the right decision.

He could make the President disappear with a single phone call or destroy cities with a three-word e-mail. Any woman he desired could be in his bed by tonight and out of his way by morning. No indulgence, no matter how ridiculous or absurd, was denied him. And though he didn’t actually indulge because, aside from his ambition, he was a very dull sort, he still appreciated having the power for power’s sake.

The only downside was his very cranky roommate, but Gorgoz usually stayed in the basement.

Worthington was in the middle of dinner when Gorgoz rang his bell. At first, Worthington ignored it, expecting the butler to take care of Gorgoz’s demands. The clang of the bell grew more insistent after five minutes.

He pushed away from the table and walked through his exquisite and tastefully decorated house. He’d paid enough for the decorator’s services to know, even if he didn’t get it himself. But it wasn’t for him. He didn’t ever have guests. But if he did, he was sure they would be impressed. There were a dozen or so rooms he hadn’t visited, that he’d seen only as sketches a few years ago.

Along the way, he almost stepped on a spotted roach and a mottled, crimson serpent. He was accustomed to the steady stream of felines, rodents, reptiles, and insects coming in and out of the house at all hours. He’d had pet doors installed to accommodate Gorgoz’s spies, souls drafted into the god’s service. It was part of Gorgoz’s price. Servitude didn’t end with death. The lucky minions were transformed into shape-changing spies, scouring the world as the eyes and ears of Gorgoz. Worthington had no intention of spending his afterlife as a spotted housecat. He wasn’t keen on mortality and had plans in motion to avoid death. Nothing specific at this stage, but anything was possible for a man willing to take the right chances, make the right deals.

The ringing bell and the snake guided him, keeping him from getting lost in his own house.

“Coming!” shouted Worthington. “I’m coming!”

He descended the stairs. Gorgoz kept the basement dark with only a single hanging bulb and a big-screen TV lighting the dinginess. He sat slumped in his recliner. He rarely left the comfort of its five-speed massage settings. He even more rarely changed his clothes and never bathed. The room smelled of formaldehyde, seaweed, and nachos.

“What took you so long?” he asked, never turning his twisted face away from the television. Its light reflected off his bulbous fish eyes.

“I was all the way on the other side of the house,” replied Worthington.

Gorgoz snorted. A glob of neon blue snot rocketed from his nostrils and splattered the television screen. He held up his bell and shook it in annoyance. “Beer me.”

“Yes, Master.” Worthington paused. He already knew the answer, but he had to ask anyway. “You haven’t seen Montoya around, have you?”

“Who?”

“The butler. The one I pay to… beer you.”

“Oh, him.” Gorgoz tapped his long black claws on his tusks. “I ate him. Is that a problem?”

“No, no. Not really. It’s just… Montoya was actually a pretty good butler, and good help can be hard to find.”

“I’ve had better,” said Gorgoz. “That one we had a couple of weeks ago, the Chinaman-”

“They’re called Asians now,” interrupted Worthington.

“The Asian was crunchier.” Gorgoz crushed his empty beer can and added it to the mound on the floor. “I like’em crunchy.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Do you dare question my judgment, Roger?”

“No, never.”

“Such insolence deserves swift retribution. You’re lucky Mary is on.” Gorgoz’s long tongue snaked out and licked the snot off the television screen. He swallowed it with a gulp, revealing the smiling image of Mary Tyler Moore. “If this wasn’t the clown funeral episode I’d get out of this chair and break your spine.”

Worthington suppressed a smile. Gorgoz talked a big game, but he needed Worthington. He’d made sure of that. Dealing with gods wasn’t any different from any other business contract. It all came down to leverage. Gorgoz had many followers, but none could equal what Worthington had to offer. Secretly dedicated slaughterhouses offered a steady tide of blood. Millions of dollars a year were burned in his god’s name. And millions more were used to support smaller cults scattered across the world. But Worthington made sure that none of these cults were self-sufficient, and that without his money, they would disappear. Without Worthington, there was no Temple of Gorgoz.

The savage god had existed, mostly forgotten and without influence, for thousands of years before Worthington had taken him in. He could always start over, but that would require him to get his butt out of the recliner.

“By the way, Roger,” said Gorgoz, “have you seen Lenny anywhere? Usually takes on the form of a squirrel.”

“There are a lot of squirrels coming in and out of here every day,” observed Worthington.

“Lenny was one of my favorites, you know. He served me well in life, but even more so in death. Always reliable.”

“I’m sure he’s just running a little bit late.”

“Let’s hope.” Gorgoz growled, not at Worthington but just in general annoyance. He held up his bell and rang it vigorously. “I don’t see my beer, minion.”

At the kitchen, Worthington discovered a bloodied and broken squirrel pulling its way across the linoleum. It should’ve been dead, but supernatural will compelled it to return, even if it had to drag itself with its one functioning limb.

“You must be Lenny.”

The squirrel held up its head and gasped, spitting up blood.

“He’s down in the basement. Where else would he be?”

Worthington dropped several beers into a plastic bag and tied it to Lenny’s tail. “Don’t keep him waiting.” The creeping squirrel dragged its carcass across the kitchen floor, leaving a smear of blood and fur across the tile. Someone would clean up the mess. He didn’t know who, but he didn’t care about those details. He had more pressing concerns.

Worthington was willing to make many sacrifices for his god. Cold veal was not one of them.