The Minor Deities of Doomed Men

Part One:

The God of Lost Coins

General Immortus reeled back from the control panel as it exploded in a shower of sparks and shrapnel. "Phobia! Report! Phobia!" He shouted into a communication system that was no longer there. Everything had gone wrong so quickly. Luna Five, the Lexcorp spaceship he, Phobia, the Brain and Monsieur Mallah had hijacked was falling back into Earth's atmosphere. Luna Five had been built entirely out of light-weight materials in space and wasn't made for re-entry. However it was ideally suited to transmit the mind-control ray from the Thought Crystal.

Then two lunatics, Nightmaster and Mister E, had shown up with some nonsense that the Thought Crystal was in fact the mystical Philosopher's Stone. Immortus had heard rumors of the deadly blind man, Mr E, but of the sword swinging youth, he knew nothing. There was a schoolyard argument that now threatened to kill them all. The Brain had already perished; neatly cooked in an electrical feedback Mallah was taking it badly; murderously.

Immortus was livid. "Phobia! Mallah!" Why hadn't they killed the two interlopers already? Why did he have to do everything? It was time to cut his loses. Once again, teaming up with the so-called Brotherhood of Evil had turned into a profitless venture. He moved as quickly as the shaking ship would allow him toward the escape pod.

In the galley way Immortus found Phobia. She looked remarkably peaceful and at first Immortus thought she was sleeping or unconscious. Then he realized she had been nailed to the floor, right through the heart. "Ra's Blood!" Immortus muttered.

"No." Mister E said as he moved into view. "No pagan deity was involved. This was all my work."

One deck below, Jim Rook winced in pain. He was fairly sure his right leg was broken

and he was bleeding from at least three bullet wounds, maybe four; it was hard to move. The desk console Monsieur Mallah had thrown had pinned him fairly tight. Mallah, a genetically altered gorilla had gone insane with rage at the death of his creator, the Brain. In his rage, he had underestimated Rook's skill with the mystical Nightsword. Mallah coughed in a slow rasping choking sound. Jim Rook, Nightmaster, had managed to throw his enchanted blade with deadly accuracy before the desk console hit him. Mallah's rage drained from him along with his life's blood. Monsieur Mallah inched to the wall, the sword almost hilt deep in his chest. He dragged himself to his feet, turned and glared at Nightmaster. Mallah tried to speak, but his mouth filled up with blood. The ship bucked and rumbled and Mallah pitched forward to his face and all sound from him ceased.

Footsteps moved across the floor. Unhurried. Like someone who knows he can't be killed.

"E!" Rook called out. His own voice sounded thin and shrill to him. He swallowed. "Help me. Mister E! Over here!"

"I see you Nightmaster," E said in his hollow monotone. "Where is the Philosopher's Stone?"

"What? I didn't understand you," Rook's body felt hot. Needles of pain were hitting him everywhere. "Help me. Help, please. Help... get my sword."

"There's not much time left to this vessel," E said from somewhere to his right. "Where is the Philosopher's Stone?"

"I don't know." Rook said. "When I had smashed the machine, Mallah jumped me. It flew off somewhere. That's the truth."

"Ah." Mister E let out a sigh of mild disappointment. His voice changed as if he was speaking to someone else. "I don't think it would be a good idea to search for it right now. Just as well, it will turn up in it's own time." His voice shifted back. "I must be going. Good day."

"E! You can't just leave me here! E!" Rook tried to move his head so he could see where E was standing. "E! Eric! Don't leave! For the love of God, don't leave!"

"The love of God?" E almost laughed. And Rook felt his heart freeze. "Really. With all your sins, I didn't think you a hypocrite as well." E's soft chuckle receded.

"Don't leave! Eric! E! Damn you to Hell!!"

***

The full cause of the Luna Five disaster was never known. The ship broke apart and burned up in the Earth's atmosphere leaving no clues. Design flaws and an "unexpectedly strong solar wind" were finally blamed. In the meantime, the Philosopher's Stone dropped to Earth, unharmed by the destructive flames and guided by a mystic fate stronger than laws of physics. Unlike the Nightsword which was man-made first and then enchanted, the Stone was a piece of magic by itself and not easily destroyed. The Stone was roughly the size of a matchbox and should have dropped into one of the oceans. Instead, it altered course and landed with unerring precision in a muddy field of Felipe Juarez's farm and waited.

It would be a mistake to assume the Stone possessed an intelligence; as an object of magic it falls outside of normal rules. Giving a storm a human name doesn't make it intelligent and noting the movements of a magical item should not a taken as anything other than magic at work. Magic can not exist in a vacuum; it requires contact and finds it, attracted by emotions as well as wishes and other forms of prayer. Most magic could be described as a force of desire yet magical items, such as the Stone, remain neutral. It is the nature of the magic user's desire that makes it either "white" or "black." But a magical item has desires of its own; the more it is used the more it wants to be used. The Stone was in a state of high agitation and it zeroed in on the rage of Felipe Juarez, perhaps because rage was the most recent emotion that touched it. Felipe's desire to escape his miserable farm was intensely focused and that reached out to the falling Stone and guided it to him.

Felipe's spirit was shattered. Four years of drought had been followed by a very wet winter. His farm was a failure. But that wasn't what had turned to heart to broken glass. His brother, Alfredo, whom Felipe trusted more than anyone else, had convinced his sister-in-law to leave for El Norte. Cuckolded by his brother! The shame and rage made it even harder to work the farm. If suicide wasn't a mortal sin, Felipe would have hanged himself. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of seeing his beloved Benita and baby brother Alfredo screaming in terror before he killed them.

It had been three days since he last ate but he hardly noticed. He left the adobe his grandfather built and went for a walk in the cooling night air. Outside in the muddy ruins of his life he stooped to pick up a shiny stone. An electrical charge jolted up his arm. Felipe glared at the Stone and with all his might wished he was in the same city as his faithless wife.

Felipe felt wind whip around him. He cried out. The Stone burned into his hand but he couldn't let go. He shut his eyes in pain and fear and his stomach dropped violently. The world slipped from under him and he was sent spinning through an unknown space. Felipe tried to open his eyes when he realized he was falling, but the lids would not obey the command. He screamed, a long time, until his throat was raw. Then he felt soft sand underneath his feet and the spinning stopped, though he felt dizzy and ill. The burning in his hand was replaced with a coolness and the sudden wind ceased. Felipe kept his eyes closed. Alien noises assaulted his ears. Shaking uncontrollably, Felipe slowly opened his eyes. He was standing on the shoreline of a city of enormous size. The Stone slipped from his fingers, but Felipe barely registered the loss. He was in an El Norte harbor, somewhere in the promised land. He felt another horrible animal sound escape his mouth and he stumbled into the city, another orphan of hope and reason.

***

Edith Ash needed a cigarette. She dug around her purse and came up with nothing. Damn. The Gotham city taxes had pushed smokes to almost four bucks a pack and she was certain she had two dollars worth of cancer sticks around somewhere.

"Shit." She must have left them behind in the bar. Dino, Marty, Mr Rip and his creepy pal, Bad Grit, had come in right at the 2 AM closing and told her to take off. She was more than happy to oblige.

The crowd at Ripper's had been thinning out over the past couple of months and tips had taken a nasty nose dive. The yuppie scum were slumming at that new joint on Battery Road. Edith didn't mind. She was still fooling herself she looked twenty, but years of drinking and smoking combined with a ritual summer deep sun tan had made her face hard and sharp. She was 35 but could be easily mistaken for ten years older. Her figure was on the boyish side, small and slim but weight was beginning to collect on her hips and it was harder than ever to ignore the constant ache in her knees and feet. But at the moment, the most important thing was a cigarette.

Edith walked back toward Ripper's. The neon lights were off, but the front lights at the back of the bar were always on. She figured Mr Rip had come in to grab a fist full of bills and head off to a poker game or something. He was like that. Edith heard rumors that Mr Rip was in the mob, but didn't believe it. He wasn't the type. Dino and Marty were good natured bums as far as she could tell; a couple of guys stuck in the disco age like those guys from the Saturday Night Live skit.

Bad Grit was a different matter. Bad Grit wasn't his real name, but it was something like that in his native tongue. He was from Bosnia or one of those other messed up countries where no one spoke anything resembling a language she'd ever heard before. Bad Grit had a bullet shaped head that went directly to a thick neck attached to a broad thick set of shoulders and wide chest. From there, he tapered down rapidly. His hips were very narrow which made him look short-waisted and his feet were almost tiny. He looked as if two different people had been put together poorly as a joke, but Bad Grit's face was so utterly devoid of humor that laughter died when he entered a room. Edith had no trouble imaging Bad Grit as a member of a foreign Death Squad or as a hit man. Even thinking about him gave her goose bumps; he was a real bogey man.

She sighed with relief as she unlocked the bar door and went inside. No one was around.

She moved quickly behind the bar and went to turn off the alarm but it hadn't been set. She got her cigarettes from the side of the cash register and heard a thumping sound from the back room. Then there was a giggle. Marty, most likely.

Edith decided to tell Mr Rip that she had come back for her smokes and to see if they wanted her to set the front door alarm. The back room had its own code and could be set independently. Edith pushed open the swinging door and stopped. Mr Rip was standing at the head of the work table with Dino and Marty at the sides. Bad Grit was standing slightly behind Dino, wiping his hands on a red towel. Tied to the table was a man with his mouth taped shut. His eyes were wide with terror. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts on his bare chest and Dino was struggling to get the man's arm back under the ropes. Two fingers were missing from the man's hand. They all turned and looked at Edith. The man on the table tried to scream. His back arched and he came down with a thump. She swallowed hard.

"Sorry," she muttered. She backed away and bolted for the front door. Bad Grit bounded after her. She swung her purse at him and smashed him in the face. He paused for a second, but that was all she needed. She was on the street and running for her life with Bad Grit right behind.

At 2 AM the streets were eerily empty. The chances of making it all the way to Canal Street were slim, so Edith ducked down an alleyway and headed for the harbor. She could lose Bad Grit along the pier. There were thousands of hiding places, especially at night.

Two blocks to the beach. A quarter mile. She couldn't scream if she wanted to. Her lungs felt like they were on fire. She didn't dare look over her shoulder; if Bad Grit was closing on her, she didn't want to know. Wasn't anyone out driving tonight? Where were the cops? A taxi? Anyone?

One block to the beach. Without wanting to, her head turned back. Bad Grit was indeed gaining on her. A burning sob tore out of her mouth. She clenched her teeth and tried to run faster. She could hear the low waves hitting the sandy shore and see the light of a lonely buoy marking the deep channel out to sea.

She jumped down the six stairs to the beach and stumbled forward, keeping her balance and still running. The sand was cold and treacherous. She thought she heard Bad Grit fall hard only a few feet behind her, but she didn't dare look this time. The beach was impossibly empty.

It was never this empty. Where the hell was everybody? She cried out to a man. A wild-eyed Mexican running off. She tried to shout again when suddenly something very hard hit her in the back.

Edith bounced down the beach almost to the water's edge. Bad Grit was breathing hard, making a sound like gravel moving down a steel slide. He picked her up by a handful of hair and threw her like a broken doll into the water. Edith hit hard. She sputtered and floundered. Then she was tossed back onto the beach. She tried to move but a something hit her very hard in the face. She got to her knees and sobbed.

Bad Grit barked at her in his uncomprehensible language. Edith sobbed again. She clawed at the cold, uncaring sand and her fist closed around something hard and flat and impossibly warm.

"Bitch. You die now," Bad Grit said. From his narrow hips he produced a gun. It looked small in his hands and at the same time impossibly huge to Edith.

Edith felt her stomach churning. She squeezed the warm smooth stone in her hand wished Bad Grit was in her place. There was a snapping sound as if firecrackers were going off around her. Bad Grit raised the gun, apparently not hearing the noise. Edith winced.

And Edith stood pointing a gun at Bad Grit who was on his knees in the cold water. There was a look a surprise on his face that mirrored her own. He raised his hand to defend himself and she fired. The bullet went straight through his palm and into his shoulder. He let out a grunt of pain. She fired again, hitting him in the chest. Bad Grit lunged toward her and fell face first at her feet.

Edith dropped the gun. She stood looking at Bad Grit uncertainly, her breath finally slowing down. Damn. What she needed now was a cigarette. The lit cigarette appeared in her lips instantly. She inhaled greedily, coughed and wheezed and took a more controlled drag.

Edith opened her palm and looked at the rectangular shaped stone. "A wish-come true!" she said aloud. She looked at Bad Grit and almost laughed. Was it possible? It had to be, but how?

Oh, my god, Edith thought. If only Tommy could see this now.

"Gaaaaah!" Tom Taskil screamed. He was clutching a beer bottle in one hand and a pool stick in the other. He was standing in the water directly behind Bad Grit's body. "What's going on? How did I get here?"

"Tom!" Edith cried, delighted. "Oh Tom!" She ran to him and almost knocked him over.

"Oh, Tom! A miracle! A miracle!"

"Edith!" Tom said, wavering to keep his balance. He steadied himself and Edith with the pool stick and they slowly walked out of the water. Tom looked at Bad Grit.

"Jesus! What's going on?" Even when not bewildered, Tom had a stunned bunny look about him. He was lean and stoop shouldered. He kept his face unshaven because he thought it made him look tough when all it did was make him look lazy. He was dressed in flora-print shirt

and white pants, still clinging to the notion that one day, he would become the next Tom Sellack, apparently confusing the actor with the tv detective he played over fifteen years ago. Tom and Edith were sometimes lovers, but most often sounding boards to pipe dreams, lost hopes and daily gripes. They were each other's only true friend. And most of the time that was enough.

"I'll show you Tom, I'll show you!" Edith said. "There's nothing we can't do now."

She smiled broadly. Tom, still dazed, didn't have time to protest before they vanished into the air.

Bad Grit grunted, sputtered and coughed. He shook his head and moved painfully to his feet. She had shot him! That stupid whore had actually shot him. His right arm and hand were numb and the bullet in his chest hurt too. Stupid woman didn't know that a .22 was only good for placing a bullet in the base of skull. A worthless weapon when proper killing needed to be done. Bad Grit still would need medical attention and Mr Rip would be asking too many questions that couldn't be answered right now. It was highly unlikely for Mr Rip to understand that his enforcer had been magicked by the barmaid. Bad Grit wasn't going to doubt what his own experience showed him. He had the girl dead. And then the universe switched on him. His old grandmother, may she rest peacefully, had told him of such things. The ways of witchcraft were not to be explained. One accepted them. Then one found where the witch was hiding and destroyed her.

Bad Grit muttered a prayer of protection from evil. He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand to stanch the bleeding and moved back into the city pondering his righteous revenge.

Next: The Bag Lady Goddess