A short story from the Gods Inc. Universe
With a trembling hand, Lika traced the letters engraved in the door: “BACCH’S”. At long last, he had arrived.
His birth, his sickness,
his pain, the tortuous treatment, the ostracism from his peers, all had
conspired to bring him here. To amass the necessary funds for the astronomical
teleportation fee, he had spent ten horrible years of arduous toil punctuated
by the sporadic kicks of elephants in the granite quarries of Siruvalai.
Two hours earlier, he
had finally set foot in the wondrous city that was Atlantis. He hadn’t taken
the time to admire its marvels. He had gone directly to his seedy hotel to
change into his best suit, also seedy, before running here.
He pushed the door. The
low-ceilinged room was jam-packed, hazy with smoke, the noise deafening. He
made his way to the bar, where he found a free stool. He sat down and looked
around. He was miffed that this legendary establishment, of which he had heard
so many tales, looked like any other.
Not that he had
frequented such places often, but apart from the maelstrom of colors created by
the enameled brick walls, the shimmering fabrics and the miniature altars
disseminated all around, the rest seemed ordinary. Small tables, wobbly chairs,
and an elongated bar that protruded from the back and divided the space in two.
Inside the gleaming wood fortress, good-looking girls were busily serving
drinks under the watchful eyes of Bacchus; around its periphery, clients were
getting steadily drunker.
At least they were peculiar. One wore a plumed
helmet and brandished a huge hammer at regular intervals. Another was relaxing,
floating a meter above the counter. In front of Lika, a monstrous woman (it was
hard to be sure, what with the elephant skin and the tortoise-like face, but
the enormous breasts trying to escape the décolleté were a clue) winked at him
sexily. He ordered a whisky to regain his composure.
He drank and saw her through the bottom of the glass. Her
blue skin, her six arms, her golden ornaments and her nudity defied the
thickness of the crystal. His country’s statues hadn’t lied. He had found his
patron, the goddess that had presided over his birth, Kali.
He took a last sip of
courage and got up. A few feet from her, the alcohol evaporated and he lost his
resolve. Two clients were playing a game of dice at a table beside him. He
dropped into the third chair and asked if he could join the game.
“We’ve already started
this one,” answered the kindly old man. “But you can play the next round.”
His thick beard, as
white as the aureole of his hair, didn’t hide his smile. Only the fact that he
was wearing a long white nightgown, adorned with what seemed to be small pink
flowers, suggested that he wasn’t your run-of-the-mill patriarch.
His opponent was
weirder. His skin was red, bright enough to compete with a wedding sari. A thin
goatee elongated his chin. His black hair, greased back, revealed two small
horns growing on his forehead, and the furry end of his tail would smooth it
back from time to time. His clothing was just as incongruous: his tight shirt
was covered in purple sequins and his assorted pants seemed to be made out of
cellophane (luckily opaque). A long cape, black as night, completed the
ensemble.
Lika thought he had
heard about these two immortals, but to avoid any faux pas, he tried to start a
round of introductions: “My name is Lika.”
“We know,” replied the
red one without reciprocating.
He threw a six, a three
and a five.
“What are the rules?”
asked Lika.
“You must throw
triples,” explained the Old Man. “The highest one wins, but the other has
another throw to nullify or beat it.”
He threw two threes and
a two. The other one threw two fours and a five.
Blue hands laid
themselves on Lika’s shoulders. He turned slowly, dumbstruck. Kali, radiant
with beauty, had approached him from behind. To give himself time to regain the
use of his speech, he handed her a pen and a pad in that universal gesture of
submission meaning: “Give me your autograph, PLEASE.”
Keeping one hand on his
shoulder, Kali smiled, took the pad and signed. He read what she had written
under her signature: “Be careful, these two have taken you in charge.”
Confused, he looked back
at her. She sighed.
“If you had come to me
first,” she said in a gentle voice, “I could have helped you. But you sat with
them, and now they are playing for your soul. If the old man wins, your
suffering will be… shortened, and you will go to heaven. If the other one wins,
you will be cured and live for a long time, but there will be a price…”
She left him in
suspense, returning to her table at the back of the room.
The old man threw two
fives and a six.
The other one,
predictably, threw a triple six. Lika felt a surge of joy.
“Hou! I won!” exclaimed
the red being, jumping out of his chair. “I won! Gna-gnan!”
He pulled out his
tongue, which stopped one centimeter away from the old man’s nose.
Lika felt a shiver run
down his spine.
The red being started to
gyrate in a bizarre dance: he slid while going backwards; he made his tail spin
with one hand while grabbing his crotch with the other. And finally, he
squeaked a little cry and lifted his hand, now covered by a sparkling white
glove, high up in the air. The old man shrugged.
“I still have a turn
left, stupid.”
The other froze for a
moment, then exhaled loudly.
“Crap!” he said, sitting
back down.
The old man plunged his
blue eyes into Lika’s, right down to the soul. The moment stretched into an
eternity.
He threw three eights.
