There are bullies under the summer sun. They have no sense of mercy, they inflict harm without cause, and they don’t even have the decency to enjoy it. They buzz around like yellow caution signs of doom. They set up shop exactly where it will worst inconvenience you – butting into your backyard and your homes like they own the place. And if you say anything, they stab you.
I am, of course, talking about wasps. Nature, for all its horrors, is pretty chill all told. Spiders only bother you when you bother them (“It’s not MY fault you walked into the web I set up at eye level”). Tigers and bears and wolves are just hungry, or you got too close to their cubs. Who doesn’t get angry when someone messes with their kids? Sharks are the victims of bad press. Just because someone can’t blink or smile or emote in any way comprehensible to human brains is no reason to discriminate (also, get out of the water). And crocodiles and hippos … okay, they’re pretty bad, but if you keep your distance they’re okay.
Wasps don’t keep their distance. Wasps don’t need a reason. Wasps go out looking for trouble. Those narrow, spindly bodies, those pitch-dark eyes … Just look at the villainous invertebrates!
Look at them! Look at the vile monstrosities!
Not at all like the humble bee. Bees are selfless. Bees are productive. Bees can coexist with mankind. If you rile them up, they’ll sting once and give their lives for the colony. See, even if you’re being swarmed by bees, they’re still quite heroic when you think about it. They give themselves for a greater cause. Not wasps. The only thing a wasp has to give is PAIN.
They don’t produce honey or wax or even jelly. They got nothing (except the aforementioned giving of pain). All animals, no matter how scary, are reasonable enough when you get to know them. Except wasps. They gang up on you because you looked at them funny. They are genocidal, resource-hording invaders. They’re under your feet. They’re in your walls. They want your PB&J sandwich. They’ve claimed your favorite climbing tree and will obliterate you if you get too close. Screw you, wasps.
Wasps are jerks.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
When you think of writing a book, “commitment” is a word you might associate with time discipline, writing a certain number of words per day, or setting aside a chunk of your budget for publishing and marketing. You wouldn’t necessarily think of the writing itself. After all, writing is all about making changes. That’s what drafts are for! But there is at least one piece of the puzzle on which you have to make a choice early on, and from which backing out can be painful. That is choosing your narrative point-of-view.
Now, third-person is common and popular, but what if you go for first-person? Ah, then you really have to commit, because first-person narrative has a whole set of pros and cons to it that change the way you tell the story.
The pros? Writing in first-person lets you get inside the head of your POV character, whether they be the protagonist or someone else, and really dig into their psychology and the world they live in. It’s a very personal method of storytelling. You really get to know who this character is as a person. Plus, you get to shape the story and its twists and surprises in a fairly organic way. The reader can only know what the narrator knows (or thinks they know). And the narrator doesn’t have to be honest or reliable.
On the other hand, first-person limits the scope of your storytelling. You can’t describe a distant scene two countries over, you can’t pull back and dedicate a few paragraphs to an unbiased history of the setting, and most importantly, you are restricted to the one character. You can’t jump between multiple peoples’ perspectives.
Ok, that’s not true. Crazy geniuses can write books that feature multiple POV characters told from multiple first-person perspectives, but I’m not brave enough to try it. But if you have written or read such a book, let me know in the comments. I’d be interested in reading it.
Your narrative is narrow in scope. That’s not to say the story itself has to be . It can be a sprawling epic, but you will only see it through the eyes of one person. That’s why you have to be sure of yourself before you start. You’re gonna have to commit.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Crossover, crossovers. People from different worlds smashing into each other. Different genres, different styles, different stories. Throw them in a mixer and see what happens.
What’s the appeal? I’d say it comes down to simple curiosity. What would happen if Superman met Captain America? How would Greek myths get on with Chinese myths? Can a pirate really defeat a ninja?
It’s a popular trend these days. Maybe not so much in novel writing, but movies love them, video games really love them, and comics are practically built on them. And they’re fun. But there’s something about these companies’ strategy that is missing the point of a crossover. Every time one occurs (multiple times a year), it’s built up as the MOST INCREDIBLE THING EVER. And people get excited sure. But not like they used to.
Way back in 2008, when Nick Fury stepped out of the shadows at the end of the first Iron Man film to talk about “the Avenger Initiative,” fans squealed with joy and anticipation. Nowadays, the next big Marvel crossover film elicits a non-committal “Eh,” at best.
As a writer, my professional opinion is that crossovers are not easy to pull off anymore, largely because they’ve been done to death.
And that, I think, is the strength and weakness of the concept. Crossovers are big events. They’re something special, something noteworthy. Two completely different worlds colliding is interesting, and fans are curious to see if it can be pulled off. Batman and Elmer Fudd? Yeah, it’s been done, and it won’t be done again because you can’t capture that kind of lightning in a bottle twice. Crossovers are like a fine wine, best in small sips. Overuse just makes you feel overwhelmed. Try imagining a world where the Super Bowl happens every month.
Another example: Back in the 1980s, Mario and Sonic the Hedgehog were the pinnacle of dueling video game mascots. Who was better? Who was cooler? Then, one fateful day, they appeared together in the same game. Awesome! But they’ve done so again and again, and what was something that nobody ever saw coming is now ho-hum, another day in the neighborhood. Video game characters appear in each other’s franchises all the time, now. It’s practically an industry standard.
As it turns out, such “events” are best when served rare. Very rare. Otherwise, they aren’t events. They’re business as usual.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Masterpiece. It’s a word you hear often. So often, I feel that its meaning has been drained out of it. Like “genius” and “magnum opus,” it’s a label we often apply to something that we enjoy on a personal level, regardless of whether it deserves the title.
A little harsh? Probably. There’s nothing wrong with liking something. In fact, I encourage you to like lots of things. Enjoy life. But I like to overthink things and write them down, so why not dig a little deeper?
Masterpiece. It’s actually two words. Master. Piece. A master piece. In ye olden days, guilds and academies required their apprentices and journeymen to submit a masterpiece as part of their application to the status of master. Hence, they presented a piece that marked mastery of their craft, be it carpentry, smithing, jewelry, baking, or what have you. Proof and demonstration that they were worthy of attaining the highest rank, as judged by their superiors.
So, it was something that was measured against quantifiable standards. A masterpiece was actually a lot like today’s college senior capstones: a final paper or project that demonstrates the graduate’s understanding of their degree subject. Or perhaps more appropriately, it is like a doctorate or master’s thesis (and there’s the word “master” again!). That’s not really surprising, considering that guilds, like schools, train people for careers.
But the word’s meaning changed over time, as words are wont to do. Now, a masterpiece has come to hold an even more elevated meaning. It is not simply proof of an individual’s skill, but it is the apex of their skill. Mona Lisa is Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. Not his first work, but widely considered his best. 1984 is George Orwell’s masterpiece, and Star Wars is George Lucas’s.
So what does the word mean nowadays? It means something superlative, something that represents the epitome of the creator’s talent and understanding of the art. It is applied to anything that can be considered great or notable. And in so doing, we have, oddly enough, brought the word down. A masterpiece is declared as such by critics who are not necessarily practitioners of the art. Anyone who favors a particular artist or author and is eager to share that love can declare their favorite work to be a masterpiece, regardless of what merit it actually represents. That happens with all words – their meanings change and are shaped by usage into something quite different, and will again in a hundred years or so – but looking back at a word’s origin can make you look at it a little differently. A little more carefully.
A masterpiece was originally something that proved the apprentice was worthy of the master’s rank as judged by his teachers. It was a stepping stone from a lower tier to a higher one. It was a gateway and a turning point in one’s life. It was something singular and unique. It was the masterpiece of your career. It was something special.
Call me grumpy, but I think we can be more mindful when using words like masterpiece. They are powerful words, and applying them more prudently can in turn make us consider the media we consume more carefully. A bit of critical thinking put into evaluating whether something is truly a master’s piece. And that’s good practice for any artist.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
The story of the redeemed villain is a common and provocative trope in storytelling. It’s always fascinating to witness how a thoroughly evil and vile figure can turn around and repent of their ways. We like to see these tales play out and watch what happens next. It appeals to us.
Maybe the villain is likeable enough that we don’t want to see them die, or maybe we even see a little bit of ourselves in there, and hope that their redemption means there’s hope for us, too. Whatever the reason, a villain’s redemption is a major story beat, and should be treated as such. Which, in turn, means that writers should seriously consider it before going through with it. Is it the right move for the story? Is the villain truly redeemable, that is to say, is it a logical and fitting step in their growth as a character? Are they willing to seek redemption? Most importantly, can they be redeemed in a way that the audience finds natural and believable?
It’s easy to fall in love with a good villain and not want them to die. So, some writers just … give them an out. The villain evades consequences, sobs a few tears, gives a dramatic monologue, and skips on over to the side of good. And are welcomed with open arms. But is that how it would actually play out in the context of the world you’ve written? How bad is your bad guy? Did they blow up a planet, or just steal a few pies? If it’s the former, do you really expect them to be immediately welcomed and trusted by the heroes?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about a villain-hero team-up. Sometimes, good guy and bad guy have to work together, usually against a worse bad guy, but the villain remains clearly villainous, just currently motivated by shared interest. To be redeemed, a villain must be penitent. And to be penitent, a villain must truly feel remorse. And in feeling remorse, a villain must show a change in action and motivation.
A redemption arc is character development. The character will not be the same person at the end of it. Indeed, we writers should seriously consider this fact. If the villain was likeable because of their villainy, then redeeming them may in fact hurt them as a character. They’re no longer a villain. Will that take away what made them interesting and engaging?
On the other hand, you could have the villain redeemed through the classic act of self-sacrifice. It worked for Darth Vader, didn’t it? But, and hear me out, I think this is a bit of a cheat. Imagine how different things would have been for this classic movie villain if he had survived and had to stand trial before the people whose friends and family he had slaughtered. He would have to face his daughter Leia over the destruction of Alderaan. He would deliver himself into the hands of the Rebel Alliance he had hunted down for the whole trilogy. He’d have to live with the memories of his crimes. He’d have to do more than gasp a few words to his son as he lay dying to convince us he was truly changed. He would have to make his redemption stick. An interesting thought, no?
Redemption arcs are fascinating. They offer an incredible opportunity to explore facets of a character that usually aren’t. How and why does the villain do what they do? What would make them stop doing it? Can they stop? Do they have doubts? Do they value something greater than their current goals that they would give up their desires for? These are the sorts of questions that can help you figure out if your villain is a candidate for a moral turnaround.
The most important question to ask is: Does it serve the story? We are talking about fictional characters, after all. They’re not real people, they’re figures in a narrative that we as writers have the responsibility and privilege to manage and direct. Redemption and repentance in real life is quite another thing entirely, even if they do inspire our work. Real life is fuzzy. We can’t truly know other people’s motivations. But we can know exactly what motivates the characters we write, and so we can answer this question with confidence: Can my villain stop being bad?
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
Tricksters are fascinating to read about and to write about. They’re the weirdos who exist on the fringes of polite society. They’re the ones who can get away with what other people can’t. They’re stick their tongues out at the world and make the rules work for them, rather than working according to the rules.
Tricksters are fun. They’re fun because, deep down, don’t we all enjoy seeing someone willing to say what we’re all thinking and doing what we wish we could? Tricksters are escapist characters. They pay back the jerks and the bullies, outwit the corrupt authority figures, and flout senseless and silly rules. We all enjoy our Robin Hoods and B’rer Rabbits.
Writing tricksters is fun, too. Writing the character of Hermes for my books has let me see the world from a different point of view. I suppose writing any character gives you such insights, but seeing the world through a trickster’s eyes …
They’re a surprisingly philosophical bunch. As characters whose primary role is to push boundaries and alter the status quo, they are naturally prone to questioning the point of things. Why are things the way they are? Why should (or shouldn’t) they change? Tricksters are the ones who can call out others for their actions and make the rest of the cast pause and think. And that makes for interesting writing. The archetype can fill all sorts of niches, whether the villainous anarchist, the secret mentor, the voice of reason, or the snarky smart aleck who gets all the best lines.
And then, of course, there’s the trickster as protagonist. Tricksters can carry a story all by themselves. By their very nature, they’re proactive. They get things done. The can save the day (or ruin it – protagonist doesn’t mean hero). Since the archetype is almost always transgressive in some way, he or she gets to give society a kick in the pants, usually by acting so outrageously or cunningly that nobody knows what to expect next.
Speaking of cunning, writing tricksters has also taught me a bit about plotting out, well, plots. I sometimes feel like we live in an age of fiction where schemes and trickery must be excessively complex. Writers like to create grand conspiracies, when a trickster is just as likely to tap you on one shoulder while standing on the opposite side. Committing a trickster like Hermes to the page has shown me that deception can be much simpler. Tricking people doesn’t really seem to be that hard. Often, it’s just a matter of reading people and playing up to expectations. Or remembering that most people just want today to be the same as yesterday and aren’t expecting to be hoodwinked. Then again, written characters also behave according to how the author has plotted them to behave, so maybe I’m just blowing smoke.
So, tricksters upend the social order. They slip into different roles with ease. They’re many things to many people. What they aren’t is moral, upstanding role models.
But …
What if a trickster tries to be moral? Is such a thing possible? Trickery is lying, and lying is immoral. Can you reconcile the trickster archetype with the hero archetype? Transgressing social values and upholding them? Can the two be melded? A liar with a moral compass? Can a trickster follow right and reject wrong? Can anything truly good come from trickery?
Very interesting philosophical musings, indeed. I’m still messing about with such notions in my writing. My version of Hermes is developing as I go, revealing new facets of his personality as my works progress. Tricksters aren’t simple characters, after all.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
This is the second half of my short story excerpt from A God Walks Up to the Bar. Go here to view the first half.
—
I walked into a scene right out of a 1930s gangster movie. Five men sat around a table playing cards, cigarette smoke hovering over them like angry clouds. The scent of alcohol wafted from half-empty liquor bottles to mingle with the smoke. Five faces looked up as I entered and stared daggers into me.
It was quite the diverse crew Stauffer had. Sitting closest to the door was a squat, grey-skinned goblin. To his right was a great hulk of a man whose tree-trunk arms cordoned off a quarter of the table as he guarded his cards. Another half-ogre. Across from him sat a man whose face was entirely covered in a bristly black beard save for his red eyes. To his left was a slender, fragile-looking man with ash-colored hair who exuded magical power.
And then there was Arnold Stauffer, seated in his armchair on the far side of the table facing the door. He had a cigar in his mouth and a hand of cards in his thick fingers.
We Immortals are a funny lot. As our kind drifts along time’s currents, watching civilizations rise, rule, and fall, many of us beach ourselves along the way. Some are just too stubborn and irked by keeping pace with changing times. They lose track of the eras and fixate on one specific point. It may be a particular century, decade, or even one notable year. They cling to that time’s fashions for so long that they become walking anachronisms, lodged in attitudes and styles long since abandoned.
Not easy individuals to deal with. It’s hard to negotiate with someone who not only dresses like they’re in the Elizabethan era but talks and acts like it. You want to laugh, but then you remember how easily they can strike you with lightning and plague if you offend their obsolete sensibilities.
Stauffer had started his rise to power in 1920, so the period had sentimental value to him. His aesthetic clung to “Prohibition-era gangster,” suits, Tommy guns and all. It was a style that really didn’t fit him. The sharp-cut suit clung awkwardly to his hulking frame so that he looked like an angry boulder wearing a necktie. His pencil mustache clashed with a jagged nose broken in three different places. His slicked black hair was a hilariously tiny patch on top of a craggy, oversized skull.
Stauffer wanted to look a gentleman, but that’s hard to do when you’re a primal incarnation of nature’s fury.
He was a half-jötunn — a descendant of the giants of the north. They were sovereigns of nature’s wrathful aspects. Their kings had shaped mountains, unleashed fire and magma from the earth, stirred up hurricanes, and rained down hail and thunder. And here was Arnold Stauffer, the blood of King Thrym running in his veins and eyes swirling like a storm, trying to conceal that heritage with a side-combed haircut and bespoke suit. Seeing a manifestation of cataclysm dressed up like Al Capone and playing poker? It was surreal. Absurd.
Stauffer leaned back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigar. Smoke billowed out of his mouth as he spoke.
“Mister, I hope for your sake that you’re someone very important.”
I bowed. “Lord Hermes of Olympus, Herald of the Dodekatheon, who speaks with the voice of Lord Zeus to Arnold Stauffer of the bloodline of Thrym.”
Stauffer put down his cards. “Proof?”
I sighed inwardly. There had been a time when this was easy. When those words made people snap to attention. I took off my ring and tossed it to him. He caught it and inspected it for a moment, then he threw it back.
“Lord Hermes himself. What an honor. What a privilege.” He spat the words out like curses. “So, what does the old fart on the mountain have to say? What horrible punishment will he rain down on this old sinner?”
He laughed. His minions half-heartedly joined him but kept their heads down. Only Stauffer dared look me in the eye.
“Punishment?” I raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t about punishment. We’re civilized folk in a civilized age. Lord Zeus recognizes your authority and your bloodline and so is willing to show leniency. We can resolve this matter quickly and painlessly.”
Stauffer said nothing but waved at me with his cigar to go on.
“The message, to wit, is this: For the past six months, you have been expanding your operations in this city. You approached a man named Zachary Jensen, owner of real estate that you desired. This man is a scion of Lord Zeus. You knew this.”
Stauffer watched me with an indifferent expression. His minions shuffled a little in their seats. Their bodies were tense.
“Five days ago, you invited Mr. Jensen to a restaurant under your ownership and offered him money in exchange for his property. He declined. It is understood by Olympus that he refused … harshly, replying with insults against you and your lineage. The following night, when he arrived home, he was attacked by four men and beaten almost to death. Olympus knows it was at your order. Do not deny it.”
“I never did.”
“In harming a child of the Olympians, you displayed gross disrespect towards Lord Zeus. However, he is willing to show mercy as long as proper compensation is made. Namely—”
“I don’t kowtow to old gods!” Stauffer shouted. “I won’t—”
“Firstly,” I carried on resolutely, “you will affirm here and now your intent to abide by the rules of the Contract. Our law forbids Lord Zeus from taking direct retribution against you and your own within New York, a recognized Free City. So, too, does it forbid your organization from laying hands on any recognized demigod.”
Stauffer bared his teeth in an ugly smile. “I was within my rights. He insulted me and so I —”
“Secondly, you will provide compensation for the injuries done to Jensen. This compensation will consist of two million dollars taken out of your organization’s profits.”
At this, the table rumbled with angry mutterings. Stauffer’s defiant grin grew larger.
“In one week’s time, representatives from Olympus will arrive here to collect the money. And finally, the restaurant at which you met Jensen will, freely and by your own hand, be gifted to Lord Zeus. You will hand over the deed and all other necessary documentation to the Olympian representatives, and Olympus will take up management of the premises. In so doing, you will have displayed proper atonement for your crime.”
I saw the anger in Stauffer boil hotter with every word. As I finished, he shot up from his chair and slammed his hands on the table.
“I refuse,” he said. “I will give Olympus nothing. I don’t jump when you bark. I don’t roll over and show my belly. You and your kin, all you so-called ‘gods,’ have no power over me. Over anyone in this city.”
He exhaled a heavy breath, and the smoke billowed out like from a dragon’s den. “Look around you. Look anywhere in this city. Humans, goblins, trolls, satyrs, djinn, jötunn, all of us, we go about our lives without a thought given to you. You’re nothing now but curiosities in museums, characters in comic books. You’re just fantasies. Nobody really remembers you. We’ve moved beyond you.”
He stretched out his arms, inviting me to challenge him. “The god Thor killed my ancestor Thrym, but his successors watched Thor die at Ragnarök and spat on his corpse. They watched all you Immortals bicker and slaughter each other. You destroyed your own empires, and the mortals hated you for it. You thought making your Contract could help you rebuild. But what happened next? Science came and explained you away. Philosophy killed any faith left in your kind. Technology made you obsolete. And what did you mighty gods do when the prayers stopped? What happened when the temples were left to crumble? Nothing.”
I scratched my neck idly as I listened to his rant. I might as well let him get this off his chest.
“You don’t have any power. You’re just tired old dogs bound by your precious rules. Because without the Contract, you’d tear yourselves apart again, wouldn’t you? And you, Hermes, you’re just an over-glorified errand boy.” Alright, that made me perk up. “You lay a finger on me, and you violate your laws. So, all you can do is spout empty threats. Get out.”
He finished and glared at me triumphantly. I nodded as if acceding to what he said, and strolled past the table. I noticed a ratty-looking couch in the corner and sprawled out on it.
“You know,” I said, “I think there’s a fundamental misunderstanding going on here. Olympus isn’t threatening you. I’m not threatening you. I’m stating facts. You made a mistake, and now you have a chance to make it right. Because, you see”— I held up a hand to cut off another interjection— “this isn’t about the rules. This isn’t about intimidation. This is about the balance of power. You can appreciate that, right? Someone pushes you, you push back. Someone rocks the boat, you tie him down to keep it from capsizing. You can’t get away with mauling demigods without some sort of consequence. What sort of bad precedent would that set?”
Stauffer snorted. “New York is a Free City. The Immortals have no jurisdiction here. We aren’t under any pantheon’s authority.”
“You willing to test that theory? True, no pantheon has direct control over a Free City. It’s neutral ground. But neutral doesn’t mean safe. The Contract is fabulously complex. All sorts of loopholes. Oh, and chew on this: If you walk away from this scot-free, then everyone and their mother who hears about it will figure they can, too. Who’s stopping the supernatural community from settling old grudges and maybe starting a few wars? Maybe even come gunning for you. Who’s going to step in and put a stop to it?” I thumped my chest. “Us. The Immortals. Because we keep the balance.”
Stauffer’s eyes wavered for a moment, but his sneer reasserted itself, and he shook his head.
“I know,” I said coolly, “you’re the big boss. You call the shots. Who can touch you? But let’s think back, shall we? Why are you the big boss? Because you got lucky. Your forefathers are still hiding in Scandinavia, ragged and forgotten, because Ragnarök screwed them over just as badly as it did Thor’s family. So here comes a young man, full of ambition, newly arrived in America, with nothing but brawn, a tangled family tree, and a desire to prove his people still matter. And New York had just come out of a nasty gang war among the supernaturals. I remember. I was there. The war left a power vacuum. Lucky you. You put that brawn to good work and filled the hole.”
“Because I was strong enough,” Stauffer replied. “I took what I wanted and I kept it.”
“Spare me, Arnie. If they were still around, the old families wouldn’t even have noticed you. You’ve never known until now what it’s like to compete in the big leagues. But you’re finding out, aren’t you? The Aristocracy is breathing down your neck. You’ve angered Olympus. Suddenly, the dog is facing the wolves, and what does he do? He hides in a backroom playing poker. Where’s that jötunn pride? Where’s the bravado of the people who watched gods die? Let’s see some strength, Arnie, not big talk.”
This had exactly the effect I knew it would. Wounded pride overcame Stauffer’s self-control. Shaking all over, he walked towards me, fists clenched and breaths coming out in ragged gasps. He stood over me, and I knew from the look in his eye he wasn’t going to let me walk away now.
“Say it,” he whispered. “Just say it.”
I frowned. “Say what?”
“Tell me what you think I am. Say it to my face.”
“Arnie Stauffer? Crime lord of East New York?” I counted on my fingers. “Defier of the gods? Descendant of Thrym, who got his head bashed in by Thor like a chump? Tall, angry man looming over me with murderous rage in his eyes?” My face lit up. “Oh! Do you mean back-stabbing, opportunistic, cowardly piece of meat?”
His hands shot out and grabbed me. He wrenched me off the couch and threw me across the room. I landed on the table. Its occupants backed away as I rolled across and onto the floor, taking beer bottles, cards, and poker chips with me.
I wasn’t down for long. I jumped to my feet, fists at the ready, my mind bandying various strategies on how to win. Because I knew I was going to win.
“Kill him,” Stauffer barked.
I sighed inwardly. Thousands of years of hard-learned lessons, yet folks never really learn.
The slender pale man began muttering under his breath and made a sign with his hands. As the spell manifested, his skin turned white as milk and blue runic symbols shone on his skin. A troll.
I didn’t have time to take him out, though, because I felt a sudden searing pain in my left arm. I turned to see the bearded man gripping me with hands glowing red-hot. He opened his mouth, revealing four rows of razor teeth. I chided myself for not recognizing a ghūl when I saw one.
I twisted my body away from his grip as he tried to bite my arm. With my free hand, I drove a right hook into his head, hitting him hard enough to spin him around. He released my arm, which I promptly used for a jab between the shoulder blades that knocked the wind out of him.
As the ghūl fell to his knees, I felt a constriction around my whole body. The troll was working his magic, weaving cerulean strands of light around me like a rope. I grunted and made towards him, but the bands of light were strong enough to halt my movement. Alright, I admitted to myself, this may be a tad more difficult than I had anticipated.
Then the half-ogre joined the fun.
He rushed past the troll and head-butted me. His skull connected with my jaw and propelled me into the wall with a loud crack of cheap plaster. Still trapped by the troll’s magic, the best I could do in response was an upward kick that looked more like an impression of a flopping fish. The thug threw me to the floor and stomped his foot down — he actually stepped on me! — and drove it as hard as he could into my chest. I think he was surprised that my ribcage didn’t give in.
Enough was enough. The troll was tripping me up with petty magic, the ghūl was regaining enough of his senses to make another go at a taste test, and a half-ogre was literally walking all over me. Time to get serious.
I channeled my own power into breaking the spell. The troll was competent enough but only competent. I envisioned the entangling bands breaking apart. Reality responded to my demand, and the spell swiftly disintegrated into motes of fast-fading light. Several of the motes caught the half-ogre in the eyes. He grunted in pain and backed away as he covered his blinded eyes with his hands.
Able to move freely again, I flipped to my feet in time to catch a bite in the shoulder from that freaking ghūl. I gritted my teeth and elbowed him hard. His head snapped back, taking a nice chunk of my shoulder and jacket with him.
I laid into the half-ogre. A flurry of punches to the stomach softened him up, and a left hook to the hip cracked bone and made the brute double over. I delivered an uppercut that put him back into a standing position before I wrapped a hand around his waist, put my other hand beneath his arm, and lifted him over my head. A flawlessly executed vertical suplex slammed him into the table, splintering it and leaving the half-ogre groaning on the floor.
Incidentally, not many people do their homework on me. They’re so hung up on the “Messenger of the Gods” title that they fail to appreciate my many other admirable attributes. Such as my divine mastery of boxing and wrestling. No man or woman, mortal or otherwise, can beat me in a boxing match. Play fair or cheat, you aren’t going to win.
The troll saw his comrade go down and tried to run. I grabbed him and spun him around to face me. His mouth and eyes formed perfect “O”s when I drove my fist into his chest. He flew across the room into the door. It didn’t break, and he fell down face-forward. He didn’t get back up.
The ghūl was having troubles of his own. He choked and stumbled around as his eyes glazed over. The liquid dribbling from his mouth hadn’t agreed with him. He was quickly learning that the blood of gods was poisonous to mortals. I took him down with an offhand punch.
Stauffer hadn’t budged an inch from where he stood. He was transfixed on me with a mixture of rage, amazement, and stark fear. I turned to the goblin, who hadn’t joined in the fight at all. I lifted an eyebrow. Stauffer also looked at his minion and jerked his head at me.
“You serious, boss?” the goblin scoffed. He jumped over the prostrate troll and bolted out the door.
Stauffer growled a sharp curse.
“You’ll pay for this. You’ve assaulted me on my own property. You’ve violated the Contract, and heads will roll. Mark my words.”
I cracked my knuckles and laughed. “Mark my words, Stauffer, you started this fight. The only head that would roll is yours.”
“You provoked me!” Realization dawned in his eyes. “You wanted this fight to happen!”
“Maybe, maybe not. But it happened. And you started it. You think I’ve breached the Contract, take it up with the High Court. It’s your word against mine.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You do that. Olympus is part of the High Court. My father sits on it. The god you offended.”
His eyes practically bulged out of his head.
“And, I hate to say it, but you are part jötunn. The gods haven’t forgotten what your kind did to Asgard. Take a case to the Court, see what happens.”
“You …You …” He was too angry to form words. Finally, he snapped and charged me.
I was ready. I sidestepped his haymaker, drove my fist into the soft flesh below his ribs, and stuck my foot in front of his leg. He tilted forward ponderously and hit the floor with a heavy thud. He rolled himself over onto his back. He looked up at me, gasping for breath.
“You piece of … You little son of a—”
“Ah-ah!” I wagged my finger. “Blasphemy! Don’t want to add that to your list of offenses.”
I took stock of the scene. The room was trashed, four men were lying on the floor in varying states of consciousness, and I was standing there with my favorite jacket ruined and a piece of my shoulder missing. All in all, things had gone fairly well.
“One week, Stauffer,” I said as I walked away. “You have one week to come up with two million dollars. Olympus’ representatives will be here.” I paused at the door. “They won’t be as polite as me.”
At the sight of my torn clothes and blood — and the sight of my ripped flesh knitting itself back together even as I walked along — the tavern’s occupants looked away from me and became very focused on their drinks. I noticed that Mark was absent. The old man who’d been sitting with him caught my eye and nodded to me with a noncommittal expression.
I walked up to the bar and demanded a shot of whiskey. The bartender obliged me with all due haste. I downed it, put the glass down, and walked out of the bar. The bartender wouldn’t have expected me to pay, anyway.
I was back in the awful drizzle, a little the worse for wear, but in high spirits. I strolled down the sidewalk, happy to be done with that chore and ready for a night of relaxation and enjoyable company. A night at The Vine sounded like just the thing for me.
It had been an exciting errand, certainly, but not anything particularly special. In the grand scheme of life, of all the things I had done and seen and said, this was a minor event. A petty task. Just another message successfully delivered.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
Well, I’ve talked a lot about writing on this blog, but I’ve never actually posted any of my work yet. I thought today that I would post an excerpt from my first-ever published book, A God Walks Up to the Bar. It’s an anthology of five short stories, connected by a framing story, that details the adventures of the Greek god Hermes in modern day. Read and enjoy!
—
The night was gloomy in that part of New York. There was no glamor here, no joyous nightlife. There was just rain drizzling down half-heartedly, covering the sidewalk in a dirty wet sheen that reflected the glare of the streetlights. It reminded me of how long I’d been putting off that vacation to Aruba, and how nice it would be to lounge in the jacuzzi in my apartment. But, alas, no such luxuries tonight. I was on business. The messenger had gotten his assignment, and like the intrepid mail pilots of old, he must get through.
I tromped through the puddles and arrived at my destination. It was a real hole-in-the-wall bar. Its owner had spared no expense in stripping it of the slightest feature that would impress itself in memory. There was no sign, the windows were darkened glass, and the entrance was a blank gray door at the bottom of a flight of concrete steps. I descended and walked inside.
It wasn’t much more cheerful inside the tavern than out. Battered hanging lamps cast everything in a dim reddish-orange tint. The floor was slick with grease, and the air was sour with the scent of cheap beer. It was well into happy hour, but the clientele was sparse. I counted six men hunched over their drinks and making small talk. A couple of them glanced up and appraised me with cold eyes.
This wasn’t a place where people gathered for a good time. This was where you came when you had to conduct business that was frowned upon by civil society. An unfamiliar face like mine wasn’t welcome here. Still, they did little more than scowl at me as I approached the bar.
The bartender had just stepped out of a backroom lugging an icebox when he saw me. He set down the box and fixed his eyes on me. His voice was brusque.
“What’ll it be?”
“Nothing, tonight,” I replied. “I’m here to see your boss.”
The bartender frowned and tilted his head.
“I’m here to see Stauffer,” I clarified.
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Who wants to see him?”
I set both my hands on the bar counter. I immediately regretted it — the wood was sticky with spilled alcohol — but I wasn’t about to show squeamishness. I pushed my right hand forward and curled my knuckles, displaying the ring I wore.
A gold ring with a seal displaying two serpents wrapped around a winged staff. The Caduceus. My personal symbol.
The bartender’s frown deepened. He recognized it.
“You’re an Olympian,” he said slowly.
“That I am,” I replied with a friendly smile. “Hermes of Olympus, Swift-runner and Wayfarer, Herald of the Dodekatheon, et cetera, et cetera. I’m here to see Arnold Stauffer with a message straight from Lord Zeus. And I fear it must be delivered face-to-face.”
He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Sorry, my lord, but I can’t say I’ve—”
I held up my hand. “Tell you what. Let’s skip the part where you pretend that he conveniently stepped out a few hours ago and you don’t know when he’ll be back. I know he’s here. Does that sound good to you? Good, that’s settled. Now, just point me to his room, and I’ll be out of your hair faster than a Valkyrie can chug mead.”
The bartender gave a short, ugly chuckle. “He won’t see you today, my lord. He’s busy.”
“Oh!” I replied in mock horror. “He’s busy. Olympus forbid.” I leaned farther forward. “If it’s trouble you’re worried about, I’m not here to knock heads and pull ears. It’s a simple message. A communiqué. A heaven-sent singing telegram, if you will. Minus the singing.”
My words didn’t make much of an impression, but as I spoke, I took a moment to throw a casual glance across the tavern. I noted the hallway leading deeper into the building. I turned again to the bartender.
“He in back? Tending to the affairs of his kingdom?”
“He ain’t seeing you. Not my call.”
Stauffer had been expecting someone to show up. No surprise there. He knew what he’d done. And yet, he still thought he could keep me away. Adorable.
I took several meaningful steps toward the hallway. A man sitting at a nearby table slowly got up and stretched in a way that drew attention to his height and formidable musculature. His drinking buddy, a much older fellow than the rest of the barflies, remained seated but watched me carefully.
The standing man looked at me with a face that shone with arrogance.
“Must not have heard the man,” he said in a loud voice. “Arnie doesn’t want to be disturbed. So why don’t you skip out of here, Olympian?”
He gave me a predator’s grin and glanced at his friend who was still watching me. I sized up the gatekeeper. Tall, stocky, thick-skinned, with a greyish tint to him. Ogre blood. Not to be trifled with. Judging from the way his hands were open and held close to his side, I figured he was armed. Knives most likely. His jacket wasn’t thick enough to conceal a gun. He looked down at me, which isn’t hard to do to a god who’s five feet eight inches tall.
I sighed in defeat.
“Well, that’s a shame. It was worth a shot, though, wasn’t it, Mark? But you’re right, we don’t want to make a fuss. It is Mark, isn’t it?”
The man’s right eye twitched slightly at the casual mention of his name.
“Right, Mark Yeager.” I nodded as if I had just remembered. “You do a bit of leg-breaking work for Stauffer. Real smooth operator. A pawn shop here, a diner there. Very efficient, really rising in the ranks. Even got your own thing going, too, I’ve heard. A bit of burgling on the side when not on Stauffer’s payroll?”
Mark tried to laugh it off, but that telltale twitch in his eye didn’t go away. He wouldn’t make much of a poker player. “What are you trying to do, scare me? I’m a plumber.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I laughed. “That was pretty dumb of me, wasn’t it? You do good work, I’m sure.” Mark smiled mirthlessly at me as I took a step back. The tension in his body drained away, just in time for the gut punch.
“You, uh, did a real good job unclogging the pipes at Ezra Connolly’s place, I heard.”
The comment caught him off-guard. His nostrils flared, and his throat tightened. Jackpot.
“Unclogged his cabinets later that night, too. Pretty slick work.” I waved my hand across the tavern. “The guys must have really been impressed. Not easy, breaking into the home of a member of the Aristocracy.”
“What’s he talking about, Mark?” the white-bearded man asked calmly.
Mark shook his head, trying to shrug off the question. “Nothing. He’s just blowing a load of—”
I cut him off. “And is Stauffer having trouble with the Aristocracy?”
They all remained silent, watching me now with undivided attention. They knew the answer. The Aristocracy was controlled by vampires, a world-spanning criminal empire that suffered no insult. Its network in New York had been harassing Stauffer’s operations for a couple weeks now.
“Didn’t Connolly mention something to Stauffer? Something about being disrespected? About his territory being violated? Hey, Mark, you doing alright?”
The other men turned to observe Mark with acute interest. He wasn’t holding up very well under the scrutiny. His eyelid was practically short-circuiting, and his face was turning a violent shade of red.
I took a step closer to him. “You know how vampires are. Once they get it into their head that they’ve been slighted, they’ll go through fire and water to even the score. Man, I’d hate to be the guy who ticked them off. Vampires have a really interesting idea of justice. It involves lots of sharp, jagged objects. If I were Stauffer, I’d be looking for that idiot who messed up and just hand him over. So, anyway, how is the plumbing business nowadays?”
“Alright!” Mark erupted. “I get it. You think you know stuff.” He glared at me. “I’m loyal to Mr. Stauffer. And you ain’t passing through here.”
The white-bearded man whistled in derision. “He’s a god, you idiot. He’s not trying to force you to stand down. He’s proving a point.” He jerked a thumb. “Step aside.”
Mark shot a look at him. “But—”
“Shut up and get out of his way.”
Crestfallen, Mark stepped to the side, letting me pass. The old man raised his glass to me.
“Well played, Lord Hermes.”
As I walked away, I heard his voice growl, “Sit down, Mark. I think we should talk.”
A key rule of bluffing is confidence. Did I know with dead certainty that Mark was a thief? No. But I knew just enough. I had lots of little birds all over the city telling me things, and this was one of the nuggets they’d dropped me. It was all gossip, truths, and half-lies, and who knew which was which. But I had played this game before. Drop a hint, watch the opponent buckle, and then push him a little more. Never falter, never stutter, and always let them believe you already know everything. I’m a god, aren’t I? Everyone knows gods are all-knowing.
Well, I had gotten that roadblock out of the way. Now, it was time to deal with the big man himself.
There was a solid oak door at the end of the hallway. It was a fancy door, far more ornate than anything else in this place. I felt the faint pulse of magic emanating from it.
I put my hand on the doorknob and was immediately stung by a shock of intense cold that coated my palm in frost. An enchantment to ward off intruders. Clever.
But this was low-grade stuff. I focused my thoughts and pushed back against the enchantment. The magic sputtered and dissipated, and I felt the cold fade away. It took another second to take care of the lock. I opened the door and stepped inside.
To be continued …
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
Jake W. Powell 
