Chapter Three

If I am killed, I can die but once; but to live in constant dread of it, is to die over and over again. - Abraham Lincoln





Chapter Three

Three gods sat in a bar, drinking enough to pay the dive’s rent for a month. They were all unemployed. Their most recent worshippers had died nearly two thousand years ago, and apart from the occasional promising hint of sacrifice from this year’s batch of college students expanding their religious horizons, they had resigned themselves to divine retirement.

The three of them were entirely OK with this, as retirement had given all of them the opportunity to go forth and enjoy this world they had previously been responsible for.

Hephaistos had a pitcher of dark beer he was drinking. The waitress had given him a glass, but he preferred to simply drink straight from the pitcher. He was very drunk.

“Wait, wait, you want me to build what now? I’m not sure I heard you right.” Hephaistos, Hep to those who knew him, said to one of the other gods.

The god he was speaking to was dressed entirely in black leather. He had dark hair, and a malicious twinkle in his eye. He was also very drunk.

“You heard me just fine. I want a motorcycle,” Ares said. He took another drink from the bottle of Johnny Walker the bartender had left at the table.

“About fuckin’ time, too,” said the third god. He was significantly smaller than the other two, and was holding his head up with one hand, while the other clutched his mug of beer as though it might try to escape before he was done drinking it. Of the three, he was the most drunk.

“Shut up, Scroat,” Ares said.

“Fuck you in the forehead,” Scroat shot back. He slipped a bit, and nearly bounced his head off the table.

“Why do you think I’m going to build you a motorcycle? I don’t owe you any favors, and you don’t have anything I want,” Hep said to Ares. “Besides, aren’t you keeping busy with that hot rod of yours?”

“Aw, come on. You guys talk on and on about how awesome motorcycles are, and how they’re the only fit vehicle for a modern god, and how if you’re going to conquer the world, a motorcycle is the best choice in transportation, and then you try and talk me out of wanting one?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Hep said. “I don’t do big projects for free. What are you going to bring to the table?”

“How about Achilles’s armor?”

Hep had started to take a drink, but stopped the pitcher just short of his mouth. He looked sharply at Ares.

“What did you say?” Hep asked.

Hep felt Achilles had gone out like a chump. He had made Achilles shield. It was a masterwork. Nothing could have gotten through it. And the dumb jerk had let someone sneak around it instead. It was kind of insulting.

And as far as Hep knew, Achilles armor had been given to Neoptolemus, and eventually lost to Time.

“Achilles’s armor. You build me a bike, and I’ll give you his armor,” Ares said.

“You’re full of shit,” Hep said, and drank his beer.

Scroat opened his eyes halfway and said, “Fuckin’ right!”

“I’m not lying,” Ares said, and pulled out a bronze spear head from a pocket in his jacket and put it in the middle of the table.

“Is that what I think it is?” Hep asked.

“Achilles’s spear, yep. Consider it a down payment. Will you build me a bike?” Ares asked, and sat back in his chair.
Hep stared at the spear and stroked his beard. Building a motorcycle for Ares wouldn’t be that difficult. And he’d really like to have Achilles’s armor back. On the other hand, he knew Ares probably hadn’t acquired the armor through entirely honest means.

“How did you get this?” Hep asked Ares.

“Fell off the back of a chariot. I tried to catch them and give it back but, well, they were just too fast for me. You want it, or what?” Ares said.

“Yeah, OK. I’ll build you a bike for Achilles’s armor,” Hep said.

He and Ares shook hands, and finished their drinks. The waitress stopped at their table. She was pretty, but looked tired and pale in the dim glow of the neon lights hanging over the bar.

“A couple more, fellas?” she asked.

“Damn straight!” Scroat said.