Conned
"It's about time you got back," Iolaus chided. Hercules took a seat next to his friend in the Garden of Heroes , setting a bulky traveling sack down at their feet. Iolaus glanced at the bag and grinned at his friend. "What did you bring me?"
"Why would I bring you anything?" Hercules replied, folding his arms and assuming a bemused expression.
Iolaus drew a hand up to his chin and gave his question the appearance of serious consideration. A moment later, he jumped up from the stony bench as if he'd divined the answer to all the world's problems.
"Aha! You'd bring me something from DragonCon because if you didn't, I'd let everyone in on your 'Kevin Sorbo' scam," Iolaus said, a bit too boisterously. Hercules gestured for him to tone it down.
"Not so loud. If the Sovereign finds out I've got a fake future identity, he'll want one too."
"So then what's in the bag?" Iolaus whispered, rubbing his hands together greedily.
Hercules reached for the thick ties around the neck of the sack. "Not very patient, are you?"
Iolaus watched as Hercules gripped the knotted cords, expecting the bag to burst open and spill a hoard of convention loot, like t-shirts and pins and glossy photos of sexy actresses. But the sack didn't immediately produce any of those things, for Hercules had to strain against the ropes holding it shut. As he pulled on the ties, something inside began to squirm and push against the sides of the bag.
"Whoa. If that souvenir has tentacles, or fangs . . . " Iolaus balked for a moment, visions of monstrous creatures dashing through his imagination, ". . . or extra heads, you can just keep it."
"Something tells me this isn't what I packed," Hercules grimaced as the bag continued to writhe in his hands.
Apollo smirked and the Muses giggled as they invisibly observed the two heroes.
"Poor little half-god never saw me switch bags," Apollo said with fake sympathy. "He does tip well, though." Apollo retrieved the gratuity from his belt and studied the green paper currency for a moment. Then he snapped the fingers it was clutched in, sparking a bright yellow flame that consumed the bill.
"Look Apollo," Terpsichore said. "They've almost got it open."
"Good. It's not right that tens of thousands of people in the future – people who don't even remember the Gods – throw the best yearly festival of the creative arts when New Greeceland barely acknowledges me. Us," he added quickly as several of the Muses glared at him. Deciding it would be best to remind the ladies whom they were really mad at here, he continued his rant. "How long has it been since anyone at Deb U has written a story, recited a poem, composed a history, performed a dance?"
Several hands shot up from the Muses who could think of a few cases, but Apollo always chose to ignore facts that didn't keep step with his opinions.
Thalia and Urania both cried out in excitement as Hercules and Iolaus finally wrenched the sack open. Out poured a copy of the entire DragonCon experience: fans, stars, events, shows, and parties, all magically conjured by Apollo to tear the minds of the debs away from their recent artless pursuits of acquiring real estate, pursuing higher education, helping those left homeless by disasters, and other boring acts. The convention consumed the campus. Looming structures sprang up on impossibly small lots, while thousands of weirdly dressed people of all shapes and sizes milled about looking for the nearest bar. Apollo lost sight of Hercules in the churning crowd.
"C'mon, girls," he said, as Clio and Erato each took one of his arms. "Let's order some room service and watch the fun."
Cyranose studied the throng of odd people roaming the campus. Had Deb U instituted a robust foreign exchange student program? He hadn't been too diligent about reading The NewGreeceland Gazette. Maybe he'd missed the announcement. In any case, he thought it a good idea to head back to his lodgings and make sure that no squatters were exhibiting interest in his space or belongings.
As he passed the library, a uniformed flunky hurried toward him pushing a cart laden with beautiful leather luggage, several cases of wine and snacks, and a towering fruit basket. “Master BuDergerac, your suite is ready,” announced the man. “Follow me . . .”
“Suite?” Cyranose questioned.
“Oh, it's sweet alright,” Ares confided, causing Cyranose to flinch as the God of War suddenly winked into existence next to him. “If this wasn't Apollo's scene, one of my favorite warlords would have the privilege of trashing the penthouse. But dad's sissy poetry-loving son is responsible for this freak show so it's your lucky day.”
Cyranose edged away from Ares, tilting a thumb toward the receding luggage cart. “Ah. Well, I'd better go appreciate the interior décor, then.” Ares was about to rattle off a derisive remark when he spotted a nearly naked woman wearing only cat ears, a bunny tail, and strategically placed cupcake liners. “Definitely sweet,” Ares leered, slicking back his hair and moving off toward her. Cyranose blinked at the eye candy, then caught up with the cart.
“Forgive my ignorance, but I'm rather new around here,” Cyranose told the servant who briskly rolled the luggage into a tall, shining marble building that certainly had not been across from the library earlier that day. “Where exactly are we going?”
The lackey glanced back over his shoulder as he positioned the cart onto a platform attached to a crane and pulley system. “Welcome to the Chariot Marquis,” he said, gesturing for Cyranose to join him on the platform, “the finest in mobile Olympian hotels. Your accommodations are on our concierge level.” The porter paused, glaring toward the side of the crane. “I said concierge level,” he repeated, stressing the last two words loudly.
PatheticLosr appeared from a maintenance room muttering Greek obscenities and the phrase ‘lousy temp job' under his breath. He began hauling with all his strength on the rope attached to the crane apparatus. The platform and its occupants began to ascend.
Cyranose glanced down toward the colorful people filling the lobby of the Chariot Marquis. “Hey!” shouted Castalia from the floor, waving up at him. “Look who I found!” Cyranose grinned to see her standing between one person costumed as Cthulhu and another as Squiddly Diddly.
“So I take it this is some kind of citywide costume party?” Cyranose speculated as the lift carried him up and up past lower balconies festooned with beautiful hanging plants.
“It's whatever kind of party you want it to be,” his helper winked. “The concierge can see to that.”
Cyranose looked in the direction of the porter's pointing hand. Julius Caesar sat behind a gleaming mahogany table covered with an assortment of scrolls and tablets, staring back at him.
“This place is called Trader Lick's,” Lorel giggled, reading the menu of bar food posted by the entrance.
“I think I see why,” LadyBug observed, as she spotted a Batman clone slurping a jello shot off the abdomen of a slave Princess Leia inside.
“750 dinars for a daiquiri? That's robbery, and I should know.”
LadyBug whirled around happily at the sound of Autolycus' voice behind them. “Auto!”
“Allow me to escort you to your rooms,” the suave thief offered, indicating another sign on the building looming over Trader Licks. A placard of a buff warrior in Scottish Highland dress advertised the Kilt-on Hotel.
“What rooms?” Lorel asked.
“Yes, Auto,” LadyBug added. “We don't have reservations.”
“Sure you do,” Autolycus assured them. “When I was robbing the front desk – I mean, when I was checking in, I wrote your names on the register. Paid in full.”
When the women hesitated for a moment, Autolycus sweetened the deal. “I put you on the party floor,” he confided in a tempting tone.
“Well, since you went to so much trouble,” LadyBug smiled taking one arm.
“And we wouldn't want those parties to be under-attended,” Lorel chimed in, taking the other.
“Smart choice,” Autolycus congratulated them, herding them safely past a clump of leering Klingons. “Stick with me. I think I've been in prison a few times with some of these weirdoes.” A blood covered maniac with a chainsaw strapped to one hand and a rifle clutched in the other nodded in a friendly fashion to the trio as they entered the Kilt-on. “That's just wrong,” Autolycus sighed.
Joxer hurried over to see if he could help. “Calm down, Em. You're not lost if I can find you. I mean . . .” Joxer realized that wording made him sound a little bit incompetent. “I mean, you're not lost if a mighty hero like me is on the job.”
Emerald smiled at Joxer. “Thanks, Jox. But I know where I am. I'm just helping some nice people I met advertise.” She indicated the sign she was standing next to, which pictured a group of attractive young people on a tropical island.
“Ohhhhh,” Joxer jumped in. “I get it. They're the ones who are lost. Well, not to worry. I'm sure I can find them.” Joxer was rather confident on that count, especially since one of the men in the picture was ginormous. He'd have trouble hiding anywhere. “Joxer the Mighty is on the trail!”
“Wait,” Emerald called after him. “I'm just announcing a panel, not a disappearance!” Joxer didn't hear that as he plunged into the crowd and disappeared. Emerald's voice had been drowned out by the sudden burst of rude singing by a group of rowdies dressed as the strike force from Team America . However, the crass chorus was cut short and Keleos' voice could be clearly heard.
“NO SINGING!” the goddess commanded. The caterwauling from the costumed squad ceased as they scrambled to pick off the termites that had suddenly materialized on the fake marionette sticks that extended from the backs of their costumes. F**k yeah! Keleos thought to herself, pleased. She surveyed the lobby for other potential annoyances, saw Callisto, and smiled.
Kat noted the third Indiana Jones and the thirty-second Stormtrooper she'd seen in the last half hour as Hades pushed his way through to the counter where she sat.
“Have you seen those zombies?” he asked.
“Yeah, great costumes,” Kat replied.
“Those weren't costumes,” Hades sighed. “These gatherings always attract an element that should never escape the depths of hell.” He winced as a bearded man sporting scanty leather trappings and pink fairy wings cruised by. Hades grabbed Kat's drink and took a substantial swig.
“Get up. My brother's having a party,” the goddess commanded. With no further explanation, Shou Lao was instantly transported to a luxury hotel suite. The room was filling up with gods, goddesses, fantastic beings and the occasional mortal guest like himself. “Mingle,” Athena suggested. “Good luck finding an intelligent conversation.” She abandoned him, striding purposefully across the room toward a tray of little owl-shaped pastry hors d'oeurves.
Shou Lao scanned the crowd, looking for someone safe to talk to. Over in a corner stood CJ and Balder. He made his way toward them, passing the Muses. Shou Lao nodded respectfully to them. Several smiled and some whispered to each other.
The Muses parted like a sea of silk as Apollo stepped into their midst. “Ah, the stripper's here at last.”
Shou Lao spun incredulously toward Athena. She managed to look only slightly guilty as she stuffed several buffet tidbits in her mouth. “I progmist hm a stippr,” she explained while trying to swallow her snacks. “It's really quite an honor for you to entertain at one of Apollo's parties,” she continued, regaining control of her tongue.
“I hope this one's got some talent, Athena.” Apollo went on. “Euterpe, music please.”
Euterpe drew a flute from her gown and began to play a lilting tune. A satyr joined in with a small drum and several nymphs shook strings of bells and clicked finger cymbals.
“Now it's a party,” Apollo declared.
Shou Lao wasn't sure he agreed, but reached for his belt nonetheless.
~ to be continued