Chapter 4
901 Words
Chapter 4Both my feet come off the floor at once, banging my knees loudly against the underside of the table. I feel several eyes turn to me as I grab the table to keep it from tipping over. If that scene isn’t bad enough, I actually feel a nervous smile come to my lips and a blush.
Hear me loud and clear on this point: Gods do not get embarrassed!
Yet here I am grinning like an i***t over having nearly knocked my table over. I am way too suave for this kind of behavior.
Gods do not get embarrassed.
Yes, that is a belly flop if I ever saw one. I don’t much care for it.
I see the bartender snicker. You know, he looks just like Hercules. The hair is shorter than the last time I’d seen him and the billowy white shirt covers his muscles, but yes, I do believe here works the son of Zeus, bartender at the Ataraxis Tavern, where I am certain that Daddy had helped him get the job. Slow times for heroes as well as sirens.
I am about to get up to ask him if he could make the drink a little more blue sparkly firework-y and a little less belly-floppish, when a satyr walks in. Ordinarily it’s hard to tell a satyr from any regular burly looking man except for the slight bow-legged walk, which explains why most of them like to be cowboys these days, but this one flaunts his race by choosing to be freestyle with his furry legs and not wearing any pants. The brunette siren looks back briefly at me and points, then the satyr heads toward my table.
“Whatcha doing pickin’ on my fairyfolk?” the satyr asks.
Part-time cowboy, I decide, with his slow drawl as though he were actually from the south. However, he smells like he’d just come from the stables of Ireland – literally. I put a delicately curled index finger beneath my nose and try to soothe my breathing over the back of my fingers. I still had the scent of cologne clinging to my skin from my morning shave. A scads bit better than hay, dirt, and dare I say, manure.
“I thought he’d catch the coin. I thought that fairies were money magnets. Or, I’m sorry, was that Leprechauns?” I ask.
The satyr puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. His cloven hooves point outwards and slide apart to keep him balanced. “You think that I don’t know who you are, Loki of Asgard? We don’t serve your kind here.”
I pick up the rectangular metal napkin holder and point at my urbane reflection. “He doesn’t like you,” I say with a laugh. Then, putting down the napkin holder, I add, “I don’t like you either.”
“Just watch yourself.”
“I’m a wanted man. I have the death sentence on twelve systems.”
“Stop with the Star Wars already.”
“You’ll be dead!” I knock my chair backwards with my legs as I stand up quickly and bang my hands on the table. The chair tips and falls over with a clatter, making everyone in the tavern look at us. Just the way I like to work, as the center of attention.
The satyr lowers his head and charges. The thing with satyrs is that once they get moving, they run straight forward. Satyrs and bulls, they both close their eyes when they charge. Now a cow, she’s a whole different beast. They watch their opponent. I see the figurative cow in our scenario as I turn to watch the satyr hit the wall. The siren moves swiftly behind me and puts her nails from one hand against my throat.
“Sing for your supper, songbird,” she whispers in my ear. She gives a light squeeze and I feel the curved arches against my windpipe.
“I’m here on a mission,” I say, not sure if I am enthralled by her power or if I just like her nails on my skin. Gods, I can be my own sick bastard sometimes. “I’m looking for someone in leagues with a Minotaur.”
The satyr comes out of his daze, leaving two horn-sized holes in the blue wall as well as some crunched white drywall which match the trim color.
I turn to the lovely little siren and put my fingers ever so gently beneath her chin, letting them slowly stroke up her jaw. “Now, I know the satyr isn’t helping the Minotaurs, not when he’s so concerned with helping his bouncing fairy, I mean fairy bouncer. So who else could it be?” I reach her earlobe and gently take it between my thumb and index finger, ever mindful of not pulling on her hoop earring. I have my enthralling power too.
“Big Daddy,” she says through pouting lips.
The satyr taps on my shoulder. I ignore him. “Zeus?” I ask the siren.
Then I am being jabbed in the back. With dismay, I realize the satyr is actually rubbing his head against my wool cloak. I turn around and discover he is trying to run me through with his two inch horns.
“Little kids should know when to stay down,” I say, whacking his head. The satyr drops to the floor and remains there.
I look over at Hercules, the bartender, and point at the satyr. “Clean up on aisle two. Let’s get the goats—”
That’s when I see her coming through the door. My words just falter. I never expected to see her walking into my bar.
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- Writer
