“As you decree.” Worthington turned to leave, but he was interrupted by Gorgoz.
“Five thousand and forty-three,” said Gorgoz softly.
“I most humbly beg your pardon.”
“Five thousand and forty-three followers,” explained Gorgoz. “That is how many the raccoon god has now. Do you know how many I have?”
“No.”
“Five thousand and forty-three.” The god snarled. “Make that 5,042. Do you see the problem now?”
Worthington knew of Gorgoz’s rivalry with the raccoon god, though he didn’t know the origin of it.
“If you would permit me, Master, to make a suggestion. If this bothers you, we could always send out an order to thin the ranks of this false god.”
“No, it has to be these two.”
Worthington had done some research on Phil and Teri Robinson. They seemed perfectly unremarkable.
“He lives with them,” said Gorgoz. “In their home. They are his favored children, and for that sin, they must perish. And after they are dead, torn to pieces before his very eyes, he shall know that my power is greater than his and that he shall always dwell in my shadow.”
He laughed, long and hard, and the walls began to bleed thick black syrup that smelled of old blood.
“Oookay,” said Worthington. “If that’s all you’ll be needing then…”
“Wait. I didn’t finish my demands of penance.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes. And as a final act of contrition I demand that… hey, what time is it?”
“Five till nine,” replied Worthington.
“Oh, Gunsmoke is almost on.”
Worthington took advantage of the distraction and slipped away as Gorgoz started flipping through channels.
19
The Somnambulist Café sat on the edge of the collective unconscious of humanity. It was smallish. Or biggish. Or any size in between depending on what mortals were asleep at the time and what they were dreaming. Right now it was on the biggish side of smallish. The exterior resembled a termite mound while the inside was filled with furniture made of chocolate, including the chairs Lucky, Quick, and Morpheus sat in.
The god of dreams sipped coffee from a cup in the shape of a life-size chicken. It was awkward to use. The handle on the side was small and inconveniently placed. Even if Morpheus had tried to hold it, it wouldn’t have been much good. Two hands were required to keep the chicken from wandering away.
Morpheus yawned. “You can’t be serious.”
Lucky had ordered a tuna melt but the moose-headed waiter had brought a feather between two neatly folded tweed sweaters. He pretended to nibble at it anyway so that Quick could do the talking. But Quick just used his spoon to stir his pink lollipop soup.
“It’s against the rules,” replied Morpheus. “You know that.”
“I know,” said Quick.
Morpheus tried to give Quick a hard glare, but the god of dreams had trouble keeping his eyes wider than halfway open for more than a few seconds.
“It’s unethical,” said Morpheus. “I am charged with safeguarding the realm of the human subconscious, and it is not a duty I take lightly.”
“I know, I know. Believe me, we wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.”
Morpheus set down his cup and stretched. The chicken hopped off the table and marched away, spilling coffee all over the cobblestone floor. A robotic waiter covered in jewels instantly delivered a fresh cup in the shape of a miniature television playing an episode of The Honeymooners.
“Is this decaf?” asked Morpheus.
The robot beeped in reply, and it seemed to satisfy the god.
“I don’t want to be up all night,” Morpheus explained to Quick. “The answer is no. We gods of dream and reverie live by a different code than you divinities of the physical realm. We take our responsibilities very seriously.”
Lucky cleared his throat and elbowed Quick. Quick shrugged.
“Oh, for Ymir’s sake,” said Lucky. “Look, Morph. Can I call you Morph?”
Morpheus yawned. “Yeah, sure.”
“Morph,” said Lucky, “this is about responsibilities. There are two very nice mortals who are depending on me to do the right thing and look out for them. That’s my responsibility, and I take it seriously, too.”
The god of sleep rubbed his eyes. “I could get in trouble.”
“What? You’re allowed to go in there, right? That’s your province, isn’t it?”
“It’s not like it used to be,” said Morpheus. “The unconscious is highly regulated now. We aren’t allowed to muck about.”
“Who said anything about mucking about? All I’m asking is for you to show me the way to one mortal’s unconscious so I can have a brief Q and A with his unconscious. I’m not going to plant any suggestions or steal his dreams or rearrange his mental furniture in the slightest. In and out, gone before anyone even notices we were there.”
“I’m still not sure of the ethical-”
“Screw it.” Lucky pointed to Quick. “You owe him, and he’s calling in the favor.”
Morpheus said, “So that’s it then? That’s what it’s all about, Quick?”
The golden serpent god’s feathers ruffled. “They’re really very nice mortals we’re trying to help.”
“Okay.” Morpheus scowled, but it degenerated into a yawn. “But then we’re even.”
The entrance to the collective unconscious was behind the café. From the outside, the realm looked like a giant warehouse. Nothing fancy or terribly metaphorical about it. Although that was really the symbolism of it. The unconscious looked like nothing from the outside. It was only beneath the surface that anything interesting was happening.
There wasn’t a guard. Just a velvet rope with a warning sign about venturing inside with great care. The collective unconscious of humanity was a twisting maze of hallways. Mortals thought their dreams were unique to them, but the collective unconscious had a central casting office. But one giant spider or Amazon space princess was just as good as any other. The assembled phantasms and phobias of humanity roamed the labyrinth.
“Hi, Morpheus,” said a passing five-headed mother-in-law beast.
“Hi, Vera,” replied the god of dreams.
Without a guide, it was difficult to navigate the labyrinth. Not dangerous but confusing. It could take hours to find the right soundstage. The doors were marked, but not in a reliable way. Some had initials. Others had faces. And some had cryptic symbols or pictograms. They passed a door with a cave painting of a man battling a gerbil in a top hat.
Morpheus led them down the halls. Lucky and Quick didn’t even try to keep track of the route. It would’ve changed if they’d tried to backtrack. Even gods could get lost in the realm of dreams.
They stopped at a door inscribed with the name GERALD.
“This is it?” asked Lucky.
“This is it.”
“But the guy we’re looking for is named Rick.”
Morpheus said, “Do I tell you how to find winning lottery tickets?”
“Fair enough,” admitted Lucky as the god of dreams opened the door.
They entered the soundstage of Rick’s dreams. Props littered the set, which was in mid-construction. The cast of characters sat around, waiting. Building dreams was a complicated affair, and at least half of the cast would be shuttled out before the mortal architect fell asleep. Whatever passed through the dreamer’s mind, conscious and unconscious, would shape the show. This was why mortal dreams were so confusing. It wasn’t because the unconscious was revealing transcendent mysteries or the dreaming mind was unable to maintain a coherent thought. No, it was simply central casting and the prop department being unable to keep up with last-minute rewrites.
“Hey, Rita,” said Morpheus to a Vegas showgirl.
She nodded to him, sucking on a cigarette as a wardrobe assistant slipped her out of a pleather catsuit and into a pair of long johns.
“Recognize this guy?” asked Quick, pointing to a lanky cast member concealed in a voluminous brown robe. His mottled arms were long and scaly. It was a dead-on likeness of Gorgoz except for the chubby face. A makeup assistant was still painting the spots on there.