I'm Not Hercules

The sun speaks to me. He tells me I'm like the champions of old, and I'm a herald to be worshiped. He tells me that Zeus Pater is full of the pride he mocks and that Ares, the red son, has forged indestructible truth from slag - that violence is the furnace of power. And Venus, that celestial satan who I lust for; who I despise, has ensnared us all in her ambient seduction.

BJ and Dicky of the Power 99.4 morning radio show speak to me. BJ tells me about the traffic on highway twelve and my twelve labours and the duties of the twelve apostles.

The warmth of the first God guides my hand to my pocket bible. 

Psalms 99:4: The King is mighty, he loves justice—you have established equity; in Jacob you have done what is just and right.

I light the crushed end of a cigarette and inhale the spirits of old. The loose ember falls to the crux between my thumb and forefinger. The smell of sulfur, the pain, the petit enfer in my hand has meaning. There is a world of torture awaiting us all, unless I awaken the line of Jacob and the knowing ones. 

Zeus Pater is laughing at me now. I feel him in me. He tells me I am sick, that I need my medicine. Why? To fall in line with his slaves? No Moloch! I will not live your nightmare; no sphinx will bash open my skull and eat up my brains.

Abigail's radio blares in the tent next to mine. BJ stops talking about the traffic and the coming of my judgment and turns it over to Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer. Abigail sings. 

Take my hand, we'll make it I swear

Whoa oh, livin' on a prayer

Abby coughs because she’s smoking glass. She is Venus, and she hates Venus. She’s born on April twenty-four, nineteen-eighty-six. The same year as me. When Bon Jovi ceases his sermon, I turn to psalms eighty-six. 

“Hear, O LORD," I shout like the world is ending. "And answer me, for I am poor and needy. Guard my life, for I am devoted to you.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Blood Mac yells. He’s a few tents down. He’s not a knowing one.

Abigail is at the door of my tent. “Morning Terry.” Her face is lit by the first God’s rays, and she wears a crown of light. She’s the morning star. She throws me a Hostess Jumbo Honey Bun. She smells like a hospital. A little green sticker on the honey bun package reads $2.17.

Mark 2:17: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.”

“You got a smoke?” I say. 

“Sure.” Abigail pulls a camel from behind her ear and hucks it at me. Like a bodhisattva, without my vices I would cease to manifest, I need them to keep me grounded; to keep me in the world, or else I’d disappear.

Abigail has a gray tank top on. Her hair sticks out like golden serpents on the head of that Gorgon, Medusa. Her arms are blackened with ink, with bits of red and green - vines and roses and the names of her three children that she never sees: Trace, Violet and Sarah. Sarah, the mother of the line of Jacob. Abigail, the image of Venus. Zeus Pater, the lord of lies, the lord of this world, tells me to have her. He tells her to wear tank tops and turn me to stone. But her light speaks to me. She’s not a Gorgon. She’s a daughter of mother Gaia, of virginal Mary, of Agape-Sophia. 

From the radio, Dicky’s squeaky voice comes on after the Napa auto parts commercial. “BJ and Dicky from Star 99.4 here, and we've got a cosmic announcement!”

“That’s right Dicky,” BJ’s baritone voice says: “Join us tonight at the Sand Hills Casino for the Star 99.4 Perseids meteor shower party. We got horse-rides and bouncy castles for the kids and plenty of beverages for the Moms and Dads. Bring thirty bucks and get ready for an outta-this-world event.”

“Let’s go,” I say. 

“You asking me on a date?” Abigail runs her fingers through her hair and tames her serpents.  

I nod. I am the progeny of Perseus, the slayer of medusa, and he has called me to be his witness.

Abigail smiles. Her teeth are stained brown. “You got sixty bucks?”

Under my pillow, beside my black pocket bible and Russel lock-knife, I got three dollars of rolled pennies and two more in loose change. “I got five.” I say.

“Alrighty Terr, you hold on to that five bucks and I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

Abigail leaves, and I go to the mission. “GET HELP HERE” is written in big white letters on a blue sign at the front doors. The lieutenant is curled up in a camo sleeping bag against the concrete wall under the sign. He’s clutching a bottle of ‘Blue Animal’ Schlitz Malt Liquor. The Cretan Bull on the logo finds me. Moloch finds me.

Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

“You got a smoke, Herc?” The lieutenant says. 

He calls me Herc because I told him I was Hercules. It was a lie from Zeus Pater. I’m not Hercules. I light Abigail's camel and take a drag and hand it to him. The lieutenant pushes up his yellow whiskers and takes a haul. The smoke whistles out his nose, like the screams of Saint Eustace from the pipes of the brazen bull. 

“You shouldn’t drink that,” I say.

The lieutenant wheezes and falls into a coughing fit. He hands me back the camel. “Yeah, I know Herc.”

Zeus Pater laughs at me. His form on earth, that horrid king besmeared with blood of human sacrifice - Moloch, finds me. The lieutenant has dark brown stains on his fingers. I walk away.

Rehema unlocks the doors to the mission and I go inside. She’s wearing a blue sundress with yellow floral print. She’s a child of Akhenaton. Zeus Pater whispers to me about her long bronze legs and the waistband of her underwear. If I accept his rule, I can have her, I can have Abigail. All I want will fall at my feet. The first God floods through the windows and I feel his warmth. Rehema is not mine to have. Only the lord of lies deals with slaves.

“Toothpaste?” Rehema says. She holds up a small tube of Crest and a bright green, cellophane-wrapped toothbrush.

Rays of light surround the C in the Crest logo. The first God speaks to me and tells me he loves me. That infinite source of love lives in this mission. I take the toothpaste from Rehema and go to shower. There’s a wallet at the bottom of the stall. Inside is a soggy twenty bucks and a picture of a pot-bellied ginger with his daughter on his shoulders. I’ve seen him. He’s a trick that Abigail calls the lumberjack. 

“I found this,” I say to Rehema. That infinite source of truth lives in this mission.

Akhenaton’s daughter’s third eye opens. The crease between her eyes relaxes, and she looks like a child. “Thanks Terry, I’ll give it to him,” she says. She shakes her head and reaches into her pocket and hands me a five. “Get yourself a coffee.”

“I need sixty.”

Rehema laughs and slaps the five in my hand. “So do I.”

I go to the library to make sure I don’t get any beer or dope or any other damn thing with my money. I grab the book The Gods of Mexico by Lewis Spence. He shows me how to pronounce Quetzal-co-at-ly and talks about priests throwing children into the fire. Quetzal-co-at-ly, Zeus Pater, Moloch, the red son, Venus, they are all the same. 

Throw what you love into the fire and I will quench your lust.

I finish the book and go outside. Blood Mac is at the corner. He used to deal tranq and glass but Moloch executed his heavy judgment. He used to wear a gold watch and smell like pine trees. Now Blood Mac’s brown arm is black and swollen and rotting from the elbow down. Now he smells like garbage. 

“Watchu got for me Herc?” Blood Mac says.

I walk away from him, but he follows me. 

“Hey!” He grabs my collar and pushes me into the rippled metal doors of the Lewis Shaver Textile Company building. “Watchu got?”

Matthew 5:42: Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.

I give him the five bucks. Blood Mac cuffs me on the head. “I ain’t playing here Herc.” He pats a bulge at his waistband and points at me and walks away.

I walk back to my tent. Abigail is slumped over hers, with her head planted on the sidewalk. I sit down beside her and give her a nudge. It takes twelve nudges before she wakes up.

“Did you get any money?”

Medusa’s serpents spew dirt. “Nah. You?”

“I got five,” I say. “We’ll put it on red.” I go to my tent and get my five-bucks and my bible and my lock-knife.

***

There’s a fat Mexican at the roulette table. His name is Ignacio, and he tells me to call him Nacho. I call him Quetzalcoatl. He laughs and calls me El Conquistador. 

I double my five bucks on red.

“He stinks like a burnt match,” a lady next to me whispers to her friend. They get up and leave. Abigail’s over at the slots, so it’s only me and Quetzalcoatl and the dealer. The dealer has a red felt cowboy hat over his long white hair. His belt buckle is a silver horsehead over top of the same red felt. I leave the ten on red.

The ball hits a black eight. The King of the Black Shores, Diomedes, with his man-eating mares, comes for my flesh.

“One more!” Quetzalcoatl says. He orders two Modelos and flips me a chip. I put it on twelve and it hits. I’ve survived my eighth labor. King Diomedes gives me thirty-five bucks. 

Abigail comes from behind and takes a swig from my beer. 

“Black or red?” I say. 

“Odd,” she says.

I put my chips on odd, and the dealer throws the ball. It comes up 23. 

Psalms:23: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

We pay our thirty bucks each and walk into the roped-off grounds of the Sand Hills race track. On one end there are three rainbow colored bouncy castles where children are laughing. Eight horses trod along the track, carrying teens and toddlers with their mothers. Booths are set up every twenty feet on the outside track with telescopes and signs that read Starry Night Science Academy. 

We walk to the Palomino Lounge at the other end from the bouncy castles. It’s a big white tent with a golden mare painted on the awning. It’s filled with people sitting on red plastic chairs and drinking beer from see-through cups. I buy three Modelos and we find three red chairs. Quetzalcoatl buys six shots of tequila. He’s got a full pack of Winston menthols and I take a smoke. Abigail and Quetzalcoatl talk about Wanawatoe - some place in Mexico that they’ve both been to.

“Tonight, the prisoners will be freed.” I say. I don’t know why I say it. BJ and Dicky and Soundgarden have been sending me messages through the speakers above our heads.

Spoonman, come together with your hands

Save me, I'm together with your plan

Quetzalcoatl laughs at me and looks at Abigail’s cleavage. “Hey El Conquistador, you wanna smoke a joint?” he says. He pulls a thinny from his pack of Winstons. 

Well, all my friends are Indians

All my friends are brown and red

Abigail finishes her tequila and slams down the little plastic shot glass. She lowers her head and whispers “You got any ice?”

Quetzalcoatl blushes and shakes his head. “Nah”

Abigail stands up. “Let’s go smoke that joint.”

We go outside the ropes to the smoking area and I light the Winston and Quetzalcoatl lights the joint. I take a hit and start thinking about my Mom. I miss her, and my Dad. I bet Dad’s happy about the Bills season, first in the AFC East. Maybe I should go home for the super bowl. 

Those drug addicts serve the great Satan! 

They wanted me to go back to the hospital and get better and go back to school and have a life. What kind of life? What kind of life do I have now? I was okay before.

You were dead then. Now you are alive.

If I am crazy, why does this feel real? Why do I see the unfolding mysteries and hear screams of the suffering? Why do I hear the infinite word? Maybe I need my medicine. Maybe I need to get laid. 

“You okay there, El Conquistador?” Quetzalcoatl says from behind me. I’ve wandered away from them. I wave to him and keep walking onto the track. Near the stables, a man with a red felt cowboy hat helps a woman and her kid off a horse. The mother gives the kid a swat, and he cries. The man ties the horse to a post.

“Look!” King Diomedes says. He points to the sky. Two faint green streaks pass over the setting sun. Every head turns upward and everything goes quiet. The horse tied to the post whinnies. She wears a red felt saddle cloth with a black eight painted on it. 

I take out my pocket-bible and my knife.

Psalms:8: O LORD … when I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him.

You made him ruler over the works of your hands; you put everything under his feet, all flocks and herds, and the beasts of the field.

The first God roars. The savage king of Thrace lusts for flesh. Zeus Pater demands a sacrifice. Moloch wants blood. I run across the track towards the mother and child. 

“Hey security, we gotta wild one.” Dicky says from the speakers. 

The woman screams and clutches her child. King Diomedes steps in front of them. 

“I ain’t playing here!” I shout. I show him my Russel lock-blade. He throws his hands up. I run past him to the mare and cut into the rope. The beasts have gone mad from the savage King’s lust for flesh. I am the ruler of the flock. I am the progeny of Perseus, I am the executer of the judgment, I am…

“Terry, stop that! No! Don’t hurt him.” Abigail screams.

Moloch finds me, and his horns puncture me with fifty thousand volts. I’ve been cast into his fire and everything burns. I hear Zeus Pater laugh over the speakers.  

“Someone’s off his meds.”

He lied to me again.

I’m not Hercules.