| “This is a lousy day for the House of Fred,” the guy wheezes to me when we finally get to the outer vestibule of Toody’s residence. “That’s the truth. Mr. Pisistrato,” says I. “Ye gods,” he says, “a lawyer. We’ve gone thirty years without lawyers in this town. I forgot how you guys operate, so for a minute I was surprised you know my name. What else you know?” “You are the Prime Minister here. They called you the Pisser. The old Duke died six months ago, and to make a long story short . . .” “This I got to hear,” he interjects, “a lawyer making a long story short.” “To make a long story short, Mr. Prime Minister, your town is in great jeopardy.” “Skip the dramatics and just serve your papers. Somebody trip and bust their arm on our front gate, or what?” “This has nothing to do with me being an attorney, Mr. Pisistrato.” “Now you’re pulling my leg for serious.” “Did you see those guys chasing me into town?” “I heard about it.” “Do you know who they are?” “Hey, this town lives on tourism.” “They are no tourists.” He interrupts me, looking past my shoulder and breaking into this billboard of a grin. “Well, lady, long time no see.” A voice familiar to me answers him. “The thing about hiring a mouthpiece, they do tend to use their mouth.” It’s Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, making her second appearance of the day among mortals. The Pisser points at me. “He’s your shamus?” “After a manner of speaking. I caught him trying to escape his destiny. I set him straight,” she replies. Yes, earlier in the day Thalia appeared to me in the countryside when I was escaping the Spartans. She told me everything I’ve told you about the city and sent me on my mission to Toody. Immediately afterwards, she set that pack of Spartans on my tail. So I wouldn’t lose my sense of purpose, I suppose. Hey, I’m a swell guy, really, but nobody’s perfect. “You haven’t aged a bit in thirty years,” glows Pisistrato to the goddess. “Great advantage of immortality. No facelifts, no hair coloring. Would you believe I’m not even wearing make up?” “No!” “Well, a little eyeshadow, but that’s just cause I like the smell. I can have any color eyes I want.” She proceeds to go through her color change routine, at one time or another coming up with magenta eyes and bright orange hair, and bright orange eyes and magenta hair, and her nose getting long and short, her ears changing to donkey, then dog ears, and every kind of ridiculous change. The Pisser and I are in stitches. She is really funny. “Settle down boys, settle down.” We settle down as she continues. “We’ve got a couple of real problems here. You guys are going to help solve them. By the way Pisistrato, Fred sends his love.” “How is my old comrade-in-laughs?” “Doing great. Riding a circuit between Hades and Olympus, cracking them up in all climates. Of course, he doesn’t get along so well without you to mind his affairs.” “Well, it can’t be too much longer.” “Look, doll, we’ll talk about that later in private, okay? Right now, I need both of you right here.” “Yeah, sure. What’s the beef?” “Things are happening on Olympus I don’t feel good about. Mars doesn’t seem content with Sparta and the candy bar franchise. He keeps making these big eyes at me, like he’s crazy. Some of the other gods and goddesses are icing me out of conversations. You know how people are suddenly quiet when you walk in on them, so you know they’ve been talking about you? So when I heard that Ichthyopolis went up in flames . . .” “No!” The Pisser is horrified. “All those great swimmers?” “One of Poseidon’s favorite cities,” the Muse reflects. “Fifty miles inland, but every man, woman and donkey could out-swim a seagoing siren.” “Why didn’t Poseidon help them out?” The prime minister asks her. “Difficult to get your leviathans and creatures of the deep fifty miles inland. Mars’ army of Spartans had a free hand.” I interject, “That’s what those guys are who chased me into town just now.” “What,” queries the Pisser, “creatures of the deep?” “No,” says I, “Spartans.” “That’s not good news.” “So boys,” the Muse resumes, “Our present problem is to get our lad Toody on the road to motivation.” “What’s the plan?” I ask. (I love plans.) “No plan yet,” she says. “I’ll let you know about it as soon as I know. Also, I’m holding you both to a vow of silence about something.” “Name it,” says the picture. “Count on me,” I add. “As far as you guys are concerned, when you run into me in company, I’m just a humble maker of masks and magic tricks, okay?” “Won’t Toody recognize you from your statue?” Asked the Pisser. “If you think about it, you know that won’t be a problem with Toody.” The Pisser nods. “You’re right. I forgot.” Then to me. “You’ll see what she means when you meet the Duke.” Thalia rubs her hands together. “Okay, sweethearts. Times a-wastin’. Can I count on you?” “Of course,” says the Pisser. “One thing,” I interpose. “Why did you pull me into this deal?” “Honey,” she says, “I got some lollapalooza reasons which you’ll learn when the time is right. I doubt you’d believe me if I told you now. Until then – you with me?” “Sure lady. You got me fascinated. Count me in.” |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |