All the Gods pass through here. The walls are thick with photos: Odin, back in the two-eyed days; Zoroaster poking two fingers up behind Zarathustra’s head; Kali with her arms around Mister Vitelli. A lot of Gods with Mister Vitelli. He might own the place, but you’ve never met a bigger starfucker in your life. And Mister Vitelli has lived several.
Truth is, nobody knows how long Mister Vitelli’s been around. I tried to map it out, once. Build a chronology using the photos as a guide. But times runs kinky here. Gods are natural phenomena. Black holes with daddy issues. Supernovae with bar tabs. The laws of physics and men get bent for party tricks in this place. All I know is, Mister Vitelli is old. Like, cosmic old. All the Gods call him ‘Mister’. That should tell you all you really need to know.
I saw him, once. From a distance. I was tending bar, trying to keep Circe and Freya from turning the bar top into a live action porn show. Again. He was at a table with a God I didn’t recognise. Someone lean, and modern, all darkness and bad intentions. Even through a halo of Goddess hair and love sweat, I could tell—this was a bad news kind of God, a no-future kind of God. And whatever he was pitching, Mister Vitelli was angry.
I’ve been trying to preserve half an hour a night for writing this year. No expectations, no markets in mind, just half an hour where, even if all I do is stare at a blank screen every night, I’m doing nothing other than writing behaviours. I’ve managed bugger all for a week, but tonight, well…… that. What you just read.
Maybe it’s a start. Maybe it’s nothing. I have no expectations.
But maybe it’s a start.