Myth Styx: Only $9.95

A Short Story

His blade was coated in a thick, green oil-like substance when he pushed the reptilian beast with his forearm. The old creature hissed, spewing dark bile from its abdomen, and finally collapsed down the stone steps of the palace, the body slapping each step one by one as it made its descent.

The warriors screeched in horror, calling out to their gods in agony at the sight of their fallen monarch.

The hot sun turned black, surrounded by clouds. The desert beneath their lizard feet shook in a violent, thunderous boom until finally cracked open, accepting the corpse of the king as its prize. 

Creed the Conquerer stood alone, barechested with deep battle scars and blade in hand. The reptilian men before him fell to their knees and sang in unison at the praise of their young, new ruler. Their native tongue hissing the song of the god-king.

Such primitive beings only recognized Trial by Blade as a legitimate election. Now the victor, Creed entered the palace to claim his throne, beginning his violent reign. 

Creed entered the throne room decorated with the heads of defeated enemies of the state, wild savages of neighboring tribes that failed in their conquest for the crown. 

He was drunk from the sweet perfumes and oil scents that filled the room. He ascended to the throne. The rush of such a victory came and he smiled gazing upon the wreath of iron placed neatly at the seat. 

Finally! 

Creed reached for it, feeling the weight of such a treasure in his hands as he raised it above his head. 

His ears felt warm and something thick ran down the side of his bearded face. Creed shook his head, the room began to spin. He dropped the iron crown and grabbed at his ears. Falling to his knees, he could taste the blood in his mouth.

No, not now, please!

Blood ran from his nose, rushing down his chest pooling below him on the cold stone floor. His eyes puffed and swelled, a bright pink ooze crusting around each socket. The spinning in his head intensified.

The throne room quaked and began to crumble around Creed raining bricks and dust. Torches were snuffed out, the trophy heads cracked, and the reptilian people, Creed's new subjects, vanished into a cloud of dark smoke. 

The room turned black.

***

Leonard Creed Phillips rose from his little cot, not in an alien grand palace in a great desert land, but in his 600 square foot apartment on the corner of Park and River Street in the city of Boston.

The year was 2044. 

He leaped up from his cot. His bare feet touched the ground. Cold linoleum, not stone. There was no blood, no blade, and no battle scars to be seen, only stacks of vintage media, dusty tapes once known as VHS movies and a wall lined with posters that belonged to his great-grandfather from a bygone era he knew as Cannon Films. 

On his nightstand, he reached for his glasses, surrounded by a coating of light, purple dust. He sighed, cleaning his glasses with his shirt that hugged his pot belly too tightly. 

The fantasy was over. Again.

The alarm clock rang: 5:30 am. Monday. The work day would begin.

***

The conference room of the Willard & Cooper, P.C. building was cold, gray, and humming with business talk. 

Leonard did his best to keep his attention on the slide deck presentation that would prepare him for the approaching tax season. Instead, he doodled in his notebook, filling it with shades of last night's dream. Little drawings of beheaded lizard men in the corners and an image of a charcoal-colored bloody dagger at the center of the page. 

The clock ticked away. His stomach growled. Lunch. 

***

Outside at a busy park across from his office, he sat on a bench, quietly eating his sad, homemade turkey and cheese sandwich. Here he would sit, watching the average, everyday humdrum of busy people stuck to their routines. The sun was high in typical blue skies, the birds sang familiar songs, and the earth was still. No sign of a quake anywhere. 

He waited, then waited. His feet tapping away trying ever so hard to be patient for his dealer's arrival.

He crumpled the aluminum foil and paper bag from lunch, tossed it in the waste bin next to him, and then saw the dirty, ragged old man sitting next to him. 

The man never made a sound on his arrival. He would just appear in his dark, cut-up jeans, flip-flops, beanie, and worn-out trench coat. 

He smelled of two-week-old trash, but Leonard was used to that smell now. So many visits to the old man had numbed his sense of smell. Most of Leonard's senses were numbed. Only this man could help him feel again. 

“Back so soon?” his voice was rough, seasoned by cigarette smoke and nip bottles of gin. He grinned his rotten teeth. He was delighted to see his favorite customer. 

“There's something wrong with the last packet,” Leonard said.

“Problem?”

“The last stuff you gave me…it was quick. I mean the dreams, it only lasted maybe 15 minutes. 10 at most. Last time I came to you, it felt…like a whole lifetime had passed by.”

Leonard was starting to sweat around his neck. 

“You've been hitting that stuff hard,” the old man rubbed his nose with a smile and wink. 

“It's not like before! I just…was getting started. Then the bleeding and spinning happened. It ended so suddenly.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve reached the threshold. Too much dust too often will do that.”

“I need more. I need something…stronger. My mind can’t get off on that weak junk now.”

“Hey, you got an issue with the product, take it up with the supplier. Are we here to do business or not?”

The old man had many names, Sandman, Dream Dealer, but he insisted Leonard refer to him as Jiminy. He liked that name very much.

Leonard leaned in closer, “I'm willing to keep our…arrangement going. But for the amount of money I'm paying you, I expect the good stuff. Something that will…last. Get me?”

Jiminy smiled, “Well, it just so happens you're in luck, kid.”

The old man reached into his coat pocket with a thin stick wrapped tightly in baby blue paper. Leonard's eyes widened with pleasure.

“My supplier just launched a new product line: ‘Blue Fairy Dust.’ Such a lousy name if you ask me. I prefer to call ‘em, Myth Styx. Much better, eh? But what the hell do I know? I'm not in marketing. If you want the good stuff, here she is. 99% pure. Straight from the source. As good as she gets. I think this is what you’re after, kid.”

“How much?” Leonard grabbed onto Jiminy's coat. Jiminy pulled away, pointing his finger at Leonard. 

“This ain't your regular pixie stick, boyo! This baby is top-of-the-line quality. This shit will have you out for good if you're not careful—” 

“How…much?”

Jiminy grinned again, scratching the stubble on his chin, and said, “It ain't cheap, you know. But for my favorite customer, I'll let you have it for say….$9.95.”

Nine dollars and ninety-five cents? Leonard couldn't believe it. Such a steal! He poured his entire nest egg into these dream packets.

Now the sweet dust that elevated his dreams to such wild fantasies that felt so — intoxicating — at a bargain price.

This dust, this magic powder that he'd inhale, lit his imagination on fire. 

In the past, he'd been a pirate king pillaging coastal towns and Caribbean islands. He'd spend his nights riding hard and fast with the great Mongol hordes sacking cities in the East. Weekends were spent in harems and exotic brothels with the most beautiful women he could ever imagine.

The substance, though its origin was a mystery to Leonard, was more potent than any narcotic he'd ever experienced. 

He tried everything, coke, heroin, meth, any dope that he could throw money at, but nothing came close to the dream dust. 

Movies, music, and gaming no longer thrilled him. Sex, when he got it, was nothing but a bore.

He could be anyone: a soldier, a warlord, a tribal chief, a king, or a conqueror. In his twisted little fantasy, everything he consumed, everything he tasted was sweeter than the purest nectar.

Life was dull for Leonard. But now, with this little powder, he could enjoy a life that was filled with adventure, a life that felt more real, a life that was — exciting. 

Leonard reached for his wallet, pulled out a wrinkled ten-dollar bill, and threw it at Jiminy as he snatched his drug. 

Leonard kissed it and placed it neatly in his pants pocket. When he looked up, he noticed Jiminy had vanished.

***

Six o’clock and not a moment sooner, Leonard threw off his oxford shirt, sickly green tie, and kicked off his shoes in the corner of that tiny apartment of his. He took his glasses off, placing them on the nightstand. Ripping the paper wrapping of the Myth Styx with his teeth, he dumped the powder on the nightstand. 

With bated breath, Leonard took a pinch of the powder in between his thumb and index finger, careful to note Jiminy's advice, brought it up to his nose, and inhaled the fragrant blue dust. 

He lay back on his cot, head cradled by his pillow, and closed his eyes. A moment passed and he felt his body plummet down quickly, like the floor beneath him ripping itself open. 

His body in freefall, Leonard let out a cry, not of terror, but of pure elation. The adrenaline he felt was nothing like before. Immense power and energy were pulsing throughout his body. 

He sunk deeper and deeper into the pit and then silence.

***

The year was 1500.

Leonard took the role of Captian-General of the Papal armies, leading a combined force of Swiss mercenaries and French troops in a siege against the Duke of Milan. The red Borgia Bull encrusted upon his shining chest plate armor struck fear in the hearts of his Milanese enemies. 

As the cannon rained fire and iron, bringing down the walls of Novara, Leonard led a cavalry charge into the city, leaving nothing in his path, but a trail of blood. Gripping his sword tightly, he swung it down hard, cutting down every man and woman before him.

Watching the lowly peasants trample under his white steed gave him a satisfying feeling of glee. 

More dust.

The year was 1123. 

As a German knight, Leonard joined the Venetian fleet on the journey to the Holy Land. His chainmail was heavy but his fighting spirit was strong. The Venetian warships blockaded the coastal city of Tyre and Leonard joined the land assault, hacking down Muslim troops and looting his way through the city for gold, supplies, and rare spices.

More dust. 

The year is 9600 BCE. 

Atlantis, the sunken city, is a hub of magic and myth. Deep in its waters, in the ancient temple protected by towering guardian statues, Leonard makes love to the Atlantean women who kept his bed warm for three days, a getaway from the warring and conquest, of course. Here he bathed in the warmth of a woman who loved him and didn’t mind his endless talk of random historical facts and pedantic lectures on poetry and philosophy. For him, it was paradise.

***

He spent all weekend locked away in his dreamland, too exhausted to move, too captivated to do anything else. Not a crumb of food was eaten, not a single body part was washed. It was all worth it.

The dreamland is where Leonard escaped. That eternal glory after a long-fought battle, the showering praise of fellow warriors, and the love of women. 

He wanted to belong to something. He wanted to be needed. 

His 5:30 am alarm rang. Monday came. Shit. 

***

Leonard paced around the park bench. He was on edge. It had been an hour and there was no sign of Jinimy. His back was drenched in sweat. Where was the old man? Leonard had no way of calling him. 

He looked at his watch. It was ten past one. Back to the office.

Leonard sat in his little cube, still sweating, his legs bouncing. The stupid green necktie felt tight around his neck, he needed air. 

When he made his way down the corridor, he froze. Adjusting his glasses so he could see better, he thought he was hallucinating. 

A…German knight in chainmail, a nasal helmet, and a shield on his back. Chatting outside the men’s room?

Rubbing his eyes didn't help either. There just eight feet away from him was a German fucking knight chatting away to some jerk in HR.

He sped walk past the German, sprinting for the elevator. He pushed the button. 

God, was it hot in that hallway? At least for Leonard, it was hot, his face felt like an oven. 

The elevator dinged and the doors opened to….Atlantean women. Their breasts exposed, and tattooed arms reached out of the elevator calling out to Leonard in a dead, musical language. 

What is this?

He ran to the nearest exit and flew down the back staircase. 

Out into the street, he stopped to catch his breath, he was burning up.

In the back of the office building, in a dingy little alleyway lined with trash - trash he could smell. 

Smell?

The stench overwhelmed Leonard. Pungent, foul air of rotted eggs, sulfuric and sharp, violated his nose. Stink of backed-up sewage crawled and nestled deep in his throat.

He heaved up whatever was left of the day's lunch from his stomach, nearly choking on the warm, sour-digested food. 

Ripping off his glasses, he saw only blue blots and crystals that burned into his sight. The heat, the sweat, the smells, the tastes, the piercing blue blots, all crushing his faculties.  

Blotches of uneasy color clouded his mind making him dizzy. Bits of gray matter melted in his skull, his face an angry boiling pot overflowing. Eyes wide with fierce psychedelic hues and tints spinning, and spinning, and spinning. Leonard tumbled into a heap of trash.  Ears chiming with a choir of grievous cries of woe and pain. They were familiar cries to him. Thousands of tormented howls oppressing his hearing from all directions as if each soul was shouting him down in anguish.

Leonard looked up and down the alley, Jiminy stood, though not in rags this time. 

The old man, now sharply dressed in tailored menswear, smiled with gleaming, pearly-white teeth. Slowly he approached Leonard, who was tearing at his clothes like some frenzied fool.

Leonard saw Jiminy, and tried to scream for help, for some sort of relief, but though his mouth was open no sound could be heard.

“You’re not dreaming, kid” 

Leonard heard Jiminy’s voice in his head along with the screaming souls.

“Or—-are you?” 

Leonard clawed at his face. The heat, he couldn’t take it. He got up and ran down the alley. Jiminy’s voice echoed and rattled throughout his mind. 

“You’ve found yourself in a twilight state of mind. A blending cocktail of fantasy and reality.”

Leonard ran. 

“This isn’t the end.” 

The alleyway seemed to stretch further, he couldn’t keep up pace. The weight of his body grew dense, and the brick walls began to close in on him. The uneven pavement beneath him shattered like glass and he fell through the opening of the ground.

He sank into the depths, drowning in bright multicolors of crystal blue, purple, pink, green, and gold. This place, this dimension, was new to him. There was great beauty in the colors around him, something that gave him immense pleasure throughout his body. Leonard was floating, settling in through the air, watching the colors sing to him in an almost welcoming melody that removed all fear, all his worries. 

He was flying in a whole new realm, one so vivid it gave him a sense of peace. It was all so new and novel. A scope of a new world to explore, to indulge himself in all its delight. Raising his arm, his finger punctured through the colors. They mixed in his hand like clay. 

The year is 2044. 

A ripple between our modern world and the world of dreams and fantasy has expanded into a new horizon. 

Time has no place here. 

It is a new country, unreached and untained by human hands, until now. 

The man known to few as Leonard Creed Philips arrived at this place. His mental connection to the old world has been severed. 

He will not be remembered and he will not be mourned. But he doesn’t care. For now, he is in uncharted waters. He can shape this world in an image of his own. Whatever his imagination can conceive, he can create. 

The ultimate fantasy. 

A neverending dream.

End

This One’s For Harlan Ellison