Published: 14 Oct 2019

Nemesis – God of Retribution

“Who are you?” My voice was slurred from the booze I had drunk and fuzzy from the sleeping pills I’d taken.

“I am Nemesis,” the boy answered.

“Uh huh, sure.” I grunted. “Since when is the Goddess of Divine Retribution a 12-year-old boy?”

The boy looked funny at me. “I am not a goddess! I’m a boy. And, yes, I’m the god of retribution. How would you know anything about—”

“Look, I don’t mean to interrupt,” I interrupted. “But this is my dream, and if I’m dreaming about a cute, half-naked 12-year-old boy, I don’t need any retribution getting in the way of my erection.”

The little boy looked at me. His eyes were obsidian black and obsidian hard. “You’re disgusting! And you’re not dreaming. The booze and the pills suppress the dream state. You’re … awake … as awake as you can be after all the crap you stuffed into your body today. And, you were about to die before I woke you … you were going to choke on your own vomit.” He looked … smug, I guess was the best word.

“Fuck you!” I said. “Speaking of which, since you’re a dream, how about taking off that … whatever it is you’re wearing?”

“It’s a khaī tōn, you … you jerk,” the boy said. “And I’m not a dream, and I’m not going to disrobe to satisfy your carnal lust.”

I heard khaī tōn and disrobe, and carnal lust. What a little prick! “In that case, go away, and let me sleep.” I rolled over, punched the flat pillow, and tried to think sleepy thoughts. The boy wouldn’t let me.

“I told you, I’m not a dream. I’m Nemesis, and you’re my replacement.”

There was a long pause while I collected my thoughts. This was either a real dream, or I was really dead. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I thought I was in my room at the “by the hour or by the month” motel in a Chicago slum. I thought I felt the rough sheets on my skin. I thought I saw the digital display of the clock radio that got only one station. I thought I was awake.

Of course, I wasn’t awake. Of course, this was a dream. “Mark Anthony? Right? He wrote about the guy who takes the place of Death. I read that years ago. Good story. Sexy, in places.”

That’s why I liked it. Think about it. Death as an avatar. Able to go anywhere and do anything. Judge of the souls of all the gay teens who’d killed themselves. I really wanted to do something like that. All my life, I had dreamed about being able to reach out to a gay boy who was about to take his life, and offer to be his friend, to be the one who loved him, to be the one who saved him from that fate. But, I didn’t have the courage to follow up. I was such a wimp … such a loser.

The boy agreed with me. “Piers Anthony, you idiot, not Mark Anthony!” the boy’s eyes sparked. Yes, sparked. Flashed with fire. This was definitely a dream.

“Anthony was close, and he discovered a lot. But Death is a different avatar. I’m Retribution, and you’re about to feel that.”

There was a definite chill in his voice. And then it got hot. Really hot.

I saw and I felt the things I drank to forget. The nightmares were the reason I took sleeping pills. I knew they suppressed dreams.

I saw all the things I’m still ashamed of. Every evil thing I ever did came back to haunt me. I don’t mean a “flash before my eyes.” I took the place of those I hurt. There were a lot of them, and it was in slow motion. Then, it started over. I lost track of the number of times I re-lived each event, each hurt, each pain. Eternity couldn’t have lasted that long. Dante Alighieri, himself, would have pitied me, I think. I hope. Before it was over, I’d traveled all the circles of his hell. I’d seen the rank, raw underbelly of my life.

When I woke, I was still in the motel on a mattress soaked with sweat; my throat was parched. The kid handed me a plastic cup of warm tap water. I thought of the Koran’s promise that the evil dead would be made to drink from a fountain of boiling water.

“I am evil, and I’m supposed to replace you?” I asked.

“Yes,” the boy replied. “Who better to be the instrument of retribution than one who has been the instrument of pain?”

“Someone who was the target of that pain?” I asked.

“No,” the boy said. “The target is going to hold a grudge. Only the person who caused the pain, knowing the pain he caused, can mete out justice. And, justice is the goal.

The 12-year-old boy giggled. “You’re Retribution, but you’re an instrument of justice where it counts. Oh, and to make it more complicated? The Goddess of Justice is Die-Key. It’s spelled d-i-k-e, but pronounced Die-Key, like Nye-Key, the Winged Victory. She’s your boss. Don’t mispronounce her name and don’t piss her off!”

“You … you were like me?” I asked.

The boy nodded, and I saw pain flash across his face. I knew he could no more tell me what he had done than I can say all the evil that I did.

The transition was instantaneous. One minute I was a forty-six-year-old guy in a sleazy motel room about to drown in his own vomit from too much booze plus a couple of sleeping pills. The next minute I was a 12-year-old boy with a great honking sword and immortality. I was still in a sleazy motel room, though.

A shaft of sunlight popped through a hole in the curtains, the signal it was morning. I looked at the mess: clothes strewn about, liquor bottles in the trashcan and on the nightstand, half-eaten fast food in Styrofoam boxes. At least there wasn’t a body. I’d rather vanish than be found that way, but I didn’t want to leave the room the way it was. I took off my chiton (yes, that and sandals and the sword came with the job – maybe a sense of responsibility, too) and started cleaning up.

Two hours later, I showered, put on the chiton and sandals, stuck the sword in its scabbard, and left the room. My first goal was to find Dike – Die-Key – and get her take on all this. The notion that the criminal could be the best judge made a weird sort of sense but I needed to talk to someone about it. I also wanted to know what the heck was I supposed to do next?

A lot happened in the next two months. I met Dike and learned a little bit about what I was supposed to do. Gary, who was involved with a large orphanage, sort of found me. There’s no way he could adopt me, but the Avatar of Death (yeah, I met him, too) told Gary to help me, so I lived with Gary. We rescued a couple of boys and I meted out retribution on their abusers.

When I came down to the kitchen, Death and Gary were sitting at the table drinking coffee and talking about basketball. It was a friendly argument over which teams were going to be in the finals of the college playoffs. Gary’s phone rang. He glanced at it.

“Uh, oh. Important corporate donor. I have to take this in the office. Nemesis? Would you entertain our guest?”

I squeaked. “Who me?” Then, I blushed.

Gary nodded and rushed out.

Death took a sip of coffee. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Nemesis?”

“Uh, not really,” I said.

Death chuckled. Yeah, this was the guy you usually see as a skeleton in a cowled robe with a huge honking scythe. He chuckled. And he was wearing regular clothes – worn blue jeans, a pullover shirt, and cowboy boots. His leather bomber jacket hung on the pegboard by the back door.

“You’re not afraid of me, but you’re not comfortable with me, either.”

I fiddled with the orange juice so I didn’t have to answer right away. “It’s not you,” I said. “It’s what you represent. It’s that I’ve already had to kill, and I know I’ll have to kill, again. I’ve got this great honking sword and all it does is kill people!”

“Didn’t anyone teach you how to use your sword?”

I shook my head as Gary walked in. He gestured toward the coffee carafe.

“Top it off?” he asked Death.

“No, no thank you, Gary,” Death said. “Gary? May I borrow your protégé for a few hours? His training was incomplete. There are some things I can show him … and some people I know who can show him other things he needs to know.”

“Nemesis?” Gary asked me. “Is this okay with you?”

I must have looked like a bobble-head when I nodded.

“Then … sword and chiton, please,” Death said and grabbed my hand and …

… popped us to a rocky plain. Nothing grew except some scrubby weeds here and there. It was hot, dry, and dusty.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Plains of Marathon, in ancient Greece. Very ancient Greece – more than 10,000 years before the battle that made Phidippides famous.”

“Isn’t that just a myth? That Phidippides ran to Athens and died from it?”

“Yes, that part is a myth. However, the battle is important. It kept the Persians from conquering Greece, and gave the Athenians time to invent Western Civilization. Phidippides’ run was a myth; however, he was a real person: a hoplite and a good swordsman. He was also a Hero.

“His sword was about two-and-a-half feet long. Your sword is that long, too, when you want it to be. Wait!” Death cautioned as I reached for my sword.

Death didn’t seem to do anything, but without warning, a dude about 20 years old, wearing a chiton (longer than mine – it covered his butt) and armor, carrying a shield and wearing a sword appeared. Death spoke to him – in Attic Greek. I knew what it was, and I understood it.

“Hero, we salute you and thank you for coming to our call,” Death said. “Here you see Nemesis, god of Retribution and servant of Dike, goddess of Justice. He needs some instruction in swordsmanship.”

The Greek dude nodded. “I see you, Death, and I know you. I also know you do not ask the help of those in Elesia without reason. You honor me.

“So, boy, you have a sword but know not what to do with it?”

Okay, I was standing in Greece, really ancient Greece, talking Attic Greek with Death and a dead hero. Why did it feel so normal?

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I know it will kill, but I don’t always want to kill.”

Phidippides nodded. “If you were a soldier, I would chastise you; but I know who you are. You are right to think that way. Draw your sword.”

I did, and was surprised that the great honking sword was only about two-and-a-half feet long … the same as Phidippides’ sword.

Death nodded. “There are times, in close quarters, for example, when you don’t want a great honking sword.”

Actually, I thought he chuckled when he said that, but I had other things to think about. Phidippides had drawn his sword, and was menacing me.

Phidippides was a good swordsman. He was also a good teacher. We spent several hours together. He taught me a lot, but warned me I’d lose what I had learned if I didn’t practice.

I looked at Death, when Phidippides said that. Death nodded, and said, “Gary can arrange training for you.”

Death thanked Phidippides; so did I before he disappeared.

Death looked … sad? Wistful? It was really weird. He knew what I was thinking, and explained. “Even the Elysian Fields must get boring after a while. I suspect he appreciated this more than we did.

“Come on, you have more to learn.”

He grabbed my hand. We popped.

Phidippides was a real hero, despite the fiction that had grown up around his name. The myth and truth about the next person had also been created and manipulated.

We arrived in a field in France, around the year 1700 C.E. A young man, who would later become Lieutenant Captain of the First Company of the King’s Musketeers, rode toward us. Death held up his hand and the boy reined in his horse.

Death addressed the boy in the French of the era. “You ride to Paris to join the King’s Musketeers. Pray, rest your horse a while and show my young friend some of your skill with the sword.”

The youngster was happy to oblige. When I drew my sword, it was a rapier, the same sword the French boy wore. The boy was a natural swordsman, but not the best instructor. Still, he gave me a sense of confidence and flair.

We shared a lunch of bread, cheese, and wine and then sent the French boy off to his destiny.

I watched d’Artagnan ride away.

“That was way cool!” I said. “Even better than Phidippides. I remember … I remember reading all about him when I was a real kid.”

Death knew better than to pursue my childhood, or my memories, but he let me feel his concern.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s nearly five o’clock. I want to shower and change before kicking your butt at skee-ball.”

The sun was just crossing the zenith. It was noon where we were, and we’d been together for more than twelve hours. But I knew he meant five o’clock in Chicago. The countryside faded, and we were in the living room of a cookie-cutter suburban home.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Death asked. “There are soft drinks in the ’fridge. I’ll get you back to Gary’s in time for you to shower and change.”

We popped into Gary’s kitchen at about 5:20. I got a quick hug, and then was off for a shower.

Death got a kick out of pizza with the other boys. After talking privately with him, Gary introduced him as “Uncle George.” He was, I think, reluctant at first, but accepted – and gave – hugs before he left. Oh, and I kicked his butt at skee-ball, but he agreed to a return match.

I would never describe what we did as routine, but at least things were settling down. Gary worked with the orphanage and the police. He’d pass leads to Bobby, who checked them out using Dike’s access to the police computers. The most desperate cases, Bobby went over with me. He and I picked the worst … the ones who needed help the most … and went after them. Sometimes, I’d hear someone who needed help right away, and we’d go straight there. Yeah, we. I thought I was going to be a solo act, but usually Gary or Bobby went with me.

At first, I wasn’t sure about that. I was a god, after all. Why did I need help? That changed when I started understanding how big the problem was. There must have been a jillion kids needing help, but only a few met the criteria Dike had set.

I couldn’t have done alone all that needed to be done. I couldn’t have done it even with Gary, Bobby, and sometimes the Scions of Hermes. Dike told us there were other Garys and Bobbies, and other pantheons than the Greek had gods of justice and retribution. Still, there weren’t enough. We knew that, but we also knew we couldn’t save the entire world, only our little piece of it.

It was a Saturday morning when Bobby came running into the kitchen from Gary’s office. Gary followed him.

“Nemesis! Got a hot one. Need to leave right away!” Bobby said. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Come on! Dike called. It’s chiton time!” he exclaimed.

I changed … instantly … got a hug from Gary … and grabbed Bobby’s arm. “Where?”

“Here,” he said, and then filled my mind with what he’d gotten from Google Maps during Dike’s call: the image of a trailer park in … Georgia? A little out of our territory, I thought, but popped us there.

We appeared outside the door of a singlewide trailer. The humidity was high. So was the temperature. I was glad I wore the chiton.

“In here,” Bobby said. “His name is Kevin. His brother … his brother rapes him whenever he can’t get it from his girlfriend. He didn’t get it, last night.”

I pushed my fingers between the door and the frame, popped the door open, and stepped inside. The windows had been covered with aluminum foil to keep out the southern sun. My eyes adjusted instantly to the gloom. I gave Bobby a few seconds. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out where was the boy who was about to be raped.

“Nothing!” I whispered. Then, “Come on … we’ll look.” I walked through a kitchen and into a short hallway between an HVAC unit and a stacked washer-dryer. Nothing.

The first bedroom was empty. The second bedroom held a snoring but fully clothed young adult. Perhaps 20 years old. His belt and fly were undone, and one hand was tucked inside his undershorts. He stank of sweat and beer. I hoped I wasn’t supposed to rescue him. I shook my head, and led Bobby through the bathroom into the back bedroom.

A man, perhaps 40, lay on the bed. He was half-dressed, as if he’d fallen asleep before he could remove his clothes. There was no boy.

“Bobby, there’s no boy,” I said.

“But there was! Dike told me!”

Bobby’s mobile rang. He pulled it out and listened. The only thing he said was, “Yes, ma’am.” After a few seconds, he put the phone down. “The boy’s safe … for now. The one in the first bedroom – he’s a job for Retribution.”

Bobby filled me in on the story: the older brother routinely raped his younger brother. The father knew, and forced the brothers to submit to him under threat of exposure. The younger brother had left moments before we’d gotten there. We’d have to catch up with him.

I sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to Bobby who threw a pan of ice water on the snoring teen. He sputtered awake, cursing.

“What the fuck! Kevin, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“It’s too late,” I said. “That is, you may already have killed Kevin. Or made it impossible for him to live. You may have given him reason to take his own life. Are you proud of that?”

“Who the fuck are you?” he sputtered. Yeah, sputtered. He spit mucus and beery-upchuck between words. Sputtered.

“I’m your worst nightmare,” I said. “I’m a little boy with a really cute butt, but you’ll never fuck me.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” he said, and tried to get up. It would have been awkward in any case. His legs were draped over the footboard. I pushed his chest down.

“Nope … not me, but you’ll think you’re crazy before this is over.” I grabbed his arm and lifted him to his feet.

“Come on, we’re going for a little ride.”

Bobby grabbed my shoulder … he knew what was coming. In an instant, we were in the adjoining room – the empty one we’d first seen, except now there was a boy, perhaps 12 years old, dressed only in pajama pants, lying on the mattress, shivering and frightened. Standing beside the mattress was the boy I had in custody, except he was four years younger, and not quite as drunk.

“Take ’em off,” the older boy said. “You heard me. Take ’em the fuck off!” He leaned over the bed and smacked the younger boy’s face. Then, he grabbed the ankles of the pajama pants and ripped them from the little boy.

“On your stomach, you little queer,” the older boy said. He was fumbling with his belt.

“I’m gonna give you want you want … what you want … ” he said.

“No, please, Ralph! Please don’t!” the little boy begged. “Daddy—”

“Daddy won’t do a fuckin’ thing,” the older boy said. “An’ if you say anythin’ to him, I’ll kill you. You understand, you little fag?”

The older boy dropped his pants. His penis pushed through the fly of his boxer shorts, red and ugly. He grabbed his little brother and rolled him onto his stomach. Then, he knelt behind him.

Bobby grabbed my shoulder. “You’ve got to stop him!” he whispered.

“This isn’t real, Bobby. Once it was. It was very real to this little boy and to his brother. But it’s already happened. We can’t change it. You can take pictures of it, though.”

Bobby nodded, and got out the Polaroid that was part of his crime scene kit. The people on the bed didn’t see the flashes.

Was this rape not as brutal as some? Or, is there a degree of brutality that is part of any rape that keeps one from being any more worse or less worse than another? I cannot say. Even after my trip through Hell, I cannot say. The older brother thrust deeply into the little boy four or five times. We saw his teeth and fists clench as his orgasm pushed his sperm into his brother’s bowels. We saw him collapse on the little boy’s back then roll over; we saw his flaccid dick slide out, covered with shit and seminal fluid. We saw the little boy’s tears.

I still held the current incarnation of the older brother. He shivered, but for only a moment and then turned to me and sneered.

“Who do you think you are, the fuckin’ Ghost of Christmas Past? The little fag had it coming … and he liked it. Yeah, he liked it.”

It was twilight when I popped us onto the trail above the Tullulah River Gorge. There was a scenic overlook that jutted a few feet out from the trail. Three hundred feet below, the river danced and splashed over huge boulders. Two boys came down the trail and turned into the overlook.

“Kevin!” my captive, the older brother, called to the boys. “Mark! You gotta’ help me!”

“They can’t hear you,” I said. “Ghost of Christmas Present, at your service.” I giggled. The boy got even more nervous.

Kevin took Mark’s hand and led him to the overlook. They looked at the river. Mark tossed a pinecone over the fence and watched it splash, before being caught in the current and drawn under the vortex below the overlook.

Kevin spoke earnestly to Mark. Mark shook his head. He shook his head again, and then hugged Kevin. Kevin kept talking. Then, Mark nodded. They kissed. Kevin kicked away the wooden guardrail. The two boys stepped from the overlook and into eternity. The older brother in my hand screamed, “No!” His voice echoed over the roar of the river.

“You know why they did it, don’t you? You know why they killed themselves,” I said.

The boy knelt and put his hands on his face. “Yes! I know. You showed me!” He stood and tried to run to the edge of the overlook, but I grabbed him.

“Sorry, it’s not going to be that easy.”

It got dark, and then, it was light – candle light. Mark and Kevin were in a big bed in a farmhouse with wooden beams and wooden shutters on the windows.

They were naked, and they were having sex. Mark was fucking Kevin, but he was doing it from the front. Kevin’s legs were wrapped around Mark’s butt.

“I knew the little fag liked it,” his older brother said.

I slapped him, hard, and saw blood run down his chin when I pushed a tooth through his cheek.

“Yes, he likes it. But only with his boyfriend. Yeah, his boyfriend, his lover. Mark knows how to make Kevin feel good; all you did was hurt him. Mark and Kevin love one another; all you ever felt was lust: horny, drunken, stupid lust.

“Even with your so-called girlfriend, all you felt was your pleasure and your release. You never wondered how she felt. You never took the time to make her feel good. You never … you never did what Kevin and Mark are doing.”

They were cuddling. Kissing softly from time to time. Both boys seemed to glow. “Just so you know,” I said. “Kevin and Mark had two futures when they left home this morning. You saw both of them. The second one, where they were happy, where they were lovers? That’s the one that happened. Just so you know.”

I felt like I was twisting a knife in his gut … and it showed on his face. He realized they had found something he would never have. That was Retribution.

There was only one more thing to do.

Ralph’s Girlfriend

Ralph came over, like he always did, just before suppertime. My mother was so happy that I was dating someone who had a job, that she welcomed him. For a while, I felt the same way. There were a lot of losers who wanted me; at least this loser had a job.

Tonight, I was ready. The boy who said he was a friend of Ralph’s little brother, Kevin, had shown me the Polaroids. Left them with me. When Ralph came to the door, I threw them in his face.

“You fucked me with the same dick you stuck in your little brother’s ass! You animal! You … get away and don’t ever come back. If you do, the rest of the pictures are going somewhere that will take care of you for good.”

This book wraps up many of the stories of World, though we hope it is not the last from the fertile mind of David. Let David know you are reading: David dot McLeod at CastleRoland dot net. He deserves your feedback.

15,553 views