Here's the opening scene of
No Funny Stuff!

***

        “Enter, Thalia,” she heard Apollo’s robust voice invite her into his glorious audience as the Muse of Laughter stood beneath the arch-and-pillared doorway of her master’s sun-bright grotto.

        Diamonds woven into swaying gold threads decorated the archway threshold before her, catching sunbeams and spinning magical sparks across the vine-strewn waterfall lagoon where the master’s nymphs played beside the rock-lined pour. Girlish titters filled the lilac-scented air like music, pleasing Thalia enormously.

        Casting her sight through silk-suspended jewels, Thalia spotted her master seated on his great gilded throne before the waterfall pool, a beautiful goddess seated at his right hand and left. The muse couldn’t imagine why she’d been called upon as both Athena and Aphrodite visited Great Apollo.

        Usually, the master’s resonant voice gave her comfort when she felt anxious, but the goddesses’ presence seemed ominous. Thalia wasn’t good at doing ominous. Goofy, slap-stick, irreverent, sarcastic, deadpan, witty, light-hearted—yes, aplenty; but not ominous. Ominous was best done by her sister Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy.

        She smoothed wrinkles from her blush-pink gown, checked her sandals for imperfection, then huffed a breath into her hand. Ah, fresh breath. Still she gobbled down a starlight mint.

        Bad breath isn’t funny.

        Thalia stepped through the shimmering crystals, padded up to the master’s throne, and gave a respectful bow to the Olympians.

        “Greetings, Master Apollo. Greetings, Lady Athena, Lady Aphrodite,” Thalia sang out, her eyes cast downward to their royal sandals. It was time Athena acquired a new pair. The pair she wore appeared ragged, looked like they’d been through a battle or two.

        Gold leather straps wrapping her elegant feet and calves to her delicate knees, Aphrodite’s sandals were fabulous, but wasn’t the goddess of beauty and love always the impeccable embodiment of style?

        Apollo’s sandals? Haphazard lacing and a bit old-fashioned, but men seldom keep up with fashion, and that included most of the male gods. Only Hermaphroditus had any flair at all, looking spectacular in feathers. Spectacular!

        “How may your servant honor you, my lord?” the muse asked in her most courtly tone. Perhaps the goddesses had come to Apollo for a good sandal-maker recommendation, and the master had in turn thought of Thalia’s particular propensity for shoes.

        She could never be forgotten for inspiring Pee-Wee Herman’s Big Shoe Number, a moment of her greatest magic.

        “I’ve a task best carried out with your special talent, Muse,” Apollo told her, with some hidden sobriety.

        Thalia noticed too well the sadness in Athena’s gray eyes. Her golden helmet settled at her feet, the sable-tressed goddess was pale, and she clutched a handkerchief atop her white linen-draped lap as though she’d spent tears over some terrible situation. Athena was usually stoic, not one to express her sorrows. Thalia didn’t have much experience with Athena, the goddess possessing a no-nonsense nature and not having much use for laughter on the plains of combat. What could make the Lady of Wisdom and Justified War weep?

        Fiery-locked Aphrodite, a very close friend of Thalia’s, appeared troubled as well, her concerned honey-vision cast over her sister-goddess. A tiny, elegantly decorated, and bowed red box sat in the goddess’s lap atop her apple-red robes. The bows were in fact bigger than the inch-wide cube on which it sat. Smallest gift Thalia had ever seen.

        The ladies must have a pretty profound shoe crisis to bear such expressions of grief, or was it something else entirely?

        Thalia thought to crack a joke, but the grave ghosts in the trio’s eyes caused her pause. There was such a thing as inappropriate timing, even for such a powerful, transformative force as humor.

        “Lady Thalia,” Apollo began, dragging a long index finger over his solid, square chin in consideration. The golden topaz mounted in the ring he wore made the motion glitter. “A curse eases today, Muse, and I’ve need of your special spirit.”

        “I am ever your joyful servant, Lord Apollo,” Thalia responded with a smile she hoped softened the sag of the room’s enthusiasm. They weren’t standing in a room as much as inhabiting a cloud-top island altered to Apollo’s momentary preferences of a waterfall grotto paradise. “Lay your task before me, my lord, and consider it done with joy.”

        What was the name of that shoe store in Tel Aviv that still makes custom-made sandals to die for? Heel Thyself, that’s it. Then there’s The Stiletto du Jour in Paris, Espadrilles-R-Us in Los Angeles, Shoe-lapalooza in London. The true craftsmen were becoming rare.

        Thank the gods for Birkenstocks, the preference of the Immortals at family reunions. Despite what one would assume of the softness of clouds, thunderheads could carry quite a zap with all that electrical activity underfoot. Thick soles were the call of the day in Olympus when Father Zeus was in a bad mood.

        Lightning bolts in flight! Happens every reunion.

        Athena sniffled and scooted forward on her throne to address Thalia, the goddess’s pouting gray eyes beseeching her.

        “Muse,” the war-goddess began, her voice carrying a solid tone, no sign of the emotion she kept clamped in her tissue, “there’s a mortal to whom I wish you to deliver a gift. Andrew Murphy is the last descendant of my most beloved servant, his line cursed to live short and sad lives. The Fates tell me this young man’s life will soon end, and I wish him to live moments of joy before he suffers a fate he did not earn.”

        That did sound ominous. Thalia felt bad for this Andrew Murphy-person, found it particularly distasteful the poor soul had enjoyed little fun, experienced no big contentment in a life too short, if he weren’t nearing a century in age. She didn’t understand.

        “All mortals must die,” the muse acknowledged with certainty, then she turned to the deep red-tressed Goddess of Love. “But do they all not deserve moments of joy and fulfillment throughout their lives?”

        “Aye,” Aphrodite replied softly with full and sensuous cherry lips, her voice a soprano melody. “The mortals do deserve at least a measure of life’s splendor, Thalia, and even the chance to grow that happiness, the very reason we’ll defy the anger of a powerful god to see this young man happy in his short time left.”

        Athena sniffled again, dark spiral curls of her uplifted hair springing at her sturdy shoulders. Even in despair, she was lovely, her posture regal and commanding, her aura glowing, not at all a sight of weakness, but strength in living form.

        “A mission such as this is best put in your hands, Muse,” Athena explained. “I wish you to inspire Andrew Murphy to contentment in his last days. It is the one way I know to give a final honor to his forefather, a valiant and faithful man who’d crafted many victories for me. You’re among the best and most joyous of servants, Thalia, and I trust you for such an important bestowment.”

        Thalia presented a smile to ease their concerns.

        Damn it! A trip to the mortal world meant dealing with the Hours, Justice, Harmony, and Peace, the Immortals charged to keep the gates of Olympus. Though half-sisters, Justice was no friend to Thalia after the muse had long ago witnessed Ares, the god of bloodshed and war, tossing the goddess’s skirts and giving her a little spanking.

        The scene had been hilarious, and Thalia didn’t often suppress the compulsion to tease the goddess for it. Though never shared with others, the encounter was a never-ending discomfort for Justice, given away by the unsubtle glares cast Thalia’s way when the two found themselves on the same mountaintops, attended the same family events.

        Athena held out her hand, and Aphrodite passed to her the tiny sparkly red gift. A smile shyly rose upon Athena’s face, almost as though embarrassed, and the goddess passed the vividly wrapped present to the muse. “‘Tis a gift I’d not give myself, for it steals the soul’s wisdom away for a while.”

        Thalia accepted the gift, scarcely a feather’s weight to it. If it hadn’t been wrapped in shiny paper and bows, it would have no weight at all.

        Aphrodite turned to Thalia, her brow bent, her countenance a mix of determination and anxiety.

        “I’ve cast a blessing for Andrew. For the time he has left, he’ll know the joy and contentment his forefathers had been cheated of, a god’s curse be damned. We may all face Zeus for defying a fellow Olympian’s rightful retribution, so we’ll not tell you the details, Thalia, to protect you.”

        Thalia not getting blamed was all right with her. Trouble wasn’t funny.

        Crossing another god’s will gave Thalia some pause, though she felt sure Apollo wouldn’t send her to an illicit task. The thought of bringing Father Zeus’s wrath down upon herself made her want to run screaming, but Apollo’s close relationship with the muses would likely draw only his proper use. Hermes, as well, would likely defend a messenger. Heck, Aphrodite was practically her best friend.

        Thalia wanted to ask why Andrew Murphy’s forefather had been cursed. Despite Athena’s own testimony of the man’s faithfulness, he must’ve committed a wicked transgression if he and the fruit of his loins had been required to suffer for it. The gods had condemned few mortals to such extended punishment as that.

        But honestly, asking why was not only not funny but wasted breath. The Olympians were a secretive breed and seldom shared their full motivations with less ground-shaking entities. One could only hope to inspire them to good deeds.

        “Remember, Thalia,” Apollo addressed her, his discerning blue eyes fixed with a sober stare, “you must tell no one of this mission. Should the god who’d placed this curse learn of our intervention, Olympus will burst afire with dissension.”

        The muse’s curiosity ran away with her. Was it Strife? Now there was a goddess to avoid, always out to pick a fight.

        Would this secret defy the Furies? Och! Those old harpies never got her jokes. Thalia figured the less she knew about this alleged curse, the better.

        “Trust me with your mission, Lord and Ladies,” Thalia assured them, focusing on maintaining that pleasant smile though she really could think of other things she’d rather do than mess with Justice. Doing so always upset her sisters, Harmony and Peace, who too often fled the scene when their hot-tempered sibling’s ire stirred.

        But a job is a job, Thalia reminded herself, spinning at her lordship’s dismissal and passing through the diamond curtain, running her favorite missionaries through her mind as she examined the very fancily-dressed red box.

        Athena hadn’t told her how much time this young man had left; could be hours, could be days, weeks, or months. The mission required more than the average inspiration.

        It sounded far more fun for everyone to pass the blessing onto Andrew through one of Thalia’s own followers, who could supply plenty of entertainment in the presentation.

        A face-to-face with Justice. Thalia could hardly wait. She’d seen more anticipation on slave ships.

***

        Today is the worst day of the rest of my life.

        The MP3 player blared Aerosmith into his head and his stomach growled, as Andrew Murphy pushed his way through the heavy revolving door of the black marble-paneled skyscraper, his briefcase in his left hand, the contents of his former desk in a box locked under his right arm. His daily trek to the subway was burnt into his mind, didn’t require thought, and he knew this was probably his final walk down First Avenue.

        Drew lost his job an hour ago, and only great rock music could pound the misery into numbness. He hated change.

        He marched in step with the school of people-fish swarming down the Manhattan sidewalks on a bustling Friday afternoon. The August sun baked down on them, and it seemed abnormally bright but then again, Drew hadn’t often left the building for lunch, so the sun’s infiltration of the surrounding skyscrapers seemed harsh to him.

        He thought to take a stroll through Central Park, a refresher of nature to refill his soul. He really needed to renew himself; he could feel cobwebs growing thicker in his downtrodden spirit. Drew couldn’t remember more than a single day off in any week for months now. He’d worked so hard for that damned company, only to be axed in a first round of companywide lay-offs.

        My kingdom for job security.

        Staring at the uninteresting shuffling of his feet in time with the music, all he wanted to do was drown his sorrows and the honks of bumper-to-bumper New York City cabbies cussing one another for a yard more street. He could lose all that in the steaming heat of the weight club’s sauna. Now that he had the afternoon off, he could get in an hour at the gym and roast the stress away.

        He cringed at the upcoming certain torture of a job hunt. Thank Heaven he’d always been a saver, and if it took a few months to find another job, he’d not starve nor lose his flat. He had plenty of connections with other accounting firms and a very good work record, so he didn’t really suffer a worry for his survival. Now his meticulous forsaking of the dating world would pay off, cash-wise. He really hadn’t had a steady girlfriend in a year, just hadn’t had much energy to put into building a relationship.

        Turning back to the heads bobbing above the crowd like a rolling boil, he watched pedestrians pacing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, those in the biggest hurry squeezing down the outside of the concrete paths. Drew was in no rush, just paced down the sidewalk, looking straight ahead like a zombie while Love In An Elevator thrummed through his head, his steps in sync with the bass.

        He didn’t even have the motivation to imagine love…in or out of an elevator.

        Suddenly, a frightening chill shook him. The world moved in slow motion. He saw the crowd around him split like the Red Sea, explode into a fleeing panic in every direction, mouths open in shock, eyes bulged in terror.

        He spun to see the beat-up grill of a Ford truck barreling toward him, an unstoppable avalanche.

        Not again. Wasn’t one disaster a day enough?

        Drew ejected the box from his grip, and leapt into the nearest alley for his life, but not quick enough. The Ford grill bore down on him. Steven Tyler screamed inside his brain.

        Drew’s life flashed before his eyes.

***

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