If there was any time for the world beyond mortals to add a measure of depth to their short, often meaningless lives, it was Carnival.  I have always found great interest in how entities exert their hidden power while Bacchus (or Dionysus if you like) unleashes his entertainment on the world.  Carnival is a time of carefree release so bold everyone- even some supernatural members- party blindly as a symbiotic community bumps into them on the claustrophobic streets.  Even if they did see or hear something, no one, including themselves, would easily believe the encounter.  The nature of Carnival ensures discretion.  Local police do a phenomenal job of keeping the peace of course, and they are helped by the Lunar Rider Securities Corporation (LRSC) to ensure a minimal body count.  In the shadows, always in the shadows, there are predators trying to acclimate to the party life and find prey.  Carnival was not always so grim.  This is that story- of happier times, and a call to action for the old gods of the world to finally come together again under Bacchus so he can organize a safe celebration for everyone, not just mortals.

 

Carnival as it stands today started in the Roaring Twenties.  Bacchus arrived at the end of Carnival, on Fat Tuesday, in 1924 and fell in love with the atmosphere, the food, the women, and especially the alcohol.  He admitted to me, when I finally met him in 1927, that he had fallen out of love with Rome after God had won His supreme rule over the Earth’s old deities. 

 

“Less chaos.  Less madness to revel in the natural flesh sins of man and woman,” he said drunkenly, “I must accept, you know, my nature.  Pluto has a steep price if I want to use the River Styx for boat fucks with the dead.  Dead souls are more entertaining to fuck than the living.  When did that happen?” 

 

I did tell him he was drunk and being extremely melodramatic, and that Pluto’s steep price was completely understandable.  Despite my reservations towards his attitude, the question Bacchus had posed left him with a desire to quietly defy God. 

​

Plans started with the parade floats.  Bacchus did not want to take over the various Krewes, mostly because he had never heard of them until he came back to America in 1926, and partially, because he was proud of their work.  Delighted he was remembered in such a manner outside of Greece and Rome, Bacchus decided to take a human name from his Greek personality: Dio Nice.  Under the name Dio Nice he started an import business, located on the edge of New Orleans, to move raw materials and cloths and metals, and well, anything you would need to create an amazing parade float.  Thirty years later, after the Great Depression and the World Wars ended, Bacchus was able to get his foot in the door.  He had finally convinced one member of his apathetic family to visit New Orleans at least once a year, and with no predicted political turmoil in sight, Mardi Gras began a second resurgence. 

​

Apollo was the master of music.  He first arrived on a chilly, rainy evening in November by private plane.  Bacchus and I met him at the runway and we went to have a late dinner at a greasy burger joint on the coast of the Mississippi River.  He looked out over the dark water, not bothering to hide his eyes in front of us, and smiled.  His irises burned the true, white color of the sun.  “I think I can make this work,” he said, “I hope I can make it work.”

​

“You will,” Bacchus said through his burger.  He reached over, wiped grease on Apollo’s shoulder, and laughed. 

​

Apollo stayed with Bacchus at his riverside mansion for a week, until the nightly parties actually became too much for him.  At the parties, he would smile as was expected of his tanned skin, blonde haired, beach boy appearance but he never smiled in the quiet moments.  His movements were sluggish and the sun could not warm his body as it used to.  I had never met him before this time, even in my worldly travels, and was unable to offer any true condolences.  Bacchus gave him space though, as did I, towards the end of his stay.  We felt it was what he needed.  Though we did not know what he needed. 

​

Three days after Apollo moved into a hotel, he charmed his way into the small home of a lonely blues musician by the name of Barry Chamberlain.  Barry also dabbled in midnight jazz, and on the first night Apollo heard the cries of the trumpets he fell in love.  Under Barry’s guidance, Apollo traveled the bars of the New Orleans over a period of three months, learning how to play jazz by watching the greats and mimicking their methods: Benny Goodman, Dean Martin, Billie Holiday, and Modern Jazz Quartet.  And I cannot forget the blues kings and queens: Lightnin’ Hopkins, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Ma Rainey, and Bessie Smith.  For the first time in a century Apollo felt at peace.  He smiled again with Bacchus and I. 

​

On the night before Carnival began, Bacchus and I found Apollo in Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop at happy hour, the oldest bar on Bourbon Street.  He was in the corner, alone, writing notes on yellowed music sheets with a red ball point pen.  I was looking down over his left shoulder as Bacchus squeezed his bulk into the booth with a worried expression.  Tears, as clear as any normal tears dropped to the sheets as small sunbursts against the glow of the red candle he had pushed to the edge of the table. 

​

“What’s wrong?” Bacchus asked.  He scooted over and I sat beside him. 

​

Apollo refused to look up at us.  “A lot rides on tonight.  The day the city wakes for the ultimate celebration of-“

​

“Apollo, Carnival does not start until tomorrow.”

​

He sniffed.  He looked up, boyish face puffy and red and wet, and then he smiled his perfect white teeth at us.  Bacchus continued, now that he had Apollo’s attention.  “What are you so worried about?  I know I do not need to remind you of your godhood.” 

​

“It’s just, all of these musicians are so passionate.  I haven’t been passionate about music since the secular wars…” he choked and collected his thoughts, “I learn fast.  I play the trumpets and trombones and I blow out and I don’t feel a motherfucking thing.  Nothing!” he slammed his pen down in the middle of the musical sheet and it burst.  “I can’t feel my fucking heart anymore.  I can’t feel my fucking fingers.  I can’t feel…” he went silent and stared at the large red smudge.  He ran an index finger through the burst, brought the finger to the front of his face, and rubbed the ink with his thumb.   

​

I offered nothing because I still did not know him enough to be any real help.  This night was on Bacchus.  “Let’s get you home and sobered up,” Bacchus told his older brother.  “By dawn, I promise you, you will be ready.”

​

​

 

We got Apollo home.  We accidentally woke Barry up.  “Sorry,” I told him sheepishly, “You can go back to sleep.”

​

Barry blinked at me in the light and then saw the sorry state Apollo was in on the couch.  “I’m not sleeping with him like this.  What happened?”

​

Bacchus, Barry Chamberlain, and I spent those predawn hours consoling Apollo and preparing him for his big night.  All four of us crashed on the couches and La-z-boys.  We spent the rest of the day at Barry’s, or eating heartily at greasy joints all over the banks of the Mississippi and drinking early in the bars before they became too crowded.  Eventually, finally, we made our way to Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop again for Apollo’s big debut. 

​

“What are you naming yourself son?” Barry asked, “What’s your stage name?  I should have asked you months ago.”

​

Apollo beamed.  “Apollo Adams!  Huh, catchy heh?”

​

“I like it!” Barry said indulgently, “I’m not sure of it as a lasting stage name, but we’ll work on that later. 

​

Apollo Adams dominated his debut, as is expected from the god of music.  He wore a bright, sparkling yellow suit that damn near blinded the audience, including me, and charmed everyone within listening distance.  His first song was entitled Serenades at Sunset, a robust and hilarious romp at how many women he had slept with over his nearly five thousand years. 

 

His next song was entitled A Splash of Rum, an ode, “To the greatest mentor of my music career to date.  You gave me your life, to help a stranger…” He took a moment to collect his cracking voice.   “You saved my life.  You truly did.  Bartender,” Apollo called out, stronger now, tears of pride and joy and genuine love burning down his cheeks, “Give Barry here three shots of your top shelf rum, and one for each of the men on either side of him.  Wait, no, fuck it.  Bartenders, give everyone a shot of your top shelf rum, on me, and we’re going to have the biggest motherfucking toast this city’s ever seen.”

​

The crowd cheered.  Barry chatted with the audience as the two bartenders, who were extremely excited about the unfolding events, gave everyone their shots.  Apollo lifted his glass and everyone followed suit.  “Wait, this isn’t too much is it?”

​

“Naw man, it ain’t too much,” Barry laughed, “It’s about fucking time someone recognized my talents.”

​

There was laughter.  I clapped Barry on the back.  “To Barry Motherfucking Chamberlain everybody!” Apollo called out. 

​

After two encores, Apollo immediately came back to the table to hug Barry tight for a long time, and then he kissed him on the cheeks.  “Are you really leaving for Rome again after Carnival is over?” Barry asked. 

​

“Let us not worry about that right now, huh?  We do need to worry about getting drunk enough to get Dio Nice over here jealous.”

​

Dio Nice scoffed into his martini.

 

​

​

Midnight.  The meeting was beginning.  We were waiting on three others.  A couple of death Loa (not gods, spirits) from the Vodou religion in Haiti and a Celtic goddess.  Bacchus stood at the podium.  Apollo and I sat on plastic chairs to the left of the podium.  Everyone else sat at small wooden poker tables.  To keep himself busy, Bacchus made notes on a calendar and he had Apollo pass out the rest, with markers, to every seat. 

​

An Egyptian god, Ptah, scratched his bald head and cleared his throat.  “How much, uh, planning has gone into this festival?” 

​

“Carnival,” Bacchus corrected kindly, marker held steady, “A year or more.  It took me a long time to find all of you.”

​

“I see.” He looked around the room, brows knitting.  

​

“You aren’t the only gods and non-humans I found, no,” Bacchus clarified, intruding.  Apollo sat down beside me.  “You are however, the only options that agreed to show up tonight.”

​

“I see,” Ptah said again. 

​

The group lapsed into a comfortable silence.  A djinn puffed on a long bronze pipe in the center of the semi-circle, giving the room a soft blue haze below the singular bare-bulb hanging low above us.  “Is that Arabian tobacco?” I asked him.

​

He nodded and leaned forward with the pipe in hand.  His fiery eyes, completely devoid of any human irises or pupils, were offset by a smile. “Yes, from Qatar.  It is called dokha.  Please, help yourself.” He said, leaning across the table and offering me the pipe. 

​

Before I could take his offer, three deities walked into the large room together.  Bacchus directed them to the empty table.  They sat down.  Morrígan and Mama Brigette chatted, and I suddenly realized that both of them were Celts. The dark haired, grey eyed Morrígan and the cheery redhead Mama Brigette.  Baron Samedi produced three shot glasses from midair and delicately placed them in a line in front of Mama Brigette.  “Anyone else?” he asked the room.

​

Shakes of heads, some mild no’s, and one, “I’m too young,” from a silent young boy who sat between his mother and the Djinn.  The Baron shrugged dismissively.  He gave one of the glasses to Morrígan and they took shots quickly to allow Bacchus to begin.  

​

Bacchus focused on everyone in the room, bobbing his head, puffing out his chest in a show of power and leadership, and began to speak.  “Good evening everyone.  Many of us have been antagonized by God, lost our loved ones to Him, or have exiled ourselves in misery.”

 

Apollo looked at his feet.  Ptah nodded solemnly.  Bacchus gave them a moment.  “We would like to regain at least some measure of our power right?  I believe Carnival is our way to return to our old world, under God’s radar, without harming enough of the world to draw his full attention and wrath to us.  Enough of that, yes?  I have discussed individually with all of you about what this meeting is and why we are here, so let us move on to the real meat of this meeting.  I want to keep it quick, because as I said, we have a party raging above ground.  Everyone understand?” Bacchus gave them a large smile.  There were nods of agreement. 

​

“Excellent!”  Bacchus pointed to the man closest to him.  “Would you like to start?” he asked. 

​

“Sure,” the man said casually.  “I am Cassius King.  I am a rougarou."  He paused, and then grinned, "I feel like I am in a fucking AA meeting."  There were a few chuckles, including from me.  Bacchus cleared his throat, a little agitated.    

 

Cassius continued, "I am good friends with a were-gator named Gabe.  He visits me in the swamps.  We are going to host amateur boxing matches at his gym, open to the public and safe enough to where no one will get hurt.  We will watch everyone with extreme care, and be sure not to mix non-human with human fighters, because face it, me and any one of Gabe’s congregation can kill a human, even when we do pull our punches.”

​

 “Well, I’m glad you’ll consider the humans.  Try to pick drunk people, just in case your skin starts peeling away in the middle of a fight.”  Bacchus paused.  “Next!”

​

“I am Isabell.  I am Brandon’s handler.” She put her hands on the boy’s shoulders.  “He is a demon possessing this body.  He seeks to atone for his sins.”

​

Bacchus stared at her, stretching his hand out to silence Isabell, question on his mind, but he seemed at a loss for words.  Hell, everyone stared at the woman and boy- demons were a serious problem when they stepped foot above ground.  I glanced at Morrígan; she was giving the two an extraordinarily predatory gaze.  Her pupils dilated.  “What?” she asked.  

​

“The body is dead.  The demon inside is using a clean slate.  He needed to start from birth.” Isabell said.  I stared into the boy’s eyes and saw the demon behind them.  The demon averted its black gaze.  It was over one thousand years old, but the body was that of an eight year old.  He needed to start from birth.  I looked away.  I lost my thoughts until, “Next!” came and went and the Egyptian God was speaking. 

​

“I am Ptah.  I will open a series of trading kiosks along Bourbon Street, in the uh… empty alleys between buildings, and sell pottery.  Though I do have many, many local goods.  Beads and such, and sweets.”

​

“Well that’s the least overtly harmful thing we’ve heard so far,” Bacchus smiled warmly.  “We need more of that.  Next!”

​

The Djinn spoke.  “You may call me Bassam.  I will make small deals with the supernatural along the parade routes for small fees.  No humans.  They have nothing I want, until I want it.” He nodded his head affirmatively and promptly stuck the pipe back in his mouth. 

​

“Okay,” Bacchus said hesitantly.  “Next!”

​

“Hey ya,” Baron Samedi sat shoulder to shoulder with Mama Brigette, rubbing against her body, “I’m Baron Samedi.  This is my wife Brigette.  You can call her Mommy if she lets you fuck her.  And that’s a big if.” He winked at Cassius, who then leaned back, uncomfortable.  The Baron twisted his head to kiss Brigette on the cheek. 

​

She smiled and reached a hand up to stroke his cheek with a finger, “You can call him Baron

Sammy.”

​

“No you fucking can’t,” he corrected. 

​

“I…” Bacchus turned his head.  “What exactly are you doing again?  You were the first I called on, I do not remember.”

​

“We’re hosting orgies in the Prohibition tunnels,” the Baron said. 

​

“I’m his scout.  I get the partygoers riled up and ready to go.” Brigette added.

​

“Are there any succubi or incubi?” Bacchus asked. 

​

“I’m sure they will slip through, but come now, do you really think predators will not take this month for granted?  Mortals can’t see it, but all of us,” she spread out a hand to encircle the entire room.  A shot glass of rum, with flakes of red, appeared in everyone’s hand.  Even the demon child- though, one thousand year old demon… “All of us know our world is going to be an orgy of bloodshed and sins of the flesh.  Damn the humans.  None of us are safe from each other, should we so choose to take advantage.  That is why she is here,” Mama Brigette hiked her thumb to the other Celtic goddess. 

​

“I am Morrígan.” She did not smile.  She stared everyone in the eye at least once and then moved on to the next.  Her lips twisted upwards as she met my gaze, and I nodded back.  She knew who I was.  “I am a goddess of war.  I am a corrupter of the violent nature of man and beast alike, but not in the way you think and not in a way I am going to divulge.  This is going to be simple.  If you directly harm or kill any human outside of self-preservation, I am not going to kill you.  Am I perfectly understood?” She asked the room coldly.  Everyone nodded.  Everyone.  She smiled and without another word, nodded her head for me to go on to stage.  Bacchus did not bother to say “Next!” Morrígan was significantly more intense than either of us had imagined. 

​

I stood up, arms spread, and willed my guise away to shreds like shadows in the light.  Everyone save for Bacchus, Apollo, Baron Samedi, Mama Brigette, and the Morrígan gasped at my skeleton and the robes.  “I am Death.  I will continue to do my dirty job.”

​

“Next!”

​

“I am Apollo.  I will subtly choose the music selection.  I’m his brother.  That’s all I guess."

​

With the introductions over, Bacchus began laying out the ground rules.  They were few and simple.  One, only take part in “extracurricular activities” on nights of Carnival- Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.  On the last week, from that Thursday to Fat Tuesday, Bacchus wanted Carnival to be the wildest.  Two; do not rob humans of their free will.  Three, try to spread the word of Carnival and what we were doing to other gods of the world. 

 

"Oh!  And before I forget, I want us to meet every evening at five o' clock so we can touch base and help each other with any problems and what not.  So, hey, let's get to know each other.  I can't think of anything else to say..." Bacchus said, ending his portion of the ending.

 

The other members of the group had time for a twenty minute question and answer session with their varying contributions, which was a pleasant group building exercise.  As it went on, Bacchus could not drop his dopey smile.  His joy was infectious; we stayed in the room for an hour.  

​

Cassius took the form of the beast two-hundred-seventy five days of the year, but had been participating in Carnival to get his fill of human interaction.  He lived in a hand-built cabin in the swamps, where he grew strawberries, sweet potatoes, and tomatoes.  Ptah did not know how to sell his products, and he showed us a collection of his beautiful work, so the Djinn offered to take him under his wing for the night.  To this day, Ptah is still a main attraction at Carnival, with alleys full of Northern African goods all across the French Market.  As for Bassam, he traveled the world, making at least ten small deals a day wherever he went.  He could teleport too, and used this ability to get him out of trouble, should it be found with an unhappy customer.  He said Carnival was the only time he would stay in one place for longer than a week.

​

Isabell and the demon left while all this was happening and gave Cassius and Bassam their shot glasses.  We all found this suspicious, and Morrígan said she would handle the situation, leaving.  We moved on to discussing Baron Samedi and Mama Brigette’s orgies.  Every night of the celebration until the last week, they would simply fuck each other and host the orgies.  On that last week, from Thursday to Fat Tuesday, they would fuck other people, but return to each other at the end of each night for one last, passionate pairing together.  When Ptah asked about their reasoning behind the orgies, and especially the open relationship, Baron Samedi explained that they had been married since the 1600s.  There were questions for Morrígan when she arrived shortly after and said there were no problems with Isabell and her demon, but she explained to keep a close eye on them. 

 

Morrígan had arrived in America around the same time as Apollo, to scout the entirety of New Orleans, and especially the trade routes.  "I am sorry for my... abrupt temper earlier.  I foresaw some events that could have gone very badly for all of us.  I was working to prevent these events from happening."  She paused, noticed how the crowd had gone quiet in contemplation, and then she quickly asked, “Shots?”  She lifted her shot glass, gently swishing it in the air, smiling like the queen she truly embodied.  

​

It seemed to be the end of the meeting anyway, and Bacchus prepared a toast.  He took one last, long look at the lot of us and shouted, “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”