Mature Content

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God of Cocktails



“Zac, two Ambrosia please. You know, the special  one,” the man said with a wink to the bartender and then he smiled at the brunette. “Love, Zac’s special is the  best cocktail in town.”

With swift movements, Zac uncorked a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Rosé and poured some pink champagne  in two flutes glasses, added the needed amount of Courvoisier, Roger Groult  Reserve, Cointreau and squeezed  some lemon juice. Lastly, he skilfully stirred the mix counting mentally to  three.


One…


You still remember the Titans, luring you out  with trinkets and toys only to tear your body apart and feast on your divine  flesh.


…  two…


You still feel you pulsing heart sliding down  your mortal mother’s throat, settling in her womb where it used her blood and  flesh to resurrect you.


… three.


You still remember Ampelos, your friend – your  lover – how he was turned into vines, how you sought comfort in its grapes.


He pressed the  lemon peel, squeezing the aromatic oils over the cocktail. Ambrosia for two,” Zac said, sliding the glasses to the couple.

They toasted to  who-know-what happy events, laughing and whispering cheesiness to each other in  husky voices.

For the whole  evening, Zac mixed cocktails restlessly, showing  off his skill to please a couple of well-known regulars of Camellia Hotel’s Lounge  Bar.


You remember how tasted unmixed wine millennia  ago, so bad you had to add honey, spices  and resins to give it a pleasant flavour and taste.


“Could keep an  eye on that guy, Zac? I think he wants his date dead drunk,” whispered the manager.

“Leave it to me,”  Zac replied as he toyed with the amethyst seal ring on his forefinger, eyeing a  more than tipsy redhead and her not-so-tipsy chaperon.


Once upon a time, you were able to distribute  soberness and drunkenness on your whim, but you lost  that power a long time ago when men  stopped worshipping you.


“Hard day, eh?” the regular said, a thirty-something, curvaceously  sexy woman.

“Same for you,  Jackie,” Zac replied. “That’s you third and the peanuts are untouched.”

Jackie drank her  scotch in one and slammed the glass on the counter. “That Warnet! Bugger up a big contract because I refused to bed him!” She chewed her peanuts  angrily and shook her now-empty glass. “One more.”

Zac sighed. “You  shouldn’t; you’re still an employee here.”

“Not for too  long,” she hiccupped depressed. “I’m done for…”

“You have to sober up,” he commanded in a fatherly way. “I’ll ask Marcello for a tapas  plateau and tomorrow you’ll stop by for a Porto  Flip on your way to work.”

Jackie smiled  half-drunk at him. “You’re a saint, really.”

“Saints are Christians,”  he replied bittersweet. “I’m a god.”

“Well, it’s not hard to picture you as Apollo or Adonis,” she  grinned.

Zac shook his head. “Nay. I’m Dionysus or Bacchus.”

“Please, no!” Jackie laughed shaking her head. “You’re too  good-looking for Fantasia’s drunkard!”

Once upon a  time you would punish with madness whoever doubted your divine nature.


Jackie rose her empty glass in a toast. “To  Zac Acratophoroulos, God of Cocktails at Camellia’s Lounge Bar!”

And you feel  the power soaking those words – a faint ghost of what once they carried, but  enough for you to survive a little longer.