Chapter 3
I was tired. Though I was a goddess, I still felt fatigue and weariness.
I might not age like ordinary humans or animals, but I shared their ability to get worn out.
I decided, uncharacteristically, to pick up take away on the way home. Though I loved to cook – as I relished the sight of seeing tiny bubbles form and build in a boiling pot of water, or that certain sound crackling hot oil makes as freshly cut vegetables are thrown into it – today I didn't have the energy.
I decided the best thing was pizza, a small tub of boysenberry-swirl ice cream, and a film. Though I preferred a good book or a meteorological assessment as a wind-down from work, a movie would do. Anything that contained information set me at peace. Though I couldn't get pulled into the story of a movie – the colors, and shapes, and forms could pull me in, instead.
I walked along the street, my simple handbag held primly before me. As I walked, I watched the people. I saw what they were wearing, how they were moving, and noted each and every expression. I also watched the buildings, the sky, and street. There was always more to note. The harder you looked at something, the more the details of its reality unfolded, and the more that occurred, the realer it became – and in turn, the realer I became along with it.
I patted a hand against my tight bun and let a smile spread across my lips. I may not have had the power of Thor, nor the victory, nor the smile – but what I had was still divine. At the end of the day – or the era, or time, or however you wanted to put it – divinity was all equal. It might express itself differently, but there was something germane to all gods – they are all god-like, all divine, all supreme.
Thor could keep the hammer and golden hair, and I'd keep the facts and figures. Oh, and the cottage with the cat and roses.
As I walked farther along the street, I settled back into myself. It was like walking back home after a lifetime of being away. My arms wrapped around me with all the warmth and welcome of a long-lost family member.
The warm, happy, I'm-a-goddess feelings didn’t last. As I tried to count the rays of the dying sun, I stupidly walked into the back of someone. One of the things about dazedly staring up at the sky was you forgot to look where you were going.
I mumbled a quick sorry and went to move around the man – who was abnormally large.
“Details,” the man grumbled as he turned around. Sure enough, Thor stared down at me from his considerable height.
My jaw could have dropped off – and would later on when Thor socked me in the face for having the hubris to walk into him.
He was no longer dressed in his full godly garb – that would break countless rules. Walking around in a helmet that glistened with the trapped light of thousands of suns and carrying a hammer that sang a distinct and trembling note of victory wouldn’t go unnoticed on a normal street. Though the people around me no longer believed in gods – not as they did 2000 years ago – they might adjust that belief at the sight of thunderous Thor.
It was forbidden to reveal your god identity to mortal man. That meant no swanning around in impossible armor with singing weapons.
I didn't have that problem. None of my powers were of the overtly obvious kind. My power came from within – and while I used my senses to gather information, the true divinity of it sat within my ability to hold onto facts with all the power of a god. Yes, I had ice-white hair that could – if I wanted it to – glitter like Arctic tundra under full sun. Apart from that, I was normal looking. I had glasses – and how normal are they? Very normal.
Thor, though he wasn't dressed in his armor from Asgard, hardly looked normal. He was around 6'5 and was built with all the obvious strength of a warrior of old. He had his golden beard and shoulder-length hair – though they didn't glitter at the moment.
He was dressed in jeans and – of all things – a Led Zeppelin T-shirt (he was going for a grunge-god thing).
He still drew everyone's attention. Jeans and a T-shirt were not enough to hide his powerful proportions, nor the powerful look in his eyes. A look that grew sharper as it met mine. “Details, Details,” he clicked his tongue, “You have attacked me from behind – an undignified and cowardly move.”
I stared up at him, almost having to crane my neck. “I didn’t attack you,” I said quietly, not wanting to launch into a full-blown god-domestic on an ordinary city street. “I bumped into you.”
Thor kinked a lip and snickered coldly. “I assume this is all the attack you could muster – while some gods wield a fiery sword of doom, you bump into people from behind to command their attention.”
I stared back at him, looking purposefully dumb. For all his god-like power, Thor often didn't make sense. His booming voice and predilection for powerful prose combined to make his speech odd. He couldn't ask you for a pen – he had to point dramatically at it and request “A sword of writing,” or a “Means to enable victory over the scroll.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t on purpose accidentally bump into you, Tho—“ I stopped myself from saying his name in time. “I bumped into you. You realize that can happen on Earth, don't you?” I crossed my arms and stared up at him. “I hope you don't accuse old ladies of attempting to mount vicious rear assaults on you with their rods of power when they knock into you with their walking sticks.” I kept my expression challenging.
“They are human.” Thor crossed his own arms – and it was a far more impressive move than mine. I could make out the detail of every bulging muscle along his forearms – from the change in skin tone, to the varying shapes, to the way they caught the light. “You are not.”
This wasn't the first time I'd stupidly run into Thor down on Earth – though this was the first time I’d literally run into him. He was always the same – though depending on which god he was, he'd be dressed differently. The man – the god – behind the guise was always the same. Zeus tended to swan around – hilariously – in a white set of pants and a polo shirt like some sort of Greek yachting tycoon. Jupiter would wear an impeccable black suit with a simple gold chain around his neck like an oily-haired Italian mob boss.
Thor was the most sedate of the forms: jeans, a T-shirt, and big boots.
“Details,” Thor tipped his head back, the dying rays of the sun glinting off his hair, “You are staring. And staring does not win battles – only action does. If you are going to follow up on your pathetic attack, I suggest you do more than blink at me.”
“Thor, stop it,” I said firmly. I sucked in a quick breath when I realized what I’d done.
A grin spread across his face. “Isn't that breaking a rule, Details?”
I groaned. I’d broken a rule, he was right. It wasn't such an important rule, but it was one nonetheless. You were not meant to draw any attention to an under-disguise god while on Earth, which included not using their real name. The people around me were hardly going to pick up on it – they would assume it was a fun and appropriate nickname for the Nordic giant with the golden beard and flowing hair – but it was still not something I was meant to do.
Thor could get away with calling me Details because it wasn't my name.
“Will they take away your job for this?” Thor said with a wide and victorious smile.
I dearly wanted to smack the blighter in the face, though I'd have to run into a café and get a stool to help me reach high enough. “I will be reprimanded,” I replied. “If you are done pretending I’m trying to engage you in glorious battle on a quiet city street – I have things to do.”
Thor considered me, and I could tell he was dreaming up insults. “Things to do? You mean go home to feed your cat, correct?”
I glared at him.
“Details, what an exciting life you live. A small house without any battlements, turrets, secret treasure rooms, or warriors. Instead of a mighty white steed, you have a small meowing creature that smells of fish. You are a credit to your kind.” Thor kept his arms crossed but looked pleased – at himself. He smiled in that private way people
do when they are sharing a joke with their best buddy, Ego.
“Fine,” I said firmly, not wanting to be drawn into this conversation. Yes, I was aware that when Thor wasn't being Janus, Urs, or Sven – or whatever normal human name he had adopted this time – he was living out his time in Asgard or Olympus. Me, when I wasn't in the office, I was in a simple cottage with only one measly space-time rift and one un-horse-like cat.
“Don't tell me, you have an exciting night planned eating a plain dinner, sitting on a plain chair, and reading a plain book.” Thor chuckled to himself.
I was growing less and less patient with this conversation. I dearly wanted to pick Thor up, roll him into a ball, and throw him into the rubbish. Fat chance though.
“Details, what a boring life you lead,” he noted again, tone far colder. “You shun your own kind for the comfort of a weather report.”
His words cut sharper than they usually did, that, or what he was saying resonated more closely this time.
I didn't shun my own kind. I was a goddess, and day-in day-out I dealt with other gods and goddesses. While I might not frequent any of the god bars or other divine gathering places, I didn't shun the others. I led a quiet life of solitude – not drunken parties and debauchery.
I backed off. “Good bye,” I said curtly and made to walk around the Nordic giant.
Thor snorted but didn't stop me.
As I walked past him, I could feel his eyes on me. For someone who lost herself in the details, I had the presence of mind to notice when others were doing the same. It was the other side of my power. Not only did details live and come alive for me, I stood for that effect in other people. Every time a scientist or an artist found themselves drawn into the lines of data or the fine play of shadow on a canvas, a part of me was there.
So, paradoxically, I shared a moment with him as I walked past – not that the great big, blond-bearded lug would notice. Axes, wine, women, and victory were all he resonated with.
As I walked the rest of the way home, I tried to forget Thor's admonishment that I shunned my own kind. The more I tried to suppress it, the more it rose in my mind. I could remember the exact quality of his tone, the exact feeling of his words as I heard them.
I was happy in solitude – that was the correct answer. This was my life, and it was how I lived it. For every god of power and victory, there was a god of weakness and defeat. Then there were all the in-between gods – like me – who were neither. If I chose to spend the night with a cat on my lap and a small china bowl of boysenberry-swirl ice cream, that was my prerogative.
I became lost in thought, and I walked straight into someone again. This time I didn't bounce back like I’d struck an immovable object. I walked into this man as though he were nothing more than paper flapping in the wind.
He stumbled forward but managed to keep his balance.
“Oh my gosh,” I stuttered, putting out a hand to stable the man, “I’m sorry, sir.”
He looked up at me with a set of watery eyes, and I realized he wasn't a sir at all – he was Tolus, God of Barely Enough. “Oh. It's you.”
Tolus nodded lowly. “I’m sorry for being in your way,” he said, sounding unmistakably genuine.
“Not at all – I was the one who wasn't looking where I was going. My fault.” I let go of his arm when it was clear he wasn't going to fall over – yet. The continually sickened, weakened look of his body hardly gave you confidence he could bear something as simple as standing for long. “Please forgive me,” I added with a smile.
It was getting old-hat for Tolus to be walked into by gods today, but I was eager to be more polite to the guy than Thor had been. Not all gods were arrogant jerks.
Tolus nodded and teetered on the spot as if he were about to fall over. Thankfully he didn't, and he returned his head to an even level, patting a thin hand down his dirty shirt. He was wearing an old pair of beige pants and a frayed grey shirt. He still had his scraggly beard and dark hair and those watery, watery eyes. “Please, do not worry. I forgive you.” He managed a smile.
I couldn't help but smile back – and I knew for sure that both our smiles were qualitatively different from the harsh grin that usually spread across Thor/Jupiter/Zeus’ arrogant visage. Ours were genuine, light, friendly.
Tolus nodded a second time then stepped back gently. “I should not take up any more of your time.”
I was the one who’d walked into him and interrupted his time, and yet he was the one apologizing for it. I shook my head. “It's not your fault at all. You aren't wasting my time. I was off to get some food,” I said the word food carefully, looking at Tolus’ starved form. If there was anything this guy needed, it was food. That and a shower, a new set of clothes, sleep, some money, some sunlight, some friends, and a place to stay. He was the God of Barely Enough – there was a lot he could do with.
I hardly fraternized with the gods I dealt with through the Integration Office while I was on Earth. To me, being on Earth meant living amongst the humans and doing precisely what they did: getting take out, painting your picket fence white, and planting roses in your garden. But Thor's accusation came to mind: my willingness to integrate with the humans led to the appearance I was shunning the company of my own kind.
I bit my lips. “What are you doing? I was about to grab a bite to eat – you are welcome to join me.”
Tolus’ watery eyes grew more watery. They reminded me of rain dribbling down glass. “Food?”
I nodded, wanting to tell him that, yes, it was okay to eat. But that wasn't what he was the divinity of, was it? He was hardly the god of “Let's go out and get some nice pizza and ice cream.” He was the god of “Let's go find what food we can from the bins behind shopping centers and restaurants.”
“I... I suppose I’m new to this city. It is my first time here, you know,” he admitted with a lost look.
Yes, I did know that. I’d read his file. The fact it was his first time here was hardly a good thing. I stopped short of asking him what business he was on – he was probably intending to visit the homeless people living in the storm drains underneath the city before heading off to whatever refugee camps he planned on visiting.
“I could show you around,” I offered uncharacteristically. Thor was right about me in one respect: I was the goddess who went home every night to bake herself a simple meal and enjoy a few hundred books by the fireside. Yet here I was offering to spend the night instead showing around a gaunt god of Barely Enough.
“Oh, that would be nice. I get lost sometimes. I have many people to visit tonight.”
I realized what I had agreed to, but it was already too late.
“If we go collect the food you spoke of, we can hand it out to the needy.” Tolus’ gaunt face took on an other-worldly glow as he spoke.
Tolus was the god of Barely Enough, and he lived in the moments of giving people enough to survive. The thought of it, the action of it made him divine.
While I was not the goddess of Barely Enough, I could hardly back out. While it was true I found peculiar comfort in the weather report, skipping it for one night to hand out food to the needy was hardly going to kill me.
Plus, it would show Thor I didn’t shun the company of my own kind. Far from it. I assisted where assistance was needed. While Thor would be swanning around some god-bar with any number of goddess bimbos hanging off his arms, I would be helping the needy.
“Sure,” I said gently, “Where do you need to go?”
“We can begin with the storm drains – from what I feel, there are many in need down there, some critically. There are also various shelters and alleys....” The look on Tolus’ face hardened with determination – an odd, strong, different determination worlds apart from the arrogance of victory. Though he was hunched, thin, gaunt, and sickly looking, he looked like a god. The appearance no longer mattered. The form seemed inconsequential. The energy behind it was divine.
“Okay, you let me know where you need to go, and I can take you there.??
? I could easily take him anywhere. I wouldn't need to look at a map, either – I knew the details of this town. I knew each street, each storefront, each alley, each tunnel. I could remember the details of every city map I’d seen, and the places I’d been were lodged in my memory with perfect clarity.
“Oh thank you, goddess of—” he began.
I put a hand up to silence him before he could break a rule. “Call me...” I searched around for a name. “Details,” I said without properly thinking about it. It happened to be fresh on my mind, unfortunately. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the idiotic name Thor taunted me with wasn't such a bad thing. This way I could take the name back and own it.
“Details? I suppose you can call me...” Tolus appeared to think hard.
I could tell he was racking his brain for a suitable name, going through everything from Aid, to Charity, to Survival. “How about Jeff?” I offered. It was hardly god-like, but that was the point.
“Jeff?” He appeared to roll the word around in his mouth as if it were food he was savoring the flavor of. It was the closest thing he got to food judging from his gaunt appearance. “I’m Jeff and you are Details. Are you sure that you wish to accompany me? I understand you must have your own duties to perform—”
If by duties he meant poring over a sheet of mathematical calculations and trying to remember each number and equation, I could get away with shirking those for a night. “I'm flexible. I can work anywhere.” Which was true – wherever there was experience, there were details. Wherever there was something to see, it could be divided into colors, forms, shapes, lights, and shadows. Wherever there was something to hear, it could be split into tones, pitches, and hums. All were details, and details were all around.
“I suggest we get a sack, procure sustenance, and hand it out where it is necessary.”
“Easy enough. Though I have no idea where you buy sacks these days. People tend to use boxes and bags more than sacks and swags.”
“Boxes it is then.”
For the first time in fifty years, I set off to spend a night away from my books and fireside. One of the things about being the goddess of details was I tended to get stuck into a routine. Though technically all gods faced that problem. One of the things about being the divine embodiment of some quality was it drove your actions more than you did. If you were the god of death, most of your days revolved around death. The same with gods of war and harvests – they would spend every day in battle or shucking ears of corn.
Tonight I would break the mold.
We procured our boxes and food. I stopped Tolus from paying for them with what was literally his life savings, and we set out to work. First we went to some of the darker, colder, and more out-of-the-way alleyways on the outskirts of the city. Tolus instinctively knew when there was someone in need around him. He would wander off down an alleyway only to find a homeless person curled up under a makeshift blanket of newspapers.
It wasn't only people he helped. Tolus didn't seem to mind what the creature was – from a stray cat, to a cockroach, to an injured bird – if the thing was in need, Tolus was there.
He didn’t act from charity. Rather than handing the food out, he left it somewhere the needy could find it. Tolus was the god of Barely Enough, not the god of philanthropy. When he came across an entity on the edge of survival, he would leave the food – barely enough for the creature to survive – somewhere close by, then he would offer a gaunt smile their way and disappear into the night.
I felt the chill of the evening descend around us as we worked, though I didn't dare complain. I wasn't here for myself. I was here to help Tolus. I plunged into the details of the cold sensation as it raced and shivered down the backs of my arms and the tops of my thighs. In plunging into those details, my own powers emerged and the chill subsided. As I concentrated, I could appreciate Tolus was doing the same. In offering enough food for a creature to survive he was igniting his own powers and keeping himself, in turn, alive.
That was how it worked with us gods and goddesses. Not only were our powers rooted in what we stood for, but they were also what kept us alive. A war god who couldn’t go to war was no longer a god and rapidly diminished to nothing at all. The same was true for the god of radishes. Without radishes, there would be nothing for him to feel the divinity of – nothing for him to connect with – and he would diminish.
If Tolus didn't have those to help, he too would no longer be needed, and thus, no longer exist. Without details, I wouldn’t be Details. Without lightning and thunder, Thor wouldn’t be Thor.
Every god and goddess needed their ability and force as much as humans needed food, rest, and air.
Tolus finished canvassing the alleyways and we headed towards the great storm drains. This city had a large set of interconnecting flood tunnels that serviced all the drains and gutters along the streets. This area was prone to great rains in the autumn and spring, and the drains were there to stop the place from flooding twice a year.
I’d heard that the homeless lived down there, but I’d never been down to verify that. Nonetheless, I knew where the entrance was and precisely how to get there. I knew – based on my knowledge of the flow rate of the tunnels and the levels of recent rains – how much water to expect. I didn’t know, however, how imposing the structures were in real-life.
For a goddess, I didn't experience fear as often as a human did. I always had a place to go when things became desperate. Details. If I plunged into those, I became them. Inseparable from reality, nothing could harm me there.
That being said, a god can die. We are not indestructible, just harder to kill.
Walking through the great entrance and into the storm drains was accompanied by a quick furl of anticipation across my back. The tunnels were massive concrete tubes that smelled strongly of dank water and disturbed dirt. There was graffiti sprayed slapdash across the inside of the concrete – various symbols and inappropriate sayings. I noticed the curve and curl to the writing and the way the once-vibrant colors were dim after being washed and battered by floodwaters.
It was like going through a gate, I realized as I walked through the mouth of the tunnel. The way the street lights above stopped their illumination at the mouth of the tunnel. The way the sounds of the cars beyond were muffled when you took several steps beyond the threshold. The place had gravitas and presence.
“I believe once we have finished here, we will be done for the night,” Tolus said, his skin looking much clearer under the light of his torch.
Though both Tolus and I didn't need light, we carried them nonetheless. We were not allowed to let mortals know our true identity and powers. Walking around unaffected by the darkness would be the first indication something wasn't right with us food-carrying, divine aid-workers.
The farther we walked, the more the smell of the place changed. The air became staler, the water far murkier. We were outside of the flood seasons, which meant the water flow through the tunnels was minimal. With no great tides to flush the place out, the smell settled down like a thick blanket. I noticed the way it hung around in pockets and how it was stronger closer to the walls.
There was also a scent of something... else. What that thing was, I couldn't discern.
Tolus began to hum as he worked.
We found the first of our charges for the night – an old man on the edge of starvation. I stood back as Tolus did his work, and watched as he hid a packet of bread close to the man's makeshift tent. The man, I was sure of it, wouldn’t turn his nose up at eating surprise bread he found in a storm drain – he was beyond that. A humbling thought. I couldn't help thinking if Thor saw this it would strip that arrogance from tugging at his eyes and puffing up his cheeks. Then again, if Thor somehow found his way down here, he would hardly deem to offer this homeless man charity. Thor would offer a rousing and food-devoid speech about how victory was at hand only for those willing to seek it.
I tutted under my breath as I thought of my least-favorit
e Nordic god. Loki I could get along with – well, I could at least have a vaguely reasonable conversation with him while I stamped his visa application as rejected. He often tried to get back to Earth – one of his favorite play grounds as he'd put it once on his application. He was banned from the place. He was banned from Asgard, too. Too much trying to destroy the planet and fighting other gods.
That didn't stop him from trying. He was the god of mischief, and a surprising amount of mischief can be had while applying for visas. He’d once shown up at my office with a fake beard and a ridiculous hat, claiming to be the god of Victorian crime novels. I’d seen through the disguise and refused him entry. Still, at least he'd taken it reasonably – he hadn't bothered threatening me like Thor always did.
Thor was my least-favorite Nordic God. He was also my least favorite Roman and Greek god, too. No matter the divine guise, that man was ultimately irritating.
My lips pressed together harder and harder as I thought of him.
Tolus tugged carefully at my arm.
I'd been out of it and it took me a moment to snap back. During that moment, I heard something at the edge of hearing. As soon as I attended to it, it was gone.
I blinked over at Tolus.
“Done here,” he whispered. “I feel we are done in these tunnels altogether...” he fluttered his eyes closed, “The other beings in need are not as needy as I once thought.”
I didn't bother to point out to Tolus that regardless of the fact they weren't hollering at death's door they would still enjoy food. We weren't dealing with the over-fed and rich here. Any scrap of sustenance could benefit someone who lived their life in a storm drain.
He wasn't that kind of god. He gave to those who needed something – anything – to separate them from death.
“I can take you to where you are staying – if you have somewhere to stay.” I doubted this guy had enough dosh to put himself up in a hotel or a caravan. He would be planning to spend the night on a park bench somewhere.
“Oh, that would be helpful. I do get lost. I also have a colleague I would like to meet up with.”
“Where are they?” I had firm resolve to help Tolus all I could tonight. I would devote at least several hours of my time helping one of my own kind, without thought of reward or recompense – unlike certain other gods.
“At Ambrosia.” Tolus walked before me. When he’d walked into my office that morning, he'd barely had enough pep to amuse a rock – now he strode. He was alive with his ability and power, and it was feeding and nourishing him.
“Oh,” I said quietly. Ambrosia was the only god-exclusive joint in the city. Not all cities had them, but this place was big enough to support one. Not that I’d been there – not my kind of place at all. Ambrosia was the ale-sloshing, feast-giving establishment where Valkyries danced on the tables and war gods recounted their bloody battles at the tops of their considerable lungs.
I couldn't back out, though I hardly wanted to walk into Ambrosia. I had agreed to help Tolus – and I took agreements to heart. An agreement was close to a fact, and a fact was closer to me than anything could get.
We crossed town quickly now Tolus was enlivened from his night of work. I, however, was flagging. I stifled several yawns and tried to lose myself in the details of car lights reflecting in puddles and off shop windows. While these details would do for now, I wouldn't feel properly rested until I could find some facts or had enough time to stare at some picture or scene and deconstruct every detail therein. Only then could I regenerate.
We soon arrived at the door of Ambrosia – a simple and nondescript turquoise-blue door situated right next to a garage. From the outside, it was nothing but a scratched door. Any god, however, would know the appearance concealed reality. The door in the wall didn't lead to the inside of the building – it led to a place in time and space distinct from anything a city planner could dream up. It led to the beating heart of a bona fide god bar.
I pressed my lips together and blinked several times at the door.
I turned to Tolus. “Here’s the place. It was nice helping you tonight—” I began, wanting to wrap things up so I didn't have to stand too long around the door. The last thing I wanted was for Balang – the riotous tribal god I'd dealt with the day before – to pop his head out the door, off-his-face drunk, and set his skull necklace on me.
As immigration officer to Earth, I was the least popular divinity on this rock – at least as far as other gods were concerned. As a true goddess of details I had my followers and worshipers among the native populace of this planet, though most of them wouldn't explicitly call themselves adherents to the Cult of Officina. But at heart, many people found themselves in details – mathematicians, data scientist, knitters determined to make a tight stitch.
I didn't need to be popular among the other goddesses and gods – I needed to do my job. Still, I wasn't willing to taunt the Fates – who could be mean when they felt like it – and stand around outside the hottest god bar this side of the Acropolis.
“Oh,” Tolus turned his watery gaze on me, “I was hoping I could thank you – buy you a drink.”
I stopped from saying “What with?” I got the impression he wanted to thank me for my help. Sometimes you had to let people offer their thanks – a lesson a god or goddess had to live by.
I tried not to sigh – I didn't want Tolus to think he was a burden – but accompanying him into the Ambrosia wasn't a good idea. Going home and reading the weather report was, however, a great idea. Yet as I looked across at Tolus, I realized I couldn't say no.
Gods and goddesses had to support each other. Great, raging god wars were frowned upon these days. If we all wanted to live together, we had to learn how to cooperate. A lesson I knew, but one I never affirmed through action. I stayed out of other gods’ ways. I didn't bake them muffins and pat them on their backs when they had a successful sacrifice. I remained uninvolved.
I took a second to damn Thor for pointing out I shunned my own kind. I took another moment to damn myself for letting his words affect me so much. “Okay,” I agreed with a great big breath. “Why don't we just have water, though?”
“A wonderful plan.”
Oh lord, it was too late to back out – I’d said yes. Though I knew walking into the Ambrosia would get me more than a drink. I could categorically guarantee a certain arrogant, ale-loving, me-hating god would be there to put on a show.
Great.