The Tyrant's Tomb

Sailing north to war
With my Shirley Temple and
Three cherries. Fear me.
OH, THE DREAMS.
Dear reader, if you are tired of hearing about my awful prophetic
nightmares, I don’t blame you. Just think how I felt experiencing them
firsthand. It was like having the Pythia of Delphi butt-call me all night long,
mumbling lines of prophecy I hadn’t asked for and didn’t want to hear.
I saw a line of luxury yachts cutting through moonlit waves off the
California coast—fifty boats in a tight chevron formation, strings of lights
gleaming along their bows, purple pennants snapping in the wind on
illuminated com towers. The decks were crawling with all manner of
monsters—Cyclopes, wild centaurs, big-eared pandai, and chest-headed
blemmyae. On the aft deck of each yacht, a mob of the creatures seemed to
be constructing something like a shed or…or some sort of siege weapon.
My dream zoomed in on the bridge of the lead ship. The crew hustled
about, checking monitors and adjusting instruments. Lounging behind them,
in matching gold-upholstered La-Z-Boy recliners, were two of my least
favorite people in the world.
On the left sat the emperor Commodus. His pastel-blue beach shorts
showed off his perfect tanned calves and pedicured bare feet. His gray
Indianapolis Colts hoodie was unzipped over his bare chest and perfectly
sculpted abs. He had a lot of nerve wearing Colts gear, since we’d