Nothing Like a Cuban and Scotch (Tag: Thoth and Isis and more? Hehe!)
The office was dark, only a faint desk lamp lighting a small portion of the enormous redwood desk. The walls were blood red, the carpet black. Everything else in the room was shiny chrome and steel, hard, cold, unforgiving. Just like the man that sat at the desk with his red Tony Lama rattlesnake skin boots propped on one corner, the Cuban cigar sticking out of one corner of his mouth. In this world he was known as Seth Richards. But in the Duat and the realm of the gods, he was simply known as Set.
“What do you mean you can’t motherfuckin’ get the well to work?” Set growled in a deep bass voice. He took the cigar from his mouth, tucking it between the forefinger and middle finger of his right hand and pointed to the man before him. “I am not payin’ you to tell me the well won’t work. I’m payin’ you to fix it. Now get the hell outta my office!” He watched as the man rushed to the door, reminding Set of a rat scurrying. In annoyance, Set flicked his finger towards the man and smiled coldly as the thin, hairless tail appeared.
It had been a long week and winter in Dallas was not one of Set’s favorite times of year. He yearned for the sand of Egypt, wished Naqada was still on the map. That was where he longed to be.
Dropping his feet to the floor, Set stood up and walked to the elevator that led to his private penthouse at the top of the tallest building in Dallas. It was almost midnight and he longed to see the stars. He hummed to himself as the elevator travelled upwards. It was an old jazz tune and he grinned at the thought of the place where he first heard it. It was some sleazy club in New Orleans during Mardi Gras and the couple who accompanied him back to his hotel that night had been a load of fun.
The elevator opened and he slid his suit jacket from his shoulders. He tossed it on the back of the red leather couch as he walked across the tile floor, his boots clicking as he went. He poured himself a glass of scotch and turned towards the sliding glass doors to step outside. The smell of incense suddenly filled his nose and he froze. He knew that smell. It was one that haunted his dreams and was part of his past, a part he preferred to just go away and leave him alone.
Slowly turning on the ball of his foot, Set’s dark eyes scanned the room. This was not where he wanted to be. He needed to be…away from here. He needed to be… “Now that is truly an ironic twist of fate you ageless bastard,” he mumbled to himself. He knew where he had last smelled that incense. It was in the temple. Thoth’s temple. Set started to laugh out loud. Either his mind was playing tricks on him or he had simply been away from family for far too long…even if they did hate him.
He was tempted to call that Ibis-loving, library-living recluse but instead, he decided to make a quick trip to London. Set walked into his bedroom and changed his clothing, donning a pair of loose fitting black pants and tunic of the sort he had wore during his heyday in Egypt. He slipped a pair of sandals on, striding from the room on quiet feet. Grabbing a box of very expensive Cuban cigars, he took his elevator down to the lowest levels of the building and stepped into the Duat.
It was always a bit concerting when he stepped into the Duat after a long absence. Set shook his head to get the cobwebs out and walked with purpose down the long hall that led to the first cataract and the London Nome. He looked around and stepped back into the realm of the living. Before he could see the hieroglyphs on the door, he could feel them. “So, up to your old tricks, you bookworm.” He grinned and knocked on the door, stepping back to wait. “Thoth!!! Thoth you old feather-head! I’ve got Cubans and scotch!”