There's No Busines Like Snow's Business

He pressed his tall, lean frame against the corner post of the wrestling ring, things were not going strictly according to plan. He glanced at his opponent, a huge vicious seven foot tall lion, which was not only standing upright but also gesturing to the mass ranks that had gathered around the ring.

It was a particularly ugly crowd, especially as they were baying for blood.

His blood, to be precise.

Snow looked for a way out of the mess he was in but failed to find anything. The way he looked at it, he had two choices. He could either fight his way through hundreds of people, whom all sounded like they wanted to rip him limb from limb. Or he could stay and try to fight his way through the lion, which most definitely did want to rip him to shreds. Some choice, talk about the devil and the deep blue sea.

"I'm gonna rip your head off, Heracles," the lion roared across the ring. He had turned from the crowd and was now directing his gestures at Snow. Which wasn't especially comforting. "This is one labour you won't be completing. You're going to die...in agony."

Snow winced ignoring the fact that a lion had just spoken to him, threatened him. This was very bad. He was going to be killed and no one would even know who he was. Everyone there thought that he was Heracles, son of Zeus, wife and child slayer, not Snow Spackman detective and slayer of no one. How on Earth did I get talked into this, he asked himself as a man in black and white stripes clambered into the ring.

"May I have your attention please," bellowed the man into a microphone. The baying masses ceased their baying and fell into an uneasy silence. "Thank you. Now fellow ancient and mythical citizens of Tiryns, welcome to tonight's main bout, between the champion, the Lion man of Tiryns and the challenger..."

Snow's head barely moved as he studied the newspaper, he was used to things like that happening. When you were a 21st century, fictional detective you expected the unexpected and bizarre. No boring marital cases or missing cats for private investigators like Snow. He was more likely to be locating the whereabouts of Noah's ark, or seeking out the lord's final words, rather than trying to discover who was shagging whom.

Snow looked up from the daily rag and smiled pleasantly at the figure in the doorway. "Good evening."

A tall, impressive figure stepped into Snow's small, nondescript office. He was wearing a blue suit that looked like he had been poured into, a fashionable hat and had smoke swirling around his ankles. "Are you named Snow Spackman?" he asked by way of a greeting.

"That's the name on what is left of the doors," smiled Snow cheerfully.

The huge Mediterranean looking man smiled thinly and slammed the remaining door shut behind him. "I am Heracles, son of Zeus, brother to Apollo, half god and all hero." He said in a grandiose manner.

Snow gave him a look of disbelief. "Heracles? You mean the legendary Greek hero?"

The big guy gave a proud nod. "That is I."

"Psychiatrist up two floors," said Snow, jerking his thumb upwards and returning his attention to the paper.

Heracles frowned. "You perhaps, do not believe me?"

"You perhaps right, pal. You are a mythical being, who only exists in the confines of localised Greek legends. Okay as legends go you are pretty well known and popular, but you still don't exist. Therefore I must presume that you are a wacko and should be visiting Doctor Sorbo, two floors up."

With that Snow went once more to the paper. He didn't get much of a chance to read it. A second later a fist that resembled a huge bunch of bananas, grabbed his neck and lifted him from his chair.

"You dare to question the word of Heracles," said Heracles, his eyes mere millimetres from Snows. "The one who has crossed pan-dimensional space and time to seek your knowledge, your expertise and courage?"

"I'm afraid so," gasped Snow through the neck lock. "I don't talk to anyone unless they can prove that they actually exist...so...er...would you mind awfully putting me down?"

"I am very sorry," the Greek hero apologised, replacing Snow to his seat. He gave the detective a smile, more friendly this time and pulled out a gold, goat skinned wallet. "I am in a bit of a dilemma, and I have been swift to anger recently. My humble apologises. I am really quite surprised that you know who I am," he went on. "Most people have not heard of me, or my father."

"I studied a lot of mythology at school," said Snow.

"I am glad to hear it," said Heracles, holding out a small plastic card to Snow. "There is all the proof you need. Satisfied?"

Snow looked at the Greek and then back to the card, it read:

Heracles placed a big hand on Snow's shoulder and squeezed, not tightly but enough for Snow to feel the power behind the hand. "Try again," said he. "Now can we get on? Hera will-"

"Hera?" interrupted Snow. He was convinced that he had passed through the realms of sanity and straight out the other side. He considered that he was now skipping happily along the beach of insanity. "Hera who?"

"My step-mother," snapped Heracles. " She does not know that I have sought you out, she would be mad if she thought I was trying to wriggle out of anything. It would go ill for you if she became angry with you. Now hold your tongue and stop interrupting, you are wasting precious time with your babbling. You sound just like a woman."

"Babbling?" asked Snow, ignoring the sexist insult. "If you don't mind it's not everyday that an ancient Greek hero turns up in my office, a mythological hero at that, claiming to need my help. I can tell you something..." Snow's sentence trailed off as he stared at the package that Heracles was unpacking. It was gold, lots of gold.

"What bank did you rob?"

"I have been informed by my advisors, that there is a million of your sterling pounds worth of gold there," said Heracles, ignoring Snow's quip. "It is yours if you will stop chattering for a moment and let me explain."

"Go ahead," muttered Snow, his eyes fixed on the gold all thoughts of insanity a million pounds - miles away. How could he even consider going mad when there was so much money at stake.

"Thank you," said Heracles. "Now listen carefully as I have not got time to repeat it all." He paused to allow Snow to pass some smart Alec comment but the detective was still mentally counting his million pounds. "I am the victim of a vicious conspiracy. I cannot go into the minute details but let us just say that my wonderfully evil stepmother framed me. Thanks to her I have been set a labour to do my step-father, The King of Tiryns."

"You've got a step-mother and a step-father?" queried Snow coming down to planet Earth for a few moments.

"My step-father is my real mother's husband," explained Heracles. "And my step-mother is my real father's wife."

"Oh right," muttered Snow.

"They both hate me," sighed the mighty hero, and for a brief second he looked very vulnerable, not for long though. "Never mind about that though, that is not important now. What is important is that I explain what I want you to do."

"Go on then I'm listening," said Snow, dragging his eyes away from the gold pile for a few brief seconds.

"What I want you to do is complete my labour," said the Greek hero.

Snow laughed. "Me? why?"

Heracles sighed. "I have not really got the time, I have got a busy diary for the next hundred years or so. I could not possibly fit anything else into my schedule. Do you realise how difficult it is being the world's greatest hero?"

Snow had to admit that he did not. "That's all very well," he went on. "But if I remember my Mythology 101 correctly, didn't you have to do a labour or something because you murdered your wife and kids."

"I told you I was framed," snapped Heracles.

Snow raised his hands, in the familiar manner of someone who realises that they have said the wrong thing, and inadvertently put their foot well and truly in it. "Okay, I am sorry, I did not mean anything by it. All I meant was won't your step father be annoyed if someone else does it."

Heracles shook his head. "He will not have knowledge of who completes the labour, will he? All he cares about is that it gets done, I get punished and he gains favour from Hera."

"Hmm," sighed Snow. "Still why me? of all the billions of people in the world, why choose me? surely there must be people more suited to the heroing lark than I am."

"According to the Oracle you are of my bloodline," he said.

"That's impossible," said Snow. "You don't really exist, you're just a fictitious character."

"So are you."

Snow had to admit that the Greek geezer had a point there. "The same bloodline eh? that must mean you are my great, great grandfather or something."

Heracles shook his head. "Not quite it is more like great third cousins but we are definitely of the same line of great heroes."

"Are you sure? my dad was a traffic warden."

"This is serious," snapped Heracles. "It does not pass on from son to son like that. I have not got the time to explain it all now, just know that you are the last in the line the only one who can help me."

"But you are famous, won't people know that I am not you?"

Heracles laughed. "Spackman, it is ancient Greece not your modern world. No one knows what anyone outside of their town looks like. I mean, have you seen some of the depictions of me?"

The big guy did have a point there.

"Why should I do it anyway? Couldn't I get killed?" Snow also had a point.

"I can think of a million reasons," said Heracles with a wink. "A million tax free reasons."

"Tax free?" said Snow, his desire to be a millionaire and give up work outvoting any common sense, logic or plausible plot.

Heracles nodded. "I can arrange it that way."

"Excellent," smiled Snow rubbing his hands together in the manner of the infamous E.Scrooge. "What do I have to do?"

"Firstly, we have to make a small journey back in time to ancient Greece, about 1500bc."Heracles told him.

Snow's face wore what is known as a sceptical frown. "Oh is that so? Anywhere in particular? Athens? Sparta? The isle of Lesbos, actually I quite fancy that."

Heracles pulled out a scroll and tossed it onto the desk. "Have you ever heard of the town of Peloponnese?"

"Is it anywhere near Milton Keynes?"

"Not quite," smiled the busy Hero.

"So how will I get there?"

"Do you have any knowledge of time spacial interdimenional travel?" Heracles asked.

"I know that no such thing actually exists," Snow replied.

Heracles smiled. "Then you are in for a big surprise."

Oh dear, thought Snow.

Snow gulped loudly, mentally fighting for the controlling interest in his bladder operation. He wasn't a coward by any means. He wasn't scared of having a rumble but when he did he preferred it if his opponents weren't twice his size and of a totally different species. He was picky but there you go, Snow was that kind of guy. "Can't we discuss this man to...er...lion?"

The lion shook his head then made a gesture to the noisy crowd. "He's a chicken folks!" he bellowed at the baying audience, making with the chicken impersonations. "Cluck cluck cluck cluck."

The crowd for their part began to pelt the now reluctant Heracles stand-in with rancid fruit.

"I am not a chicken," said that man. "I just thought maybe we could talk things through and find some common ground. You know come to some sort of compromise."

The lion roared loudly, Snow guessed that wasn't a good sign. "I'll give you a compromise," he snarled. "I'll rip off both your arms and shove them up your arse. How does that grab you?"

"I was kind of hoping for something a little less violent," admitted Snow, considering that not only did the lion man not seem like a very reasonable person, he also appeared to speak in American slang. "I wanted to avoid a situation where one of us would get hurt, or even killed."

"One of us?" scoffed the lion. "You think you can harm me? I think not."

Snow tried to pull off a confidant shrug, he didn't quite make it. "You never know."

The lion laughed and slapped his thigh with a vicious looking clawed paw. "Ha ha! That's a good one, Greek. You hurt me? What could a puny runt like you, do to me? I had heard that you were a mighty warrior but I guess the reports were greatly exaggerated. You're a puny git."

"You bastard Heracles," muttered Snow as the lion's word sunk in. I have been well and truly stitched up like the infamous old kipper, he thought bitterly. No way is this worth a million quid.

"I've been sick," he told the lion to jeers of derision from the crowd.

"Most amusing," said the lion. "But now the time for talking is over. I'm afraid you must prepare to meet your maker, whoever he may be."

On that note the lion leapt forward at Snow. No warning, no nothing.

"Shit!" cursed Snow, as seven feet of killing machine hurtled towards him. "Aaargh!" he added as a clawed paw caught him as he dived out of the flying lion's trajectory.

"Haaa ha," laughed the beast.

Snow struggled to his feet and ran a hand over his burning thigh. The hand came away covered in blood, his blood. "Bastard," he swore in the direction of his enemy, who was playing up to the crowd something rotten.

The lion finished it's Eubank style posing and turned it's attention back to our wounded hero. "Deep enough for you?"

Snow unthinkingly touched the heavily bleeding gash. Jeez it hurt like hell. It was a good job he was such a bloody he-man, macho hero type. "It's just a flesh wound," he grimaced.

"I know," snarled the lion. "That's why I've got something special planned for my next move." He crossed the ring and plucked up Snow as effortlessly as you would pick up a small child. He held him above his head with one hand and addressed the crowd. "Who wants him?"

Snow heard various positive shouts from the crowd. So did the lion, he cupped his paw to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. "Sorry could you speak up," he cried. "Ah Mister Nicoladies, row F seat 29. Catch!"

Snow flew through the air and it must be said that it was with the famous 'greatest of ease'. Unfortunately it was the landing that lacked a certain amount of grace. He landed on the ground beside seat F29 like the famed 'ton of bricks'.

Now any normal man thrown out of a wrestling ring, to land in row F, could quite reasonably expect a list of injuries as long as your arm. But Snow being a fictional hero, merely groaned, staggered to his feet, dusted himself down, quoted the now legendary phrase. "Sod this for a game of soldiers!" and did what is commonly known as a 'runner'.

Snow raced through the hall at something nearing the land speed record. Which wasn't bad since he had quite a severe wound in his right thigh. He headed towards the exit at top speed, like a bat out of hell. He was nearly at the exit. He was at the exit. He was through the door. He was saved. He was free. He was...back in the ring facing the lion again?

"What the frig?" quoted the boy.

"You can't escape quite that easily," snarled the lion, grabbing up the unfortunate escapee again.

"What the fuc-" managed Snow, before he was thrown violently against the ropes. This time however lady luck was smiling on the private dick. He cannoned into the ringside ropes all right but he rebounded straight back off them, at speed. He came back off the ropes at at least a hundred miles an hour and struck the lion's gut at about 102.58mph.

"Oof!" exclaimed the lion, falling to his knees the wind knocked out of him. "You git."

Snow leapt heroically to his feet...all right he stumbled to his feet, holding his head, which hurt. He was going to have one hell of a headache later. He had a plan now though but it needed to be put into motion quickly, before the lion recovered completely.

Snow rushed to the ringside and reached through the ropes for what he knew would be there, the bell. "End of round one," he shouted, giving the bell one almighty wallop.

"Excellent," he cried, reaching down and grabbing up the stool that had just been placed in the corner by his second. "Take that!" he continued, swinging the wooden stool in a wide, sweeping arc that struck the lion's skull the heaviest of blows. "And that!" he further continued, repeating the manoeuvre.

Five 'and thats' later the lion lay flat on it's front in the middle of the ring.

Snow kicked the beast. It remained still. "I hope no one from the RSPCA is watching," he muttered, rubbing his throbbing thigh and making an obscene gesture to the crowd. Who were enthusiastically booing and pelting him with anything they could lift, move or rip up. Furniture included.

"Now, how do I get home," he wondered, ducking as most of seat F29 whistled past his ear.

Craig has been writing short stories (and the occasional novel) for at least seventeen years, with as much success as one can expect. He has just recently taken over editorial duties on the small press zine, '21st Century Bitch Goddess' and has been requested by them (ordered by!) to convert his web site to their use. He is 32 and has a son (Aidan) who is waiting to learn to read.

E-mail: craig.cornwell@breathemail.net

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