Interview With the Fire Guy

As the interview is just off the Sunset Strip, I let my hair down, throw on oversized shades, and take a pleasant, nostalgic drive from Sunset Beach. I’d forgotten much the road winds as it bounds up into the hills. It’s timeless, a monument to the city’s history.

Sunset Boulevard straightens out considerably as one passes from Bel Air to the edges of Beverly Hills. I pass some of my favorite restaurants and night clubs, as well as the decaying remains of yesteryear’s hot spots. It’s like that in this part of town, a constant cycle of destruction and renewal. The great locales of old serve as a sort of organic mulch, encouraging the growth of the Next Big Thing. Very few spots have survived the decades, but the character and spirit of the area, like the road, has changed little.

I turn left into West Hollywood’s residential area, north of the Boulevard. Lying among the hills lay an eclectic group of homes. Some are modest, though remodeled, remnants of the original populace, from the time before real estate became some of the most expensive in the world. Some have been lavishly rebuilt, but maintain a strong sense of family. Though large, those homes look comfortable, perfect for entertaining… a great place to raise children and host birthday parties.

Still others have been rebuilt as capitalist temples, monuments to the playboy moguls of Hollywood. The home of my mysterious interviewee falls into this latter category.

Substantial effort keeps each home separate and private, even though the properties are crammed together. On this particular driveway, tall, thin walls of bamboo and a narrow switchback give the illusion that one is entering an expansive estate, when in fact you’re only traveling a few dozen feet to the front door. Everything’s fake in Hollywood, right?

A large, stone sphere lays in a wide, flat water feature next to the entrance. The building (I can’t quite bring myself to call it a home) is a blocky, steel and glass construction— the kind favored by the bachelors of LA. Through the glass doors and walls straight to the other side, there’s an incredible view of the entire city. Zillow tells me the property is fourteen thousand square feet and last sold for over forty million.

I realize with a little embarrassment, that I’ve now written six paragraphs without having introduced the subject of the interview. The truth is, he’s probably not someone you’ve heard of— I certainly had not. He is one of those shadowy background figures of the industry, one of the “guys behind the guys behind the guys.” My greatest fear is that I’m walking into the arms of a serial killer or a rapist. Worst of all, I fear he might be boring.

Piro Methis is a financial advisor and consultant to the richest members of Hollywood’s elites. He is otherwise impossible to locate, research, or even hear about. Indeed, the only reason I know of him at all is that his brother, who refers to himself only as Eppy, contacted me to arrange an interview. Having never heard of these brothers, Eppy provided me with a list of references to confirm Piro’s status. Though I spoke only with secretaries, all confirmed that this was definitely someone I would want to meet. Everyone loves a mystery, so I agreed to the meeting.

Before I arrived, I’d imagined this person as anything from Warren Buffet to Christian Grey to Jeffrey Epstein. I tap on the smart doorbell, watching through the glass door as John C. Reilly’s nervous, less confident doppelgänger approaches. I assume this is Eppy, the brother. He tosses an apron over a rail and fumbles with a tie on the way. It’s still not tied when he opens the door. He seems overwhelmed by events.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have known that you, a professional, I mean, not like a professional like that, I, heh, um, no, never mind, I mean to say… I should have known that you would be a little early.” I fear he might have a heart attack before he introduces himself. He has the slightest hint of an Eastern European accent. Flustered, he stares at me for a few awkward moments. The look in his hazel eyes expresses a fear that I’ll scream at him and run away.

“Not a problem at all,” I say with a warm, reassuring smile. “I would’ve understood if you needed a few more moments. I have learned patience in my line of work.”

“Yes, silly me, I could’ve known that.” He looks about to slap himself in the forehead, but doesn’t. “I have to remember to calm down, take my time with these things. Please, come on in.”

He motions me inside and stutter-steps twice before committing to a direction.

The house pulls off the tremendous feat of being spartan in its functionality while also sporting an impressive array of historical artifacts. The latter are proudly displayed in unassuming glass cases that hug every inch of wall. I pass by an ancient, crude gold mask.

“A drink first?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you. Something caffeinated, but non-alcoholic.”

He leads me toward a kitchen most chefs would kill for. Among other things, it has a large glass stove, a large induction stove, and a— you guessed it, large— teppan grill. An array of delicious looking hors d’oeuvres spreads across an enormous dining room table like a banquet worthy of a Roman orgy. Folding glass doors stretch the extent of the far side. Beyond them is a long, thin pool with a jacuzzi at the far end. I am not surprised to find a collection of gorgeous women sunbathing in various states of undress. I recognize a few from movies and television, but, as a professional, will refrain from identifying them.

A tall, thin, bare-breasted redhead enters stage left with a martini in her hand. A hairy, muscular arm reaches up for it. As the hand takes the drink, the redhead bends down for a long kiss, which her entire body seems to enjoy. When she comes up for air, she makes eye contact with me and says something to the man. She gives a pouty, jealous look and stalks back to her lounge chair. The man glances at me, too quickly for me to see much, and relaxes out of view.

“Here you go, an iced green tea chai latte,” Eppy says as he hands me a highball with a delicious looking drink.

“You’ve done your homework on me,” I reply. The man brightens and forms an enormous smile, as if that’s that greatest thing anyone has ever told him.

“I’m miserable with the things I can’t see coming, but I’m magnificent at learning from my past mistakes.” I see his expression wander off into space, presumably as he’s just conjured up the specter of those past mistakes.

“Eppy, you didn’t tell me how gorgeous my interviewer would be.”

I nearly spill my chai latte at the sudden appearance of my interviewee, directly next to me. As I look him over, I must admit a modicum of attraction. The man is built like a Greek god and I can see most of him, as he wears only a tight banana hammock. Were I younger, with much worse judgment, I might let myself become yet another of his love slaves.

Luckily for me, I identify him as a disciple of the seven C’s- a Card Carrying Caucasian Christian Conservative Capitalist with a C—, well… you know. Cismale might be a better word. As such, I am confident that I’ll be immune to his charms.

There is one major disfigurement that he does not bother to hide, which I take to mean he is either unashamed or proud of it. A great, jagged scar traces down from his solar plexus to his groin, a sign of some massive surgery. I presume he’s showing it off so I’ll be forced to ask about it. I decide later on, when the interview has begun in earnest, I’ll indulge him.

“I suppose you’re just as surprised by my early arrival?” I ask.

Both the bumbling Eppy and the chiseled Piro find my comment hilarious. They laugh, sharing some inside joke.

“Nothing surprises my brother, Madame Journalist. Nothing.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve met dozens of financial advisers who claimed to be great prognosticators. None deserved the title. Chalk up a point for boring.

“No it doesn’t… not even this little game of yours, dear brother,” Piro says. “Though, I’m still a bit confused by the resolution.”

Point for serial killers.

“Confused, you say? Must be a dreadful feeling. Anyway, go get dressed into something more suitable for a professional interview.”

“If that is what Madame Journalist would prefer?” Piro says with a hint of playfulness.

“If you purport to have the gift of foresight, I would think you would’ve known the answer to that.”

Eppy chuckles again, and Piro flashes a mysterious smile.

“Just so, which should make you wonder why I would still ask.” He pauses, I assume for dramatic effect, and then sweeps his arm toward the display of Mediterranean snacks on the dining room table. “Please, enjoy an aperitif while I go make myself more,” he widens his eyes and looks mockingly at Eppy, “professional.”

He clenches his glutes as he departs.

“Yes, please, I did make this all for you,” Eppy says.

I take a sip of my green tea latte and peruse the table. I settle on a plate of dakos, a crusty brown bread salad from Crete, along with some dolmathes, the wrapped grape leaves. It occurs to me that my selections might give me Mediterranean breath, but I hope that might serve as a barrier to his advances. Rapist is still a possibility.

“Am I to gather you and your brother are from Greece?” I ask Eppy, who hovers.

“Yes. Ages ago, but yes. I would ask how you know, but…” he gestures at the spread of Greek food, “in hindsight, I suppose that’s obvious.”

***

As I wait, I examine the artifacts. Collections of coins, pottery, jewelry, and weapons seem to span thousands of years. As each is accompanied by a date and origin, I piece together that each set covers a specific time and place, and there are few repetitions.

Ten minutes past the scheduled interview, I stand to tell Eppy I will wait no longer.

My subject re-emerges from deeper within his lair. He is now washed, groomed, and wearing an expensive, immaculately tailored suit.

A leggy blonde, with a wrinkled bikini bottom and mussed hair, emerges at the same time. She grabs an appletini Eppy has set out and slithers into the jacuzzi. This man’s patriarchy might rival the founder of a popular lewd magazine.

“I apologize for the delay, but thought I’d let you finish your antipasto.”

I swallow that last bite and look around for cameras.

“Please, don’t be so paranoid,” he continues. “I also apologize that I asked my brother not to give you the tour, so that I could do so myself.”

“You do realize I am a journalist for a prestigious magazine, and not the host of a high value real estate TV show?”

“Yes, of course, but you will indulge me. There will be no time lost. You can question as we go.”

“Who am I to refuse the lord of the castle?” I ask as ironically as I can muster.

“I thought you might say that,” he responds flatly, as if I was serious.

“You’re okay if I record this?”

“It is reasonable, even without foresight, to know you would. Please do.”

He leads me inside, just past the Jacuzzi. The entire room is an homage to Hollywood itself, with a giant montage of every major movie star I’ve ever heard of— a veritable Where’s Waldo of Hollywood history. In the lower right corner, it is implausibly signed by Banksy.

Adorning the walls down toward the bar are vintage movie posters, beginning with Way Down East, from 1920. There is precisely one poster for every year since, some choices, such as Dances With Wolves, are obvious, other, such as The Bells of St. Mary’s, are not. Later research tells me he tended towards highest grossers as opposed to award winners. I should have guessed.

“I know you seldom drink on a job, but you’ve had your caffeine and colonic, plus some food in your tummy, so I know you’ll accept one simple drink. I promise, I will offer you no more. I can be a perfect gentleman when it suits me.”

He stands behind the bar, already in the midst of mixing something for himself when he asks. I concede to avoid an argument.

“Have you heard of a sazerac?” It’s both a test of his bartender knowledge and a declaration of my ability to hold my liquor.

He sets one in front of me as the word leaves my lips. It’s been years since I’ve ordered one. I tighten my poker face.

“Your brother tells me you’re Greek… originally?”

“Please. For one, you discerned that on your own, and for another, do you really want that to be your first question for me?”

I sigh and crack a smile.

“Fine, then. Let’s cut to it. Who are you, exactly, and why is it worth my time to interview you?”

“That has a simple answer, and a complicated one.”

“I’m only semi-intrigued. Let’s start with the simple answer.”

He gives a bad boy smirk. “Simply put, I am Prometheus.”

“Your real name is Prometheus? Oh… Piro Methis, I get it. Do Greeks still name people that?”

“No… I am really Prometheus. The Prometheus.”

I missed a “C” in my initial analysis. He’s also Crazy.

***

“By Prometheus, you mean the fire guy?” I’m pleased to recall obscure Greek mythology.

He pounds a fist onto the black granite bar in a rage. Point for pychopath.

“It’s impossible to escape that, isn’t it?”

He sighs and takes a long sip of his sazerac.

“I’m not just the fire guy, okay? That was one short moment in my life. One single action. I’ve lived for millennia, done things most can’t imagine, experienced most of the greatest moments in history, and yet, I’m always just the fire guy. Even knowing you’d say that, it doesn’t reduce the sting one bit.”

Can’t get his story if I don’t play along, right?

“But didn’t you get some kind of punishment?” I ask, digging into my knowledge banks. “Pushing a rock up a hill, teased by food and water or something?”

“It’s all Greek to you, isn’t it?” He smiles as if he’s made an original joke. “No, that was Sisyphus and Tantalus. Both mortals, and those were their respective punishments in the Underworld. For the horrible crime of providing man with fire, which no one seems to thank me for anymore…” His eyes light up as if he’s conjured a funny memory. “Heh, and it wasn’t just fire, there was also this brilliant prank I played on Zeus. You see, I killed this ox and—”

Catching his breath, he settles and glares at me with suspicion.

“You know what, you won’t appreciate the joke. Anyway, for stealing fire, I was chained to rock, where by night an eagle would eat my liver, and by day my liver would grow back.”

“That sucks. For eternity?”

“Nice try.” He changes to a high-pitched, mocking tone. “How are you here if you were punished for eternity?” His normal voice resumes. “Well, I’ll tell you, since no one learns these things anymore. Hera- ahem, Hercules, killed the eagle in exchange for the knowledge of how he’d become famous. Incredibly vain individual, that one.”

Prometheus is one to talk.

“The real hero is Chiron, the centaur god who traded his immortality, which was an immediate death sentence as that bumbling fool Hercules poisoned him, for my freedom. Chiron is the only one of my kind who ever gave up his immortality. He had his reasons, but that he freed me as part of the deal, well… I can’t look up at Sagittarius without shedding a tear.”

I check my watch. Twenty-seven minutes have passed since the interview was scheduled to start. I feel a pang of regret that I’ll never get those minutes back.

“Am I to assume,” I say, “this interview will be a lame re-hash of the mythology surrounding…” I cup my hands and thrust them out, “you?”

“You really don’t listen, do you?” he replies. Shaking his head, he rattles the ice around his drink, and then finishes it. He sets the glass down and walks around. “The whole reason Eppy invited you here is because— No, it’s too soon for you to understand. Let’s continue the tour. See if I can make you a believer.”

I set down my empty glass and tell myself that at least I get to explore an interesting house. We pass a butler’s kitchen and a more isolated dining room on our way to stairs. On the lower level, I discover the upper pool is glass bottomed and directly above the lower pool. One of his playthings swims above us.

Inset from the lower deck, there’s a sports bar and game room with a swank Miami club feel to it.

Next, we find a massive wine room with a tasting area. Through a door is a Hollywood elite staple- an expansive home theater. Both the theater and the wine room are decorated in Mediterranean, Greco-Roman styles.

“So, I have to ask, if you’re Prometheus… who’s your brother?”

“You should’ve studied more of the classics. Epimetheus is my polar opposite… the god of afterthought. Hindsight.”

“Well, that’s not very useful.”

“He’s much wiser than he’s depicted, when he’s depicted at all.”

Piro’s demeanor softens and his gaze drops as he says this. I sense genuine affection for his sibling.

“Is he your only sibling?”

“No, I’ve got Atlas, but he’s no fun. Poor me, I’ve got the world on my shoulders. Then there’s Menny, er… Meneotius. A greater hothead, you will never meet. He’s spent all of eternity in and out of various prisons around the world. Currently in Malaysia, I think.” His eyes narrow. “Or Indonesia?”

We step into an oriental workout area, with steam room, another jacuzzi, weight room, and a yoga room in which the walls are filled with live, green plants.

“So you made your fortune as a financial advisor to the wealthy?”

“No, not at all,” he replies. “I made it on the Silk Road. The true challenge has actually been to limit my wealth. I would own the planet by now if I didn’t spend so extravagantly. The financial advisor thing, that’s just what I do to explain all this to, um…”

“People who don’t believe you’re Prometheus?” I supply.

“Considering that’s almost everyone… yes. Anyway, unless you’d like to break open a bottle of wine and have a tasting, I suggest we head up to the office and have a proper interview.”

I wave a hand to politely refuse the wine, though I am intrigued as to what he would offer.

“Isn’t there a third floor?”

“Yes, but that’s just the guest bedrooms and the wonderfully magnificent master. You’ll see plenty of that later on.”

“Was that an invite?” I do my best to suppress a blush. As much as I despise what he stands for, he is an absolutely gorgeous specimen, and obviously very experienced.

“Call it prophecy.”

***

The office, despite glass walls, is done in the style of a British/European polished oak library.

From yet another small wet bar, the Fire Guy pours what I assume is scotch out of a crystal decanter. In this formalized setting, it’s time for the true interview to begin. I still haven’t answered the question of killer, rapist (though there was the quip about the bedroom… hmm…), or boring. Actually, scratch boring. I can no longer say he isn’t interesting.

“Before I delve into the particulars of your life, please allow me to recap what I’ve learned.” He nods, and I cycle back through my hastily scribbled notes.

“You claim to be Prometheus, the Greek god from mythology who gave mankind the gift of fire. You were punished by Zeus, but freed by Hercules. You are the god of foresight…” I pause and frown.

“Was that a question or a statement?” he asks.

“Wasn’t there another person from Greek mythology gifted with foresight? Cassandra?”

He gives a pained half smile.

“There are two constants in my life. One is that I am remembered as The Fire Guy, the other is the inevitable comparison to Cassandra. She found a loophole through her twin brother and lived as a beautiful, though sarcastic, princess. I’ll admit she had a tragic end, but what mortal doesn’t? Unbelieved prophecies, sure, but just for one brief lifetime. I’m not saying she was lucky to be mortal, but my foresight has endured an eternity.”

“Ah, so it’s to be poor me, I’ve lived forever with complete knowledge of what’s to come, is it?” I gesture to the luxurious home and gorgeous women outside. “Yes, it looks absolutely horrible.”

His free hand curls into a fist. He turns a deep shade of red and clenches his teeth. Drawing in a breath, he sets his tumbler down and wiggles the fingers. It appears I’ve struck a nerve.

“Yes, lucky me.” Bitterness drips. Point psychopath.

“Baby, are you going to be much longer?” A redhead has appeared from the patio. “You promised.”

His eyes close and he lets out a long, relaxing sigh. A devious, charming smile forms.

“I would say I’m sorry, my dear, except that I’m not.”

She gasps in indignation, probably feigned.

“I’m going to let the anticipation build, pet. Go wait for me down in the Red Room. I’ll come I feel like it.”

He has a “Red Room”. Point rapist.

“Okay,” she replies.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean… yes, sir.”

“That’s better.”

Make that two points.

Redhead shoots me a mean glance and struts away.

Prometheus retrieves his scotch, takes a sip, and calms. “I understand how one would see it that way. You see only the good, you see the benefit, the fabulous life I’ve made for myself. This,” he makes a gesture to mimic mine, “is how I cope.”

“What do you cope with?”

“I cope with knowing the tragic end to everything and everyone. I followed Alexander as he conquered everything he could reach, knowing his fate. I witnessed the rise of Rome, fought in some of their great battles. With tears in my eyes, I pleaded with Julius Caesar to alter his course. He disregarded my warnings and charged headlong into his fate. The distant future is hazy, mostly because I never really understand the context until it gets closer. When it clarifies, I’ve proven time and again I can’t do anything about it. I learned that it’s better to enjoy the good, to revel in the excesses of a dying empire, than to wallow in its miseries or fight against its demise.

“Before Rome fell, before Europe descended into madness, I left to wander the Silk Road. I began to live more as you mortals do— amassing wealth, living ephemerally. I’m sorry, I mean to say we, as my brother was always there. Sometimes we’d stay years or decades in one spot, but we’d always move on. Sometimes someone I’d loved died, sometimes we’d leave in advance of a great catastrophe. Oh, I’d always warn everyone I could, but I tried not to dwell on who didn’t heed me.”

Despite the recorder, I furiously scribble notes. It’s an imaginative, if occasionally inconsistent, history he’s developed for himself. The redhead drifts back into my thoughts. I know I know her from somewhere, a movie or a show, but I can’t quite place her. It would be rude to pull out my phone and IMDB her. A new question forms in my head. I realize he’s stopped talking and now stares at me expectantly.

“You can continue, I’m still listening.”

He doesn’t budge. “You have a question.”

“Are you reading minds now, too?”

“No, but I know you’re about to ask it. And no, I cannot tell you what it is, otherwise you’d think I was leading you. It’s tiring to have to play this game, but I’ve learned patience. Please ask.”

My instincts tell me to continue with this absurd banter, but my professional nature tells me to humor him and continue the interview.

“You mentioned lovers, and I see several here, unless, of course, you’ve hired them. Either way, did you love many women, or perhaps men too, in all that time?”

“No men, sorry, though I’ve nothing against it. Alexander perhaps, but that was awe and admiration, not lust.

“As to women, yes. Constantly. Most were lost to history, women only remembered by myself and my brother. I will boast there are quite a few famous individuals on that list. Helen, Cleo, Theodora, Lucrezia, really, the more I list the less you’ll believe me. There were Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Indian… you see, at one point I reversed the route I followed with Alexander. There were a few empresses, a lot of princesses, and so on down through the social classes wherever I went.”

He pauses again and looks at me with that knowing twinkle in his eye. He’s awaiting my next question.

“And your brother?”

His face lights up into a warm, enormous smile.

“Sometimes, knowing the future makes it more fun. Most of the time, it detracts. There’s no mystery. Sure, I loved all those women, but knowing they were all a foregone conclusion…” He shrugs.

“However, whenever my brother fell in love… I can honestly say those moments were richer for me. To see the excitement in his eyes, the genuine surprise… or, no that’s not the right word. The emotion. The wonderment of it. I had to appreciate the good moments and survive the bad moments, because I would know when and how they would end. But for my brother, it was like watching a child discovering something wonderful for the first time. The pure innocence of it… he truly loved far deeper than I ever could.”

The glow remains on his face as he takes another long sip from his glass. Unbidden, he springs from his chair and moves to the office bar. He pulls the top out of the decanter and pours himself another. I’m certain there’s a bar in every room. In fact, there is another one just outside the door on this end of the patio. Thinking about it makes me crave another sazerac.

He hands me another sazerac.

“Don’t I have to ask for it? If you’re not reading my mind, how would you know I wanted this if I don’t ask for it?”

“Sometimes I can cut a corner or two. I don’t make the rules.”

He resumes his seat and take a deep, pensive breath. His gaze flickers back and forth to me, as if nervous.

“Well,” I say, collecting my thoughts. “That’s touching about your brother. But this is an interview about you. Was there anyone in particular? The first, perhaps?”

“You are perceptive. My brother worked that out for himself.”

“You’re stalling, which means I’m correct.”

“Yes. My first… At least, my first true love. My first mortal lover after I was freed. Life had a sweet, exquisite taste to it after all the anticipation I’d built up during my captivity.”

His demeanor has shifted. He seems torn between uncomfortable and giddy.

“Please,” I say to encourage him.

“Her name was Pythia. When you Wikipedia her later, you’ll see she was the Oracle at Delphi. History records her as beautiful, mysterious, insane, and brilliant. She was all of those. I’ll confess, I might have had a hand in the writing of some of those histories. In modern terms… you’ve heard of the hot-versus-crazy scale of women?”

I restrain a scoff. Of course I’ve seen the horribly misogynistic rant about how men should choose women based on whether their hotness outweighs their craziness.

“I know you have. Anyway, Pythia was legitimately a ten-ten on that scale. Eleven-eleven even. Twelve-twelve—”

“I get the point.” It’s the most excited I’ve seen him over the course of the entire interview.

“Naturally, I’m why she was as an Oracle. It was our arrangement. I made her famous and powerful, an immortal fixture in history. She made me… the happiest this Greek god has ever been. Oh, the passion of that woman. Just thinking of it makes my blood rush, my—.”

He takes another sip and fidgets for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but we’re going to have to move on. I’m half a breath from leaving this interview for that redhead. I’ve this sudden urge to work something out. In fact…”

He tilts his head, slams the glass onto the desk, and bolts to his feet.

“No, brother, you’re staying here.”

I jerk in surprise. When did Eppy join us? How long has he been standing at the office door? He leans, relaxed, against the frame.

***

“Yes, I know. Must make it dramatic, right? We are, after all, Greek deities.”

“He’s getting defensive, because he knows what’s coming,” Eppy tells me.

I glance back to Prometheus’ brother. The man standing in the doorway has transformed. He holds himself with casual confidence and the visage of a predator. There’s a stern look of certainty in those hazel eyes.

“Why?” I ask. “What’s coming?”

“The heart of the matter,” Eppy says. I’m intrigued by the cryptic words, but I’m not sure how to proceed.

“You have to understand,” Prometheus says, “most of history is, as Hobbes said— solitary, poor, nasty, short, and brutish for almost all of you mortals. That’s the philosopher Hobbes and not the cartoon tiger.”

He gives a half-hearted smirk and I frown in response.

“Most have lived like that for most of history. For a long time, I didn’t think it would improve. I can only see so far and, to be honest, I’d kind of stopped looking because what was there to see? Death and misery? Unlike Cassandra, I spent an eternity watching miserable lives making little noticeable improvement over millennia. Oh, I found some good, but only when I stopped to look around, never when I looked ahead. Then, in the nineteenth century, I saw a glimmer of hope in the twentieth century. It wasn’t until Eppy pointed out that some things had improved, that mankind had come along technologically, and in a few places philosophically, that I bothered to look further forward and realized that, in some parts of the world at least, life would get better.

“As these things go, it was in that, precise moment that I took a concerted look at how the twentieth century would play out in which I also saw the devastation it would take to get there.”

His voice trails off. He turns pale and his gaze evolves into a thousand-yard stare. I fear the man has gone catatonic until he starts to chew his fingernails. The charming, libidinous Greek god has become an emotional basket case. The two brothers have switched identities.

“Don’t stop there, brother,” Epimetheus says. “This is exactly where we needed to bring you.”

“I can’t,” Prometheus says. Tears well up in his eyes and he develops a slight tremor. “You’re going to have to do it for me.”

Epimetheus nods and moves to the bar. He pours something from a full decanter. I get a faint whiff of licorice. He downs it in a flash and takes the chair next to me.

“He blames himself for all of it.”

“How?” I ask, a bit confused. “He already said he can’t change any of it, didn’t he?”

“Maybe that’s just what I told myself,” Prometheus says. “Look around you. I made all this happen well enough when I wanted to.”

“This is small and local, Piro,” Epimetheus says. “You can’t change the big things, you can’t make them happen, or not happen. I know how it all went, you know I do. I can see with laser focus why it all happened the way it did and it wasn’t you.”

Prometheus shakes his head like a spoiled child. I wonder if he’s about to put his fingers in his ears and start screaming.

“Why would he think that?”

“Because he tried,” Epimetheus says. “We were here, in America, not long before your Civil War. This was his bright spot of hope, you see. He knew things would turn out better here than most places, and he tried to encourage things. However, during your war in Mexico, Piro convincesd me we need to get back to Europe. ‘We’ve got to stop it’ he tells me. I ask him what, but he says he can’t tell me. I should’ve known then that this,” Epimetheus gestures to his brother, “is what would come of it. Obvious now, but,” he chuckles, “everything’s obvious to me in hindsight, right?”

“Stop what?” I ask, though I think I know the answer.

“The Great Wars. He knows they’re coming, and he thinks he’s worked out the roots. So he drags me to Europe on a wild goose chase.”

“So, what? Like, he tried to kill Hitler or something?”

Prometheus snorts. “I’m so sick of that idea!”

Epimetheus nods again. “That was a last ditch effort, decades later. He backtracked what he saw as best as he could. He spoke with politicians, tried to slow technological progress— for most of history, he’d encouraged it. He tracked down intellectuals who philosophized and created treatises, those he seemed to think would create the foundation for what happened. He was correct, but—”

“But I totally failed in the execution!” Prometheus shouts. “I failed to consider—” He throws up a hand to stop Epimetheus from interrupting. “No, brother, this is what you wanted, right? For me to face my failures? Well, that’s what I’m doing! I failed to consider how utterly stupid humanity is! I kept finding that my efforts consistently had the exact opposite effect from my intentions. I would talk to statesmen, early in their careers, about the dangers of secret alliances, about going to war over the interests of far away states. Decades later, I found they’d gone on to do exactly the opposite, as if I’d planted the wrong seed. Almost all of them ultimately concluded they needed more of what I warned against, not less.”

“And you knew all of that going in. You left those people knowing they’d misinterpret your predictions. When you threw that drunken rant on those two Prussian philosophers—”

“Pffft, calling them philosophers is like calling a serial killer a mental health counselor,” Prometheus says.

“Either way, you threw your little fit and only convinced them of the great impact they could have on the world.”

I open my mouth to ask which philosophers they’re speaking of, but can’t get a word in.

Epimetheus turns to look at me. “Have you heard of Oedipus?”

“She knows he’s the guy who slept with his mom,” Prometheus says in a harsh tone. “Thank you very much, Siggy.”

Embarrassed, I shrug in agreement. “I don’t get the joke, but do you mean as in the Oedipal complex?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t the point of the tale. It was prophesied he would kill his father and marry his mother. They sent him away so it couldn’t happen. As a result, he returned to inadvertently kill a father he didn’t know and marry a woman he didn’t know was his mother. Poor old Oedipus was the result of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Every action taken by his family to avoid it only led to the prophecy coming true.”

The connection becomes clear in my head. “So, Prometheus, trying to prevent the man-made catastrophes of the twentieth century, ultimately became responsible for them?”

“See?” Prometheus shouts. He thrusts his hands out toward me while his gaze burns holes through Epimetheus. Figuratively.

“No!” Epimetheus shouts. “That’s the whole point! You learned eons ago that you were helpless to stop the flow of time. It’s no different. At worst, it was just a waste of your time!”

“At least we can agree on that then.” Prometheus pouts.

“Yes we can,” Epimetheus says, much calmer.

It’s the first moment of silence in a while. I’ve become a fixture in my interview, so I resolve to re-insert myself.

“So, as you say it, you spent decades trying to prevent the two World Wars—”

“Among other things, but yes,” Prometheus says.

“—and, having failed, then what?”

“He buried himself in women, drink, and whatnot,” Epimetheus says. “Playmates, Pets, models, singers, actresses, stars of the other film industry… he might well be unsurpassed in the history of the world in that respect.”

“Yes, I reverted back to solid Greek philosophy,” Prometheus says. “No one knows what will happen, heh-heh, so we might as well enjoy our lives. We eat, drink, smoke, and fu—, er, enjoy physical pleasures.”

“But you know what will happen,” I say. “Allegedly.”

“That makes it worse, not better,” Prometheus replies. “As Eppy will tell you, I’m not so good at looking back.” He slams his hand on the table and raises his voice. “Imagine you could foresee millions of men dying on the battlefield and many more from disease. Genocide everywhere you look, that only gets worse with time. Genocide that catches hold around the world as if it were some kind of virus that forces humans to visit pure evil on each other. You see cities carpet bombed and burned, you see atomic bombs.” His muscles tense. “All that, and you could do nothing about it. You watch mass murdering tyrants grow to power, everywhere. You see the world on fire and you can do nothing. In fact, you know you’ve made it happen!”

In a fit of rage, Prometheus throws his hand to the edge of the desk and launches it sideways though the window to the patio, as easily if it was a light, plastic clipboard. A scream sounds from outside, followed by a few squeals and the receding tap of high heels escaping the source of the outburst.

“Stop this!” Epimetheus shouts. “You’re being a child!”

“Isn’t this what you wanted, brother?” Prometheus asks. He leaps toward his brother and they lock arms. The two brace against each other in some ancient Greco-Roman wrestling stance. Muscles bulge, and I fear the might enlarge and turn green.

“No, brother, I just know you,” Epimetheus says through gritted teeth. “You need to let this all out before you can move on. I’ve let you wallow in hedonism long enough. It’s time to break you out of your shell!”

How long each can hold, exerting themselves as they clearly are? They barely move, other than a slight shift of feet or a barely perceptible twist here and there. Their respective gazes are as locked as their arms are. It’s surreal watching these two titans struggle with each other, just inches away. To think that the bumbling, unsure man who met me at the door is holding his own against the man who tossed a thousand-pound desk as if it were paper… mind blown.

“But they’re going to do it again!” Prometheus says. “They’ll make all the same mistakes they’ve made before.”

“And they’ll recover and learn as they always have,” Epimetheus says. “History has taught me that for all their faults and missteps, they always find themselves a little bit better off as a race. I know, as well as you must, that world peace will never break out as they all seem to hope, but it will get better. It always does, the golden ages get longer and wider reaching. They’ll find their way.”

“I just can’t see it! All I see is the death and the pain they bring on themselves, and me at the heart of it! Me! The cause of all of it!”

“How can you say that? It would have happened with or without you! Your actions only make you another cog in the gears of fate, but not complicit!”

“But I gave them fire!”

There it is his guilt made plain. I envision the very fire of which he speaks, burning in his red, tear-filled eyes. Rage, born of self-hatred, consumes him. Eppy slides backward a foot as Prometheus’ overpowers him.

“That was the source of it all! Without fire, they never advance, they never grow into the mindless machines of destruction they’ve become! I thought I was giving them a great gift, sacrificing myself out of love so that they could enjoy this world during their short little lives, but I failed them, brother, don’t you see! I failed them, right there at the start of it all!”

Pain overtakes Prometheus’ face. Epimetheus shifts slightly, slides his left arm to Prometheus’ side and launches the God of Foresight into the air and onto his back. The air escapes from Prometheus’ lungs and he looks wracked with pain. And yet, I swear it looks as if he’s smiling.

Epimetheus wraps his arms up to pin his brother. When Epimetheus speaks again, he is as calm as a Buddhist monk.

“That’s what this has all been, from the start? You blame yourself for everything mankind has done, all the way back to the moment you placed yourself on the pyre and subjected yourself to Zeus’s wrath? That you gifted mankind with the source of all their misery? Brother… for all your foresight, you have never learned a single thing.

“I know I’m a joke in Greek mythology. The gift of hindsight… what a worthless gift, right? I’m depicted, the few times I am depicted, as a bumbling fool traipsing after his brother.

“Mock me for my hindsight, but I have learned from everything. For example, I learned long ago that you knew my every move in a fight, so I learned how to force a contest of strength over skill, and strengthened myself until I knew I could take you.

“I’ve learned to find the good in what’s happened and to recognize the patterns of history. I’ve learned that history would have happened with or without you. Sure, you gave the ancient Greeks fire, but they would have discovered it anyway. In the rest of the world, they did. But you never looked back to realize that, did you? No, brother, even without your help, mankind would have progressed much the way it has anyway. Your great folly is dwelling on what you falsely believe are your great mistakes. You put too little thought into your great contributions. Your knowledge of the future blinds you to the lessons of the past.

“What you believe to be your great failures are coincidental to, not resultant from, your actions. By your own admission, they were unavoidable, and certainly unintentional on your part. For one who can see ahead, you burn yourself up wallowing in the past, but you never actually look at it. I have. It is, after all, my great useless gift. With it, I can see that my wonderful brother wishes to be a force for good in the world and that, when he gets out of his own way… he is.”

Epimetheus raises his great muscular body up and extends a hand. Prometheus takes it. Stretching away the pain, Prometheus gives a great, bellowing laugh. Where it not for the destruction all about, one might never know they had just fought.

“Thank you, brother. Wise as ever. I honestly couldn’t quite see how we would get here, but of course I knew we would get here. With you having bested me and me contrite. You’re right, of course, about everything, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I drag you along with me when I disappear into these century long depressions. Perhaps, going forward, you and I can work together to find our way. In fact,” Prometheus gives a kind, genuine smile. “I know we will.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Epimetheus says. He turns to regard me. “And now the part I hadn’t considered. What do we do with you?”

Words catch in my throat as I had actually forgotten I was a part of this drama. I’d watched it all unfold as an observer, as if were a play enacted in front of me.

“Oh, don’t worry about her, brother,” Prometheus says. “Her editor will never accept such an absurd article. Someday, she’ll publish it as fiction, under a pseudonym no less, as that’s the only way anyone would accept it. As for the two of you… well, I don’t want to spoil it. I’ll just say, it’ll be amazing to watch.”

I blush and look to Epimetheus. I find that he, too is blushing and looking back at me with gorgeous, hazel eyes. He is rather attractive.