By Chris Galford (@Aurinth)
The old gods are dead or dying. New, more contemporary deities, created through pop culture adulation, look set to replace them. A new pantheon is forming.
The Hydra of Holiday Sports
First Lieutenant Harold Gorm paused for a moment as the rumble of gunfire consumed his TV. Such sounds were not unusual on Christmas Eve, but here, in this place, he was supposed to be protected from them. He closed his eyes to memories of Kabul, to the mixture of M16 and AK fire, and instead gave thanks for the miraculous power of control. A click of a button and this particular war turned to reality TV. Briefly, he considered which was worse. Half hour until the game. That was all he needed to make it. Callie was in the kitchen, making sure the house wafted with cheer; it was all she could do, owing to their current fiscal situation. Half hour until dinner. Half hour until thanks and a drink and all the rest. This was the true joy of leave — these little, blissful moments. Which was about the same moment a car alarm woke him up. It shut off a moment later, but it returned him all the same to a world he did not desire. Darkness was all around him; his house was lost to it. Nothing wafted from the kitchen, no light or heat offered anything they might actually enjoy. The game, according to his watch, was very well only an hour away, but that did him no good. The electric bill was overdue. Sure, as a kid he dreamed of a large man in a red suit who delivered Christmas gifts to kids out of the kindness of his heart. Santa went the way of faeries sometime before his first kiss. What good was it believing in magic when he couldn’t even take care of his family? He ran his hands through his hair alongside another curse, offered his silent fury to the only thing he had left: “Goddamn it, all I wanted was a game, a kiss, and a night—a single night—of warmth.” He was wool-gathering again, but there were some-- “Mind if I cut in, El-Tee?” Harold was out of his chair in a heartbeat, hand going instinctively for the sidearm that was no longer there. A shape loomed in the darkness, filling the silhouette of the kitchen doorway. He drew up his fists and faced the shadow. “You’ve got about two seconds before I beat your ass to a pulp for trespassing, buddy.” The laugh began low, like a heady bass. Like some of those monks he’d met over in Japan just after ROTC, though, that voice seemed to become two, a second, higher strain, and then, impossibly, two became three. It chilled him, stopped him cold. “What the fuck?” he said, taking a step back. Then a fourth voice hit him from behind, all of a second before he came up against something…solid. Brick wall solid. When he twisted, the figure gave him a salute—to one of his heads. That was the key. About the only way he could describe what he was looking at was… Well. He had perhaps hit the bottle a little too hard. All the same, he lunged, driving a fist hard into the thing’s gut. It didn’t so much as flinch. “El-Tee. There’s really no need for that.” Then, a second voice from the same figure said, “Bullshit! I’ll beat your head right in, just hold still.” “Guys! Guys! Hold on,” a third voice said. “I’ve got this.” Something snapped and the lights came on, something began to howl and stamp its electronic feet, and just like that, a whoosh of wind belied a sudden influx of heat. The TV clicked, the Christmas tree brightened silhouettes across the ceiling, and a twenty-headed… fuck, what’d they call it? HYDRA! weaseled into view with a series of downright disturbing smiles. Some looked absent-minded. Some looked attentive. Some looked angry. Most looked downright eager. It had been a long time since Harold had a good scream. He did then. “There, there,” one of the scaly heads spat a moment later. “Get that out of your system? Just us here, Harold.” “Us?” Harold stared, bewildered. “Us. And have we got a treat for you!” “A big treat!” “A very big treat!” “And never have I seen a less deserving—” “Save it for the ice, Ho. This guy’s a hero.” “You want to go?” “GUYS!” The head in a baseball cap roared. “Can we just once get along?” |
“WHO ARE YOU?” Harold shouted over them. All heads locked on him at once. “Isn’t it obvious?” they said in unison. When Harold shook his head, a sound like a windmill split their lips and followed with a boisterous, “Athletics! Games! SPORTS!” “And we,” added a bald head amongst the heads, “are here to bring you some right good gaiety, mate.” Harold backed slowly away. “I’m calling the cops.”Another snap and the lights went out again. He drew still, very still. But from the motions, he could tell one head snapped at another. “No need for that, El-Tee. Listen: think of us as Santa. We are here to ask you a very important question: what’s your pleasure?” “Your sport!” “Your game!” “What are you looking to watch?” He glanced at the TV and back at them, still trying to process what was happening. “Football?” Lights flared to life and another chittering laugh seized the room. He had to clamp his hands over his ears to hold back the sudden roar of laughter and anger as heads dissolved into bickering chatter, but in the end, it all came down to two heads, and one, he noted, was wearing the helmet of a very beloved team. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” “We’re gods, man! And this is kind of our area.” The screen flickered, and he jerked back again. It didn’t even have a second of real static; it was on his game, with the teams taking up position on the field. A mash of colors and screams, men and women alike cheering for their little joys. Escapism by another name. “But the electricity…” “Unless you want us to bring you there, buddy, you can’t do one without the other.” “But…” Another pop, and the heads were gone—Cheshire cat style fading into the bright light. Then, like the absence of the unreal had cut loose the floodgates on reality, Britney came running down the stairs, hair a mess, rumpled clothes half-on, eyes wide as saucers. She looked more like the bride of Frankenstein than his wife, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. “Harold, what the hell—” “Christmas miracle?” he said with a grin. “How did…we don’t have money for this. I don’t understand.” “Just…don’t worry about it, sweetheart. How’s dinner coming along?” “The…the electricity. I didn’t even bother getting a ham, Harold…” “What do we have?” “Some…some soup. Veggies. I could make some gravy and biscuits and…” “Honey. Baby. That’s all I need. Long as I’m not the only one eating them.” “And fatten you up? Baby. It’s Christmas. I need some gifts too.” Harold lifted her up, warmed in the girlish squeak he knew so well, and when she hit him, he kissed her, and she kissed him back. Somewhere far away, crowds roared as a ball crossed the line, and twenty separate heads bickered over what, exactly, that had to do with Season’s Greetings. |
Read a Modern Gods inspired story by Patrick Coholan
OTHER MODERN GODS:
Atheism and the Cloud Burning Man Coffee (Lady Caffeine) By Chris Galford |
Submit an entry for the 21st Century Directory of Lesser Deities, coming 2015.
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