The God of Utterly No Consequence

A week and a half ago I posted about a comedy contest. The brief was to write a short story actively using any two of the following words: banjo, exorcism, mermaid, black box or angry mob. The deadline was 1 September - so I wasn't hugely impressed when I checked the site on the morning of the 1st to find the contest had been closed on 30 August... The deadline has been extended but I've decided not to enter. But for what it's worth, this was to be my offering. Perhaps I should state at the outset, comedy is far easier to write when you're not trying...

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Gerald grimaced and rubbed his bulging belly. He burped, wincing as the malodorous gas produced by his gut billowed around his face. It was all very well being a god, even the God of Utterly No Consequence, but being subjected to the food served up in the Canteen of Delectable Delights was, well, beyond the pale. He clutched his stomach and groaned. This godding lark really wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.
The ad had been truly misleading.

Are you sick of the mundane? Want a better life – free of debt, stress and nagging? Wanted: Man 45 – 60 with desire for betterment of self and all things. A chance to make a real difference. A heavenly opportunity. Minimal hours. Desirable package and terms. No chancers. Mid-life crisis a definite advantage.

The interview too had made promises of great things – so far none of them had come to pass.
He’d expected a bit of frolicking with a nymph or three or four... Some ambrosial delights in the culinary department wouldn’t have gone amiss either. And at the very least a lyre - not the tinny bloody banjo that had been issued along with his flowing white robes! He kicked the offending instrument across the floor and issued a belch that would have put a Ginorma Giant of Gigantism to shame.
Irish stew. For the gods’ sake – bloody Irish sodding stew. And not even like his mum used to make. No, the tasteless fatty lumps of what passed for meat floated in a layer of grease and potatoes were scarce. Even Cora hadn’t made anything this vile – and that was saying something. He paused for a moment and grinned. That was the one good thing about the job. No Cora - the viper who had surely been Satan’s spawn. After twenty-five years of unadulterated hell, it was blissful to be rid of the bitching battle-axe.
Gerald’s gut bubbled and growled as it struggled to digest what had passed for lunch. He was beginning to wonder if the ad and his “job” weren’t all one big joke dreamed up abut the Senior Gods as a means of light entertainment.
Gerald stared around. Heaven, huh? Not what he’d expected at all. Admittedly some of the trappings were there but for him it was all a façade. Oh it was all right for the Senior Gods, they had it made – he’d glimpsed into their private realm. Cavorting maidens, simpering sylphs, tables laden with fruit, candy, cakes, wine… What did he need to do to reach that divine enclave? Perhaps the gods were assessing him. Perhaps he needed to pass some test, prove himself.
Gerald gazed into the middle distance… Life was made you made of it, wasn’t it…? Well, if it was a test - and it probably was – he’d show them. If they weren’t going to take him seriously then he’d have to encourage them to do so. He’d elevate himself a bit, do something dramatic and spectacular so they couldn’t help but pay attention and invite him to join them. Gerald’s beady black eyes glinted. Yes, he’d make something of himself. Of course just how he’d do it eluded him for the moment. But something was bound to turn up. He heaved himself off his red velvet chaise-longue and waddled over across the room.
The black box perched on Gerald’s desk, humming to itself. It had been there for a few days - and until now he’d studiously avoided it. Where it had come from he had no idea – but then things had a habit of materializing from nowhere in Heaven.
He stared at the thing. Unless he was mistaken the box seemed to wear an expression of innocent smugness. He peered at it. The inscription on the gold plate on its lid read: “Open with caution and at own risk.”
Hmm, just the sort of thing the Senior Gods would put on a plain black box…
Ah…but who said it was the Senior Gods that put me here…
The voice was rough at the edges, dusty – and held a hint of laughter in its depths.
Oh he’d grown used to inanimate objects talking and disembodied voices – went with the territory. He glowered at the box, its tone had been jeering – challenging.
Oh go on then, you know you want to…
He eyeballed the box. What was the wretched thing up to? Being the God of Utterly No Consequence Gerald was used to having the piss taken out of him – that seemed to be his primary role – never mind the betterment of self and all things…
He stroked his chin, considering. Could this be part of the godly test – or just a jape? Well, if this was the test, he was up for the challenge. After all, things couldn’t get much worse – and perhaps passing the test – if that’s what it was - might be the making of him. Just maybe the box contained the secret that would lead to his heavenly upliftment. He had nothing to lose.
He stretched out his pudgy paw.
Sure about this, Ger? The voice was taunting.
Stuff it, thought Gerald, a god must make his mark.
He pressed the latch on the black box. A sigh escaped into the ether. A long resigned ‘I told you so’ sigh. Gerald trembled.
The lid rose. A whisper breathed around Gerald as the rush and hiss of the ocean danced in his ears. A hint of sea spray tickled his nostrils.
Gerald sneezed.
The lid of the black box crashed to the desk, cracking the shiny glass surface.
“Aaah, thank god for that!” This was a new voice – disconcertingly familiar.
Gerald took a step back.
“Hmmm, mu-uch better…”
Something splashed in the box’s interior. A gentle fishy tang wafted towards Gerald.
He tip-toed forward, peered into the box. His eyes widened.
Sitting on a rock at the edge of an ocean – all contained within the box’s infinite interior – was a mermaid. Golden tresses cascaded down her naked back. Her tail, covered in shimmering turquoise scales flicked the water throwing up droplets which glistened like diamonds… No, wait… they were diamonds!
One tinkled onto the desk. It was the size of a pigeon’s egg.
Gerald licked his lips. He reached out and stroked the glittering gem with one chubby finger. Excitement quivered up his spine. He was made!
He glanced at the mermaid eyeing the plump roundness of her shoulders – a roundness that reminded of another life, another time… He gazed at the curve of her waste, ogled the luscious peachiness of her… He was starting to pant, sweated beaded his brow. His eyes flickered… Mermaid, diamonds, curves, glitter…
The mermaid ran her hands through her hair – a single strand floated away and settled on Gerald’s arm…a thread of pure gold…
Oh praise the Gods! Finally the ad was living up to its claims. This really was heaven. No more gloop canteen food for him anymore. Now he would be able to dine at the Ambrosial Feast – heavenly restaurant par excellence. Wealth, fortune and beauty lay before him. The Middle Gods wouldn’t be able to sneer anymore. Things were finally changing for the God of Utterly No Consequence. He blew a kiss at the Black Box and grinned as the heady fragrance of divine bliss wafted over him.
“Ah… aaaah…”
Gerald glanced into the box. The mermaid was stretching, yawning. Her arms were raised above her head and he glimpsed the pert globes of soft breasts. He nearly swooned
“This is the life…” said the mermaid, running her fingers through her locks, “Gods, what an improvement!”
Gerald’s mouth dropped. He stared. He definitely knew that voice…it wasn’t just familiar…
The mermaid turned around. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. She stared at him, a multitude of emotions flickering over her face before it hardened into a mask of outrage and fury.
“You!” she spat. “You lazy good for nothing peabrain! I thought I’d got rid of you forever. The ad said no men trouble, freedom, opportunities for travel… Trust you to find a way of screwing it all up!”
Gerald’s world swam - he staggered backwards his life flashing before him. Years of misery…all caused by…her! The grousing fishwife he’d hoped he’d escaped forever. Even the position of God of Utterly No Consequence had been appealing by comparison - better than a life with her – Cora, hatchling of Hades.
He’d been duped. Well and truly snookered.
Gerald snarled, reached into the desk drawer, grabbed his contract and ripped it to shreds.
“AS IF THAT CHANGES ANYTHING,” a voice boomed. “CONTRACTS MEAN NOTHING HERE – THE ONLY CONTRACT THAT LASTS IS THE ONE THAT SAID ‘FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE – UNTIL DEATH DO YOU PART…’ NOW THAT REALLY WAS A DAFT DEAL TO ENTER INTO.”
Gerald and Cora Briggs glowered at one another – trapped in the eternity of heaven – together, forever. Around them the laughter of the gods rocked the heavens. Tears of mirth flowed from their eyes. Far below on Earth, thunder rumbled and the floodgates of heaven sent forth a torrent of rain as the Senior Gods enjoyed one of their best jokes of the month.

(Image used in this post... courtesy of the world wide web...)

The Very Small Gods of Not Much At All

Dave stretched, belched and scratched his bum. He yawned, hoisted himself to his feet and padded over to the lake so he could admire his reflection in it's shiny surface.
He rubbed his pot belly.
"Getting a bit flabby-saggy, Dave." Trixie's voice drifted over the water.
Dave glowered at the sprite as she blew a raspberry at him from the far side of the mystical lake.
She had a point though. And let's face it, being a god was tough. All that eating, lying around and meddling. But it was a good job. You got to take decisions that had profound impact. Decisions which often caused the humans below no end of bother. Dave chuckled to himself. He liked being important. And he knew he was good at what he did. He went to his tasks with vigour and passion. The more disruption he could cause the happier he was. And it amazed him no end how his current efforts managed to upset humanity. Who would have believed people could be so passionate about plants and landscapes?
He shambled back to his chaise longue and flicked his fingers. A small scene materialised - mid-air - before him.
"Starting work so early?" Alison yawned. She rolled over, plummeted and thumped on to the floor.
Dave sighed. The goddess the council of elders had provided to work alongside him was not exactly co-ordinated - or graceful. But she was remarkably self-righteous which was a strong point in any god.
He didn't bother to ask her if she was alright - of course she was - she was a goddess - immortal and invincible - just like himself. They were impervious to everything.
Alison picked herself up from the floor and padded over to Dave.
"Well, how're we doing this morning?" she asked, extracting a large bogey from her nose and inspecting it.
"We're doing remarkably well. Better than I expected," he said. "See this fellow here?" He pointed to a figure grubbing about under some trees. "I've inspired him!"
"Really? Do do what?"
"To remove all that shade. You know how much humans like shade. Well, it's all going to go!" His voice was triumphant.
"Ooh!" shrilled Alison, "let me inspire him too!"
"No!" snapped Dave. How typical of Alison to try and muscle in on his ideas. "Find your own inspiration."
Alison pouted.
"Tell you what," said Dave with an unaccustomed burst of generosity, "He's got a wife."
"Oh goodie! I can fill her head with theories which she's going to believe are true. She'll tell him and they'll set out to preach their truth."
"Wonderful," said Dave. "They'll be passionate. I just know it. Complete zealots."
"Exactly," chuckled Alison. "And we know just how much damage a zealot can do."
"Hey!" exclaimed Dave, "let's also inflate their egos."
"Ooh, yes! You really are on form this morning, Dave," said Alison batting her eyelashes at him.
Dave preened - and then farted. Loudly... gaseously. Alison did the same. They watched the image before them. The two small figures down on earth swelled.
The two gods slapped their hands together. "Good work!" they chorused.
"While we're at it," grinned Dave, "why don't we toss in a good dose of myopia - so that no one can influence their thinking."
"Bloody brilliant! And how about we add some arrogance too."
"Marvellous! They'll go around telling other humans that they're stupid and ignorant and that the two of them are the only ones with insight, intelligence and education - and should be listened to - because they know it all."
Alison laughed so hard her belly wobbled and her breasts jiggled - Dave's eyes twinkled.
The two gods turned their backs to the image, bent over and let rip. Each produced a long, loud and noxious stream of internal gas.
They turned around. The image had turned a murky shade of blue, green and yellow.
They waited for it to clear and then peered into the scene, listening intently.

#

"We'll tell everyone it's a biodiversity crisis," said the man as he ringbarked the trunk of a 100 year old oak tree.
"We'll tell the powers that be that global warming has nothing to do with trees and that it's in the planet's best interests that they're all felled," said his wife, lifting her chainsaw.
"Yes," said the man, tucking in his shirt around his sagging pot-belly, "We'll tell them that scrub is more attractive and important."
"Well it is. Much more important. Who needs shade. Tsk." She shook her head. "We'll also tell them trees cause fires and fall on people causing injury and death."
"We'll remind them we know best and that they're ignorant, stupid and myopic."
"Arrogant too," added the wife. "We'll make it clear we're the experts."
"Yes," said the man, "exactly. They need us. They don't know how lucky they are to have people like us advising them. And then we'll both write books and articles about how smart we are and what we've accomplished."
"Do you think we'll be able to afford a small island in the Caribbean once we're done?" asked the wife. She stepped backwards, tripped over a log, fell - and landed in a cow pat.
The man sighed. His wife was really not the most graceful creature on earth.

#

Dave smiled over at Alison. "We've done a wonderful bit of work this morning," he said, sticking out his chest with pride at a job well done. Oh he liked being a god, he really did.
In the distance something rumbled.
"Oh bugger," said Dave.
The earth started to shake...

#

"Dave! Dave! Wake up!"
Dave Jackson, botanist inextraordinaire, rolled over and grunted. His wife, her face white, her brow creased, stood peering down at him, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "What is it?" he grunted.
"It's a posse of inspectors from the UN, a mob of angry people and the city mayor."
"What do they want?" muttered Dave frowning.
"They want to know what the hell we've been trying to do in forest."
"Oh, for heaven's sake - when will these people ever learn? How many times do we have to tell them? Trees are bad, scrub is good. We know best - and besides, I've an entire research project riding on this."
Dave rolled himself out of bed and shrugged into his dressing gown. He was grumpy, well on the way to being rabid. Why, he thought to himself, were people always so shortsighted? Who needed trees anyway? He'd give them all a piece of his mind - again. He marched down the hall, grumbling beneath his breath. The public were such ignorant fascists - complete xenophobes.
As his neared the front door his face paled. Awaiting him on the doorstep was a lynch mob. "Bugger," thought Dave, as the mob surged towards him, "why can't life be more like dreams...?"

#

In a place high above, grinning at her handiwork, a small sprite sat on a rock near a lake. Taking arrogant humans down a peg or two was such fun. But it was also hard work - there were just so many of them.

© 2007 Absolute Vanilla

(Image duly nicked off the internet, thanks to the unknown creator.)