What makes a god a monster?
What makes a monster a god?
The answer to both questions is the same: power.
With limits or without, when you can no longer see the little people below as anything other than, well, little — that’s when you know you’re too far gone. Trust me.
Why trust me?
It’s a good question. Why SHOULD you trust a severed head bobbing in a pool of desecrated lava? (Don’t ask how they desecrated lava— I’m trying very hard not to think about that as the skin on my skull continually burns up and regrows, only to burn away again.)
I would think the answer — to why you should trust me — would be self-evident, what with my being a god and being here. Really you are rather dense for a god. Or is it a monster? Honestly, I’m not sure if you’re here to gain unlimited power to complement your sharp teeth and unslakable thirst or if you’ve got all that and then some and they lured you here to be my hot-tub companion.
Yes, I am prone to chattering. It’s been eighteen years since I’ve seen another living creature except that lizard over there and he keeps eyeing me up like he wants to eat me SO FORGIVE ME if I prattle on a bit. I think I’ve earned that.
(I know it’s hot in here — or is it just me? — but do you HAVE to remove your loincloth?)
Right. Trust me because I’ve been where you are. And I know what’s ahead. And you may feel omnipotent, but Jesus, let me tell you, you just really are not.
There’s ways to kill gods. Pity we live in a time when the little people have found the means to do it. (In my case, this lava. Not from Earth, mind you. No, that simply wouldn’t do. Oh PLEASE don’t start me thinking on the manner of defilement again. Though now that I think about it, this bubbling pit doesn’t seem quite so unbearable as it did.)
So they either already have a way to kill you or they’re working on it now or they’re rallying numbers and WILL find it in the future. Ain’t a god that’s lived yet that hasn’t been ended by those fuckers.
Ah, but there’s my resentment flaring up. Tends to happen when the skin grows back on my scalp. You’d think that’d be the painless part, but it really isn’t. Growth hurts. Maybe more than death. (Come to think of it, YES, it really does feel slightly less miserable now. Maybe it’s just the company. Bit of an outlet, yeah? Boy, am I glad you dropped by.)
So yes, whatever you’re thinking, you holy fiend you, I’d recommend checking it at the door. Errr, the pit. I could tell you my tale, but honey it’s longer than your dick and twice as ugly.
OH JESUS. Oh fuck, your dick… that’s how they…
Yes, yes, I see. The magic’s wearing off, isn’t it? This lava requires a bit more defilement, to keep me stewing for another century or so.
And you must do what you must do (but please, keep IT as far away from me as possible. Oh yes, I’ll close my eyes. FUCK, as if you had any modesty) and I’m guessing you figured out sooner than me that a god has to be useful to them in order to survive.
So this is your use. Well, honey, go ahead. Just remember everything I said: you’ll be back. And next time, it’ll be your other head, bobbing with me in this fucking desecrated lava.
About the author
Alexis A. Hunter revels in the endless possibilities of speculative fiction. Over fifty of her short stories have appeared in magazines such as Shimmer, Apex, Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, and more. To learn more, visit alexisahunter.com.