by Jim Hodgson
Ten Thousand Gods
Season One, Episode I
by Jim Hodgson
Edited by Garrett Marco
Cover art by Bear Roberts
Chapter One
Saul Crouch didn't like to be called a porn hoarder. He thought of himself as a deeply religious man. He also didn't like the terms "crackpot," or "wacko," despite, it must be said, deserving both. He gave long, spittle-flecked "sermons" via video in which he typically reserved a few minutes for verbal attacks on journalists, the District Attorney's office, and the Internet as a whole. He'd been asked a number of times to give it a rest, but he had a video camera and an Internet connection and a lot of free time.
No one could have predicted that Crouch would be the first person to be spoken to directly by Jesus Christ himself following the Parousia. It happened like this.
The rumor was that Crouch, despite the religious bent of his sermons, had pornographic materials delivered almost daily to his remote home. Mail carriers are typically discreet about such things, but it was a small community, and Crouch was so verbal about other people's sins that word of his own transgressions was irrepressible.
Still, Crouch maintained he was not hoarding. "You don't call art collectors 'sculpture hoarders,' do you?" he screamed in one of his diatribes.
Crouch made the leap from oddity to defendant when an ice cream truck attempting a delivery to a country store got lost and wandered up the winding track to his land. Crouch, thinking it an intrusion of some kind by villains intending to confiscate his porn, had gone berserk. Dressed head to toe in camouflage, he'd leapt out of the woods in the truck's path and screamed obscenities at the driver. The driver, realizing he had most certainly taken a wrong turn, began calmly trying to turn the truck around, not an easy or fast process on the narrow road. Crouch pulled the rear door of the truck open and proceeded to kick five boxes of Butter Pecan out before the driver could get the truck headed back the way it came. Crouch leapt free of the truck, screaming more obscenities all the while.
The truck driver, unhurt but irritated and worried the Butter Pecan would be deducted from his check, reported the attack to the authorities who, pleased to finally have an excuse, raided Crouch's property three days later and seized enough strong pornography to take over and subsequently arouse a nation the size of Belize. There were also five empty cases of Butter Pecan, regarding which Crouch said, "You blind-eyed fascist bastards! I like Butter Pecan."
The raid happened just days before what came to be known as the Parousia. Everyone forgot about Crouch for a while. Weeks went by. After the news died down a bit, someone in the DA's office remembered why they had a truckload of strong pornography piled in a corner.
Meetings were held. Precedents were debated. Experts were called to examine the porn. Their findings were that though some advanced movements were depicted that would be difficult to duplicate at home, the porn actors were consenting adults whose various gyrations and insertions were completely legal. The purchases of the porn were investigated and also found to be legal. More meetings were held, then meetings about the findings of those meetings were held. At last, two things were clear: the porn was in every way legal, and, as such, it would have to be returned to Crouch. The DA's office reported to Crouch's lawyer, a public defender, that they'd make the porn available for pickup.
But Crouch's lawyer, sensing an opportunity, was having none of it. He arranged a press conference, counseling Crouch to speak calmly about his lawful ownership of the porn and close with a request for the DA's office to deliver it to a local recycling center on the grounds that it was what Crouch intended to do himself had he gotten around to it. But Crouch, perhaps also sensing an opportunity, instead went off on a spittle-flecked rant about being chosen by God and about being surrounded by a bunch of heathens who also happened to be idiots.
As Crouch was beginning to insult certain county officials by name, despite his red-faced lawyer frantically attempting to turn off the microphone, a light appeared at the back of the room.
At first it looked kind of like the light of a projector, streaming out of a wall, but then it widened. There was a rushing sound, like a waterfall. Some people reported having heard trumpets. Someone, probably thinking it was a malfunctioning video light, yelled "Shut that off!"
But it didn't shut off.
Cameras turned from Crouch's rant to get on the light source, but it was too bright to be captured properly. The shaft of light widened and grew, until it was as though the room had been transported to the sun. Then, a figure appeared and stepped out of the glare. It was a gorgeous, robed man with brown skin and a silky beard. His hair fell down to his shoulders and glinted in the light. Around him, visions swam. Sometimes a child. Sometimes a wizened but powerful looking old man. Sometimes just a wisp of cloud. Behind him, through the portal where the light was shining, could be seen clouds and shapes of winged people.
Everyone was silent. Crouch was silent. His lawyer took the opportunity to switch off the microphone. Then, the vision spoke. Its voice was loud without being painful. It had limitless power, but applied no force.
"Be calm, my Son," it said.
"Muh," said Crouch, eyes wide. Then he said, "M-uh. Me?"
Cameras swung once again to point at Crouch, then back at the vision. No one said anything, but if the room's thoughts could have all been recorded and averaged, they'd have been transcribed as something like: "Yes, you idiot, you!"
The vision said nothing. He just looked at Crouch with a loving gaze that also had a tinge of disappointment.
"Jesus?" Crouch said. A single tear slipped from the corner of one eye.
"I am," said the vision. The room erupted. Members of the Press shouted questions for the vision calling itself Jesus, but it gave no answer. It simply vanished from sight. They turned to question Crouch and his lawyer but neither had any answers to give. Some people claimed it was a hoax arranged by Crouch and his lawyer to draw attention away from his crimes, but as he was only on the hook for five stolen boxes of Butter Pecan, others thought that unlikely.
That holy confrontation happened near the beginning of the Internet's popularity, when humanity had just taught itself the concept of a viral video. Crouch's confrontation by the son of god was one of the first massively viral videos.
Time passed. Crouch was sentenced to thirty days community service, which he served without complaint. He never again posted a diatribe. The experience of being visited by Jesus completely turned his life around. He didn't stop serving the community at the end of his 30 days. No. He made serving people his life. He volunteered at the library. He swept public parks that otherwise collected trash and dirt. He helped old ladies cross the street and did handyman jobs for local churches.
He did so much good and helped so many locals that no one ever again mentioned his porn. He would accept no money for his good deeds, but occasionally he would ask for a bit of ice cream. Butter Pecan.
Chapter Two
Crouch's transformation occurred in a world where the entire Roman and Greek pantheons walked the earth. Hindu gods, various Buddhas too. But the Parousia didn't stop there. It didn't differentiate between major religions and things people did religiously. Viewed at sufficient remove, is a popular sporting event or concert any different from a tent revival? Apparently not to the Parousia.
There are many famous gods, but gods of sport, gods of movies, gods of particular genres of music also appeared. There was a god of bowling: Jeff. There was a god of bluegrass. There was even a god of atheism, Barry; he wore a goatee. There were female gods: Minerva, Isis, Brigid, to name a few. The gods of tennis and swimming were both female. Estimates of the total num
ber of gods ranged from 2500 to a million, but in most opinions the number was around ten thousand, give or take a few hundred, spread around the globe.
The gods settled into a niche alongside celebrities, heads of state, and the mega rich. Some were fornicators. Others were partiers. But they all generated gossip and speculation, which meant they represented a business opportunity for news media willing to print ads alongside said gossip and speculation. Thus, the Atlanta Record came to find itself in need of reporters on the deity beat.
Some of the gods had powers, but for the most part they didn't seem particularly inclined to use them. They didn't use them nearly enough for some people’s taste. Jesus Christ, for example, in addition to appearing before irascible porn-and-Butter-Pecan-crazed looneys, could heal the sick. He performed miracles when he was motivated to do so, but by no means did sickness disappear. For every miracle healing, the gods of Pestilence, Sickness, and the many gods of War generated malaise and unrest somewhere else on the globe.
As the most famous of the gods, Jesus was followed, when they could find him, by deity beat paparazzi. They shouted questions at him, hoping to goad him into some hasty reply, but unlike mortal celebrities or hastier gods, jibes and taunts had no effect. He wouldn't be goaded. Couldn't be goaded. Didn't talk about his motivations. When he appeared in public, if he felt like speaking, he spoke more or less in the same way he did in the Sermon on the Mount. Love thy neighbor. Do unto others. Those sentiments play about as well in the media as does a paper daisy in a house fire. The saying in the newsroom went: Love thy neighbor doesn't sell papers.
The various Christian denominations demanded Jesus settle their differences in doctrine. He refused. When pressed for answers, he went silent, a cause of some frustration for those who have built vast churches on minutiae. Various doctrines saw their memberships erode in favor of a more general "Christianity." Many people who formerly identified as Lutheran or Episcopal or Methodist are now merely Christian. Some, against cynical notions, actually appeared to be attempting to love their neighbors.
Zeus, in contrast to Jesus, tired of mortal paparazzi within the first week and had no compunctions about making his thoughts and feelings known. He threw a lightning bolt the size of a dinner fork at one shouting photographer and burnt the man's leg to a crisp. The burnt man attempted a lawsuit against Zeus, the first human vs. deity suit in history, but when Zeus demonstrated his ability to conjure a bolt the size of a school bus, the UK courts decided they had no jurisdiction.
Some gods were kind to a fault. Some, like Zeus, were dangerous when provoked, but otherwise seemed to pose no threat. Some were as evil as a well-bottom night is black.
#
Phineas Sealby tried not to think about the evil ones too much. He was as surprised as everyone else by the Parousia. He'd grown up in a more or less Christian household of the Episcopal denomination. He was familiar with the idea of the Second Coming, but he certainly didn't expect it to happen. Even more surprising about the Parousia than its existence was its egalitarianism. Christianity was by no means the only religion represented. In fact, all of them were and then some. But they were often represented in ways they might not have chosen to be represented.
When the first gods arrived, humanity figured itself to be on the brink of global war big enough to make World War II look like an extra-marital slap and tickle. Phineas had just graduated high school. College attendance suffered. Many rising college freshmen assumed there'd be no point having a degree when the world was tearing itself to bits. Businesses catering to doomsday preppers enjoyed a boom.
And there were warmongers, certainly. But men who'd previously been able to interpret their god's whims and intentions as they saw fit to suit their causes were thwarted when reporters were able to get a contradictory quote from the deity himself.
As a deity beat reporter at the Atlanta Record, it was Phineas' job to report on the movements of deities in and around the city of Atlanta, as well as any international deity news readers might find interesting. He loved his job. He got a thrill just using his card to swipe himself into the parking deck. He piloted his car up the deck to the less desirable spaces, his eyes flitting over the upmarket sedans dotting the reserved spaces in the lower levels as he passed through. These were the cars of senior editors, executives, and TV people. Someday.
On the top of the deck he located his space and pulled his car into it. He'd have preferred a spot a bit lower down, so his car wouldn't get hot in the sun. Someday. Could be worse. The interns parked on the street somewhere, the poor bastards, a tough proposition in Midtown. Significant walking.
Phineas carded himself into the building then wound through mostly empty cubicles in the open office to his own desk. He was early, as was his habit. He dropped off his bag and went to check the white board in the deity beat meeting room. On it, he saw that Barry would be giving a speech today. Phineas wrote his initials next to the item in red whiteboard marker to signify that he'd cover it. There would be no complaint. No one else would want it. The rest of the deity beat crew hated Barry for not being "newsy" enough. He didn't get drunk or shout or father illegitimate children. He just went around advocating literacy, among other things, which was about as reportable as grass growth.
The God of Atheism was of average height, with shoulder length brown hair he wore sometimes in a ponytail, sometimes loose. His face bore a neatly trimmed goatee of the kind popular in the 90s. He wore a tweed blazer with leather elbow patches over a white button down shirt, plus a pair of jeans and nondescript ankle-length leather shoes. At first glance, he looked like he could be a human, but Phineas always felt there was something about Barry too. Hard to say what it was, but he looked more real than mortals.
Some people said at the time of the Parousia that Barry was merely an attention-seeking human lying about being a god in order to meet girls. Religious fanatics -- or perhaps just haters of irony -- had made attempts on his life several times. He was unfazed.
The first attempt was by an ultra-religious sniper with a hunting rifle. He fired three shots at Barry as the deity was reading on a park bench, but all three passed directly through without harm. It is said that Barry was undisturbed by the attack until the third bullet zipped through the copy of Albert Camus' "L'Etranger" he'd been reading, at which point he sighed grumpily.
The second attempt was also by a gunman. The attacker, once captured, said he thought the previous sniper had merely missed Barry. The second gunman fired a whole magazine of .45 caliber rounds through a stolen Uzi submachine gun, peppering the coffee shop wall behind Barry with holes, but doing no damage to the god. This time, a copy of the day's paper and a half-eaten biscotti were the casualties.
Barry has been attacked with shotguns, car bombs, and, once, a scimitar. In every case he has survived unruffled and cooperated fully with authorities to see that the attacking party is tried in due course of law. Now ten years among the mortals, the attacks on his life seem to have slowed. It seems to be now accepted that he is, indeed, immortal, however contradictory his existence might be.
Atlanta was a top ten American metropolitan area, but had relatively few deities. Barry was probably most famous, but with the exception of the attempts on his life he didn't generate a lot of news. He spent his time reading, attending scientific lectures, and going on hikes. For most deity beat reporters: snore. But Phineas liked reporting on Barry. Barry's worldview was, if a bit boring, at least positive. He never talked about smiting anyone.
Almost nothing was known about the why or how of the Parousia. Theological experts generated a lot of news when they argued about it. Barry explained his existence by pointing out that enough people must be atheists that he was conjured to exist just like the other gods. But his "believers" didn't have an organized church with a donation structure to support him like Jesus had. As such, Barry was immortal, but hardly rich. He was obliged to work. He lived as an academic and sometime activist, giving talks and supporting literacy programs and the
like. As far as Phineas knew, he made enough to keep himself in books and to replace his tweed when it gets shot up or scimitared, but he didn't have a limousine or chariot or private plane. He sometimes rode a bicycle.
Phineas smiled, thinking about Barry. It was going to be a good day. He'd need to leave the office straight away if he was going to get down to the speech in time to walk around before Barry spoke, which would be a great opportunity to snap a photo or possibly get a personal quote. Luckily, Barry's talk would be held just a few blocks down Peachtree Street. He hurried out the door.
Chapter Three
Phineas stopped in the lobby cafe, where a barista was helping an older gentleman understand the difference between a cappuccino and a latte. On the television screens hanging above, the square face of Jerry Joe Walter, God of American football, was giving a panel interview, surrounded by former professional human football players. The lower portion of the screen said the panel was discussing helmets.
"The choice should be in the in the player's hands," said Jerry Joe Walter, looking concerned. "As fans, we want to see a good game, but we also want to see our favorite veteran players on the field year after year, not sitting on the sidelines with debilitating injuries."
Jerry Joe Walter's priorities as deity aligned him with fans first, players second, and the National Football League's wants and needs a distant last. It seemed the Parousia had generated the god of football directly from the popular will, not from the corporate interests of the NFL. His motivations made him an excellent TV interview and a pain in the ass for NFL's sponsor relationships. The god of football was a fan. Not a shill. And his personal sponsorships and apparel deals filled his pockets. He was also known to butt heads with Arantes, god of everywhere-but-the-United-States football, although it wasn't particularly mean spirited.
"Hey dumb tits," said a voice behind Phineas. "Are you in line or just taking up space?" Phineas knew who it was without even turning to look: Barton Densworth, smirking deity beat reporter and walking insult to journalism.