by B. C. James
From the relative safety of the bench, or in this particular case, under it, the frightened man stared out at the field. He was specifically focused on the part of the field occupied by Thor. This player was a mind numbingly scary sight. He didn’t even look real. The man was more like a Geiger painting come to life. Blood stains fell into his black uniform like light into a black hole. It belied the violence that had been inflicted on the previous signal caller.
Upon further consideration, the young quarterback decided that there was nothing in his college football background that had adequately prepared him to face this situation. So, instead of throwing on his helmet and trotting on to the field, he told the coach to get stuffed and then concentrated most of his attention upon his own thumb, which he was now sucking.
The drama on the sideline had not held Thor’s attention for long. His sixteenth sack of the game had brought the stadium crowd to its feet in celebration. Thor, the Norse God of the Sky and War, raised his massive arms to the heavens and bathed in the cheers of the crowd. He let loose a loud battle cry, and the sky answered him with peels of thunder as the downpour intensified.
People no longer believed in the gods anymore, to them he was a myth, but they did tend to create gods out of their own sports heroes. Thor, like the rest of the Aesir, felt the absolute need to be worshipped. If the only way to accomplish this end was to join the human race and dominate their games, so be it.
Thor listened as the rain pelted his helmet. It was a good sound and, in his opinion, the rain made for better playing conditions. The minor earthquake during the first quarter was a nice touch, but he didn’t pay it much attention because it wasn’t his doing.
The game had the normal, predictable, end. The World Champion Raiders came away with yet another victory in a long series of lopsided victories and the remaining Minnesota Vikings players came away feeling like they had accomplished something by simply surviving to tell about it. The athletes made their way down the stadium tunnel, running the gauntlet of reporters.
Thor had just about made his way through the wall of microphones and bad toupees when a little hand reached out and grabbed the back of his jersey. Thor wheeled around and looked into the face of the man that the hand belonged to. He was a small male wearing a tasteless red blazer. Over the left breast, he had a very large network logo embroidered on the jacket’s pocket. His smile was literally ear-to-ear and looked like it was pasted on his “I have been-in-a-tanning-booth-waaaay-too-long” face. The man was obviously not burdened with shyness as he stuck a microphone practically in Thor’s mouth, tossed back his blow-dried blond hair, and bellowed.
“THOR, YOU ARE A GOD!!! Hey, how about an exclusive for us, big guy?” he waved over his camera crew as he spoke.
Thor had never really gotten the hang of the post-game interview. It was not that he was a shy man or an inarticulate one; he just was not a humble man. For some reason, he could never quite grasp why people wanted their heroes to be strong, brave, skilled and in complete denial of their own prowess.
Thor pushed the microphone away from his face. “Sorry, normally I would love to grant your network an interview, but unfortunately my agent insists that all interviews get cleared through him first. It’s something he gets pretty uptight about.”
The reporter stood there smiling a cheesy little smile and trying to think of a good argument to counter this rejection. His microphone was still up in the proximity of the Thunder God’s mouth. This annoyed Thor to no end. People who couldn’t take a simple “No” for an answer really got his blood boiling. He pushed his anger down and put on a happy face.
“You know agents,” he said good-naturedly as he slapped the little reporter on the back.
The impact of the slap had an effect on the sportscaster that was not unlike the Heimlich maneuver. In addition, it sent his over-styled blond toupee sailing off his head into the beer cup of a nearby fan.
“And I certainly don’t want to upset my agent in a contract negotiation year. You know how that is, right?”
With that said Thor turned away...but hesitated. He turned back to the reporter. The little man flinched. As the son of Odin grabbed his tie and pulled him close, he dropped his beer soaked toupee. Thor bent down and whispered in the man’s ear.
“By the way, I’m not a god.”
“Excuse me?” said the reporter, once again bringing his microphone close to Thor’s face, hoping to record any words that he could.
Thor’s eyes flashed with sudden anger when he saw the microphone. He had made it very clear that he was not giving interviews. Without warning, the camera and every other recording device that was with the news crew violently shorted out.
“Don’t call me a god, little man. Gods don’t exist.”
He released the reporter and walked away, leaving the man in the tasteless red jacket confused, disappointed, and more than a little nervous.
The nonexistence of gods was one of Thor’s favorite topics of conversation at the bar after a game. It wasn’t something that he ever discussed with the media. The general public seemed to frown on atheism. To lose their favor would eliminate his much needed worship. Some people would ask him how he was so certain that there were no gods in the heavens. He would raise his glass to the sky and inform them that he has been there. None of the beings that he encountered were anything that he would feel comfortable falling down and worshipping. Occasionally, he would also mutter something about his dead wife and how she was a goddess but died anyway...so what’s the difference? It was usually about this time that his teammates would have the bartender cut him off. They would spend the rest of the evening trying to pump black coffee into him and listen to their friend and teammate mutter things that sounded like they came from a Marvel movie.
“Ya, know Bill, I used to be a god once,” Thor said in a slur to his assistant coach. The words were about a shot of tequila away from being completely incomprehensible.
“You were? What made you give up a gig like that?” Bill was barely listening. Most of his attention was focused upon the car keys in Thor’s hand and how he would get them away from the drunken athlete before the guy decided to clear his head with a long drive.
“Aw, you know, people keep whining at you to give them this, fix that, send rain for my crops, please smite my mother-in-law. After a while, I just wanted to people to figure things out for themselves and leave me the hell alone.” He pounded his fist on the table, knocking over the pyramid he had built out of empty bottles of Jack Daniels. He would drink fifth after fifth of that like most people drink beer. Bill had planned to humor him just long enough to grab the keys from his hand and duck away somewhere safe from Thor’s temper, perhaps Canada. The self-proclaimed ex-god would be monumentally angry but at least the streets would be safe.
“Football saved my life. People worship me, I get a truckload of cash, and I don’t have to sort out anyone’s personal life but my own,” he muttered into his drink.
Bill was having doubts as to how well he was going for him and just wished the big guy would stop talking and pass out. This conversation was beginning to make his head hurt.
Just as the coach was about to try what may have been a suicidal grab for Thor’s keys, he was interrupted by a strong gust of wind that had suddenly kicked up in the bar. A bright light came bursting through the open door. Bill watched helplessly as Thor was scooped up like a rag doll and carried away by exactly the sort of deity that he had spent the evening swearing didn’t exist.
Bill picked up the keys Thor had dropped during his abduction by an angelic looking being of light and consoled himself with the fact that at least the streets were safe for the rest of the evening. The seasoned coach then proceeded to order round after round of scotch on the rocks and drank until he passed out.
Chapter 3
Freya tore up the letter and threw it away. She had moved from Michigan to New York to get away from Odin’s harassment. Apparently she hadn’t moved far enough away as this was th
e third letter he had sent to her in a week. Well, not exactly Odin. His pet sycophant, Simmons, was the one pestering her through the mail. Apparently, the bastard wouldn’t take no for an answer. That or he was afraid of what Odin would do to him if he did. Either way, it wasn’t her problem and she just wished he would go away. She had enough trouble with creditors constantly chasing her. She didn’t need Odin on her back again. The envelope that the letter came in was sitting on her makeup stand. She tore it to pieces with the same enthusiasm that she destroyed the letter. With that done, Freya turned back toward the mirror as the pieces settled in the garbage can amongst the candy bar wrappers and discarded pasties.
She checked her makeup one last time and teased her amber hair into something that would look appropriate on Sunset Strip.
“Just a little more blush,” she said as reached for the brush.
Her high, Nordic cheekbones were one of her most striking features and she wanted to make sure they got the notice they deserved. She then adjusted the bra that held her other “most striking features” in place, checked her stockings for runs, and snapped the elastic around her thigh. She was satisfied with the fit. Sexy could quickly descend to comical if the wardrobe fell apart before its time. Janet Jackson had proven that.
With her pre-flight done, the goddess stood up and checked her outfit in the mirror one last time to make sure that Victoria was truly keeping her secrets, at least until someone paid to see them. Once satisfied that she looked perfect, Freya walked out of the dressing room and toward the stage.
She could hear the music from the other side of the door. Celine Dion’s voice came crashing through the wall that separated the dressing rooms from the stage. Freya shook her head and wondered how people could listen to that sentimental garbage. The song was dripping with so much cavity-inducing sap that it should only be played after a disclaimer from the American Dental Association.
Just as Freya was grabbing her throat in a mock, retching motion, the song ended. She composed herself during the moment of silence as the DJ cued up her music. The quiet was shattered by the deep resonant sounds of a very large bell as Freya burst through the door, hips swaying to the ringing and the wild guitar notes. Hot stage lights reflected off her snow-white skin as she wove a hypnotic spell with her dance. She seduced the crowd with graceful athleticism, unbridled sensuality, and a transcendent beauty that most couldn’t describe without having to wipe away a tear of joy. She was the Goddess of Love, turning the crude, bludgeoning sounds of Metallica’s, “For Whom the Bell Tolls” into a celebration of the erotic.
By comparison, the other girls were Clydesdales. They would gracelessly clomp around the stage, taking off their underwear for the scraps from the audience’s wallets. Freya didn’t play the “lingerie for loot” game with the bachelor party crowd, she didn’t have to. She was probably the only stripper in the free world who could leave her audience feeling emotionally spent with only the poetry of her movement. No actual stripping was necessary for her to be the club’s top draw.
Her dance ended in the usual shower of dollar bills. She bent over in the most provocative ways possible to pick up the tens and twenties, arching her back while lowering herself toward the money. Once she had collected a couple thousand dollars’ worth of other people’s hard earned cash, she blew a kiss back over her shoulder and headed backstage.
In the dressing room, she pulled on her robe and ignored the catty looks of hatred from the other jealous dancers. She stuffed the wad of bills into a wristlet purse and enjoyed a few quiet moments with a bottle of water and her thoughts. She poured some energy powder into her drink. It turned the water purple but obstinately refused to taste like grapes. She looked into the bottle and wondered if the combination of chemicals that went into making her “not grape” drink had any real energy boosting effects on the physiology of a goddess. After a few moments of this train of thought, she decided that she didn’t want to know; if she was going to get through the rest of the night on placebo power, that would have to be good enough. She finished her drink, tossed her robe into a corner, and went out to work the room.
Freya ignored most of the men in the place. She already had as much of the cash as she was going to get out of the club’s working class customers. She was on the hunt for bigger prey. Even though she was a goddess, Freya didn’t allow herself the illusion of believing that she wasn’t a prostitute. That ship had sailed eons ago when she traded sex with four disgusting dwarves for a piece of jewelry. The Necklace of the Brisings was an indescribably beautiful, almost magical, work of gold and jewels, but it still took an act of prostitution to get it. She never saw herself the same after that.
At work, Freya would find the guy with the biggest wallet in the room, slide into a seat next to him, and turn on the charm. She would let them talk about themselves and feign interest in their stories. She would giggle at all the proper moments and whisper into their ears how sexy she thought each one of them was. Once the goddess had the man hooked, she would lure him away for a private dance.
Most of her customers didn’t look like Brad Pitt or a young Clint Eastwood, so acting attracted was a bit of a chore for her. As she performed privately for one of these men, she would do her best to find something about that person (no matter how disgusting, fat, ugly, or smelly) that she found attractive. It was on this single trait that she would focus while going through the close quarters act of a lap dance. If the night was right, and the money was big enough, she would offer other services to him. Prostituting herself was something that disgusted her tremendously; their sweaty hands touching her all over with their sweaty, hairy bodies on top of her. These were things she could do without. Their money though, that was another issue altogether.
Freya had never learned to live within her means. In fact, the very concept of a budget seemed about as alien to her as the space shuttle controls would be to a three-toed sloth. Budgetary issues and her desires were often at odds because it seemed hardwired into her DNA to want the best of everything. And as anyone who had ever been shoe shopping at Alexander McQueen knows, “the best” usually had a fairly hefty price tag. The gold and diamonds she wore were, of course, real. Her finger was adorned with a ring that had a fluted platinum band and a single massive diamond. The sheer size of the stone was a gaudy distraction from the artful cut of the rock and the aesthetics of the setting.
There was a time when she also owned a car, a bright red Aston Martin. Once again, it was a car of the highest quality. Unfortunately, she never really did get the hang of driving. Five cats, two skunks, three homeless people, a deer, and one congressman later, the police deemed her unsafe at any speed. When they did eventually drag her into court on a vehicular manslaughter charge for the death of the unfortunate congressman, she left her lawyer behind, spent three hours in the judge’s chambers “negotiating,” and managed to successfully plea bargain down to a charge of speeding. The state took away her license for ninety days and the judge’s relations with her raised the bar for what he considered really good sex. His marriage was never quite the same and he eventually went into a deep depression. Three months later, on a brisk October morning, the judge shot himself in the head. He left a suicide note that mentioned extreme sexual frustration. He also named Freya as his sole heir. To this day, his last will and testament was possibly the most contested legal document in the history of New York.
Back in the old days, when she was worshipped as a goddess, maintaining this standard was easy. Everything was simply provided for her by the people who loved her and the gods who lusted after her. Living in modern America just wasn’t that easy. To live the type of life she was accustomed to, Freya required money and lots of it. For her entire existence, her only marketable commodity had been her beauty. In the early days, it was enough to just be beautiful. Only once did she have to exchange sexual favors for something she desired. The world had changed since that time and now her day-to-day livelihood depended on the money she was given for her sexual prow
ess. Every time she sold herself to another man, she felt less like an object of worship and more like a piece of recreational equipment. Freya was no longer the unattainable goddess; she was a pricey toy for rich men. She belonged to him…for however long it took the guy to complete the act, his possession.
It was after two in the morning when Freya left the club. She didn’t go home immediately. It was her habit to walk the streets until sunrise after a night of trading her dignity for cash. She enjoyed the solitude. Her work clothes were wadded up in her bag as she traded the lingerie and stockings for baggy fitting jeans and an oversized Red Wings jersey. Her hair was wadded up in a tight bun and covered with a scarf that tied under her chin. Any traces of makeup were scrubbed off her face. This walk was something best done in privacy, so she dressed in a manner that would almost guarantee a lack of male attention.
While wandering the streets of the city, Freya would fill her mind with any distracting thoughts she could muster. Events from a thousand years ago would be relived, her grocery list would be created, and new recipes for herring would be considered.
Usually, the feelings of shame and anger were successfully suppressed by the end of this walk and the events at the club became a distant memory, tucked neatly into the dark corners of her subconscious. The thousands of new dollars stuffed into her purse would be the only evidence remaining from her night’s work. Of course, there was the occasional unpleasantness. A woman on the streets alone, even one dressed as sloppily as she was, was be a target for a mugger, rapist, or a John with really bad taste. On this crisp, early morning, the unpleasant event drove a 1973 Dodge Dart and was offering her twenty dollars for a quick roll in the back seat.
Freya was almost fatally offended. Even at her frumpiest that offer was an insult of enormous proportions to her vanity. She aimed a disarming smile at him as he waved the bill at her from out of the driver’s side window.