Of Gods & Grunts

by Kyrell Kendrick

  They stayed interested in the floor.

  "Do as the warrior requests," Donker said.

  They both covered their ears.

  "Sorry," I said half-heartedly as I squeezed the trigger.

  I'm not sure what I was expecting.

  First things first, apparently Brykon the Sufferer doesn't have bulletproof eyes. You would think as a god; he would have known that. Second, the Sufferer can take a hit. Dude didn't scream, flinch, or cry. He just curled up his face in abject curiosity and said, "Huh."

  Donker, on the other hand, screams like a little bitch.

  "How is this possible!?" Donker wailed. "What have you done!?"

  "Sorry," I said, this time sincere. I mean, he did ask me to shoot him, and he did say he was a god.

  Donker continued to panic for a few minutes before he led Brykon out the door, minus an eye.

  After the door closed, both Dykon and Martila stared at me. Dykon in disbelief and Martila in pure rage.

  "Sorry, I shot your god, my bad."

  Chapter 5

  Needless to say, Dykon and I walked back to the Knight's Lance without the creepy strange chick. I personally thought it was a little immature that she would be mad at me for shooting her god's eye out and instantly changing all the iconography.

  Just so you understand, it's a sin to worship an icon that is not properly represented. For instance, worshipping a statue of Donker that is silver or red is blasphemy.

  Not gonna lie; it was kind of reassuring that my M4 could kill, or at least hurt, a god.

  "Good night," Dykon said curtly as we entered the bar.

  I nodded and made my way to my apartment. Pretinia was curled up in a small ball on my bed. She looked so peaceful and near perfect.

  I looked at her one leg and imagined a second lying on top. It was ridiculous that a man could do that to a sweet little girl. I wasn't delusional; however, Earth wasn't super happy sunshine and teddy bear place either. Girls like Pretinia were bought and sold for the most horrific things all over my former home.

  "My former home." My voice carried through the room. I had been gone a day, and it felt like a month. Of course, I was pulled from Afghanistan and not Alabama or even El Paso. Interesting note here, El Paso is Spanish for the paso.

  I removed my gear, put my M4 by the corner, ensured the door was locked, relieved myself into the bucket, and crawled into bed with my surrogate niece.

  I fell asleep almost instantly.

  I found myself standing in front of a throne made of pure alabaster. I had never seen alabaster before, but somehow I knew that the throne was alabaster.

  A bright opalescent ball of pure energy hovered just an inch above the top of the throne.

  The ball was so pure and perfect that I actually cried a little as I gazed upon it. I did my best to look away, but I could not. Its beauty was enough to melt even my dumb grunt heart.

  "Kevin." The voice was grand and melodic.

  I felt as if a thousand thousand lifetimes were captured in just the tone of its voice. A voice that was neither masculine nor feminine.

  "God?" It was the only possible explanation. I mean, what else could it have been?

  "A sliver of His divinity, but yes, you may call me God if it suits you."

  I kneeled for the being, the first time I had ever kneeled for another person or creature or anything.

  "You need not prostrate yourself before me; I require no loyalty or fealty from you. In fact, what I require from you is something simple."

  I sputtered like fucking moron, "What?"

  "Be yourself."

  So yeah, that was super anti-climatic. God basically came to me in a vision. He didn't say go forth and build an ark so many cubits by so many cubits. No, he said what every guidance counselor in America tells their kids, be yourself. What type of bullshit is that? Also, its God, so…

  "Really?" My question came out a lot more sarcastic than I wanted it to. I feel like if you speak with God, you should probably not be sarcastic.

  "Yeah, really," God said in a perfect imitation of a valley girl.

  I wanted to laugh, but I was in front of you know, the creator of well, pretty much everything.

  "You are not following my commandment, Kevin."

  The pucker factor increased tenfold, and I realized I was being chastised by someone that could unmake me. Unalive me? Kill, was too pedestrian a word. I mean, salmonella could kill me.

  "Umm," I mumbled pathetically. By the way, just so you know, when God is in front of you, you know it. Like you just know. There is no questioning, or prove it stuff like with Donker or Brykon, you just know.

  "My command is that you be yourself."

  "I'm sorry." I had no idea what I had done wrong but saying sorry seemed to be the right course of action.

  "You wanted to laugh, but you contained yourself. I want you to not contain yourself around anyone or anything, including myself."

  "You want me to laugh at you, God?" That sentence took way longer to get out than it should have.

  God laughed.

  "I created everything, Kevin. I created the universe and countless other things that no mortal could possibly comprehend. Your laughter at me, even if it were mocking, would not phase me."

  That was a fair point, I supposed. Still, probably a good idea to not piss off God.

  "Be myself?" I repeated.

  "Did I stutter?" The voice was Stanley from The Office.

  I was halfway between fear and halfway between anger. A gentle nudge of something, probably God, to be honest, prodded me to say, "Alright dude, calm your tits." I immediately put my hands to my mouth in abject horror.

  "We'll work on it," God said, humor in his voice.

  I woke up the next morning, Pretinia snuggled into me, and the first light of the day shone through the windows.

  Chapter 6

  That dream was burned into my psyche. Every detail, every bit of minutia was there for my perfect recall.

  I hit the chamber pot, grabbed my M4, and made my way down to the common area. I needed to do two things, apologize to Dykon for being a dick, and tell him about my dream.

  When I walked down the stairs, I saw Dykon was already awake, huddled around a table with a half dozen other people.

  "The warrior awakes," Dykon announced.

  I rolled my eyes and walked toward the group, who all stood up straight.

  A gnome, a dwarf, two humans, and two other elves were all circled around a map.

  "What's this?" I asked, gesturing to the map.

  So toothbrushes aren't a thing in Teletha, and neither is toothpaste. Just letting you know the small little facts when huddling around a table with a bunch of people. Also, deodorant doesn't exist either, just FYI.

  "It is the grand city of Teletha," Dykon said.

  I took half a step back, balking at the ferocious odor that assaulted my nose.

  There marks and lines all over the map. "Battle plans?"

  "These parts represent the area we believe is controlled by Pydak the Clean," Dykon explained.

  He pointed to a small segment of the map, which was colored pink and had the grand temple at the center.

  "We estimate that he has at least four hundred devouts and maybe one thousand thugs."

  The rest of the group nodded.

  "And that spot?" I asked, pointing to the purple location.

  "Sheyu," one of the gnomes responded.

  "Just Sheyu. No Sheyu the bold or stupid?"

  "He is the most powerful crime lord in Teletha. Even the Archmage acknowledged his power, although not officially," one of the other elves said.

  "So like a mononymous person? Like Cher or Madonna?"

  So anyway, proper nouns don't magically translate, and neither do pop culture references. I kept forgetting that fact.

  "As I have said, he is of a foreign land," Dykon explained.

  The others grumbled a little.

  Dykon quickly amended, "But he is powerful."
>
  "Yeah, bitches!" I was joking, but they didn't see it that way. Some of them cowered while others puffed up their chests.

  The dwarf that I later found out was called Snake Stomper said, "I will not trade one dictator for another."

  "Yeah, I am not a dictator, and I am not going to run your primitive little society here." OK, my dumb ass has a temper, and calling me a dictator kind of brought said temper to the forefront.

  "Donker and Brykon themselves have vouched for the warrior," Dykon said.

  Snake Stomper --what a stupid name-- crossed his arms and locked eyes with me.

  Of course, I did what I always do when someone locks eyes with me and tries to have that stupid macho staring contest; I winked and blew him a kiss.

  His eyes grew wide, he snarled a little, and then averted his gaze.

  "We are not asking you to run our society," the gnome said. He was belly button high, with a bright white beard that dropped to his shin. His voice was wise and deep, and his nose bulbous. His proportions were perfect, and if he was in a picture, I would have thought him human.

  "What was your name again?"

  He gave a bow, "I am Weiser."

  "Kevin," I responded. "Not the warrior or cool guy, or whatever, just Kevin." I waited for a few nods and then said, "No one here has asked me to do anything. In fact, I've been pretty much running on autopilot since I got here. Don't get me wrong, Dykon has been fantastic, but no one is keeping me in the loop. I've met two gods, shot one of their eyes out."

  There was a collective gasp around the table.

  "Seen a bunch of weird shit. All I want is a fucking Rip-It or some coffee, and to figure out what the fuck is going on."

  Snake Fucker seemed to nod at this point. The others seemed a little less enthusiastic. "Which god?"

  "Brykon." Dykon was less than a little put out when he said the deity's name.

  "Gods can't be harmed." The whisper came from one of the other elves surrounding the table.

  "This human killed the Archmage. How many times did we watch as an arrow crashed into his head, broken asunder? How many times did an assassin's blade melt before stabbing into his back?" Dykon asked the table.

  "Donker and Brykon support him, you say?" Snake Fucker asked.

  "The Suffering Eye has confirmed as much."

  I laughed a little, "The Suffering Eye."

  Dykon scowled at me.

  Snake Fucker chortled.

  "Cause I shot his eye out?" I said, adding insult to injury. God commanded me to be myself, just saying.

  Dykon, facepalmed.

  Snake Fucker laughed harder. The rest of the table clutched their pearls.

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the bar. I don't like uncomfortable silences, so I broke it. "So, what's the plan?"

  The elf who wasn't Dykon spoke up. "I do not say this without forethought, nor do I say it with malice in my heart, but I fear we must kill the two crime lords."

  Just in case no one knew who they were, he added, "Sheyu and Pydak the Clean."

  "Oh, is that all?" Snake Fucker asked rhetorically.

  I always felt as if dwarves should have a nice Scottish brogue, but alas, Snake Fucker did not. He had no accent or an American accent. Maybe Telethan. Anyway, not Scottish.

  "They are not invulnerable," Dykon said.

  I walked over to the common table with the various cheeses, breads, dips, and breakfast beer.

  Before I chowed down, I turned around and said, "Y'all know me. Know how I earn a living. I'll kill this bird for ya, but it ain't gonna be easy. Not like going down to the pond to kill bluegills or tommycots."

  I'm still not sure what a tommycot is.

  "You speak weird," Snake Fucker noted.

  "You will kill them then?" Elf, who wasn't Dykon, said.

  "Sure why not?" I grabbed a piece of bread.

  "We don't have much pay," the same elf said.

  "Dykon," I pointed at my host with the uncooked toast, "said I could stay here. So far, most of you have been kind to me. You find that girl upstairs a good home, and I'll kill anyone needs killin."

  They looked around at each other.

  Snake Fucker cocked his head and asked, "What girl?"

  Chapter 7

  Pop quiz hotshot! What happens when you take one part of an LGOPP, remove nicotine and caffeine, give him an M4, and a target? If you guessed dead target, well, you guessed correctly.

  Since I know you civilian fucks won't understand what an LGOPP is, I'll explain it. Imagine you are a private who wakes up at one in the morning to go sit for manifest in your company area. Your squad leader makes you empty your ruck and kit for inspection after your team leader has already checked, and you know once you put it back together, your platoon daddy is going to make you empty it again so the fucking butter bar who was smart enough to actually go to college can check it, and hopefully do so in front of the commander so he can get brownie points and maybe get rated above center of mass. Your dumbass has unpacked and repacked your shit thirty times. Its two, and the armorer has finally shown up, so you stand in line with your weapons cards, only to find out you have to sign a fucking 2062 anyway because the weapons cards don't have the BII for the nods that you don't want anyway. It's four, and you finally have your M4, and the only thing you want to do is flop on your ruck and rack out. Your first sergeant has different plans, though, and he orders everyone to stack arms while you go to pre-pre-jump. That's not a mistake; you are doing a rehearsal of pre-jump. So you do your stupid pre-jump with the golden boy staff sergeant who the first sergeant just shows off to the sergeant major. It's six, and your dumbass finally boards the trans to go to the hangar to rig up for the jump. Air Force says one of their birds is down, and you beg any and every diety you can think of to please just this once scratch you from manifest so you can go get some fucking sleep. You're not that lucky, so instead, your stupid ass who should have joined the Air Force, goes through pre-jump, again. You put your weapon in a 1950, draw your chutes, find out the rigger's initials are DIE, and proceed to put your fucking shit on and hope a jumpmaster will just fucking JMPI so you can rack the fuck out. After catching ten minutes of shuteye, you wobble to the C17 that the pilots decided could not park any closer than the length of the Mississippi. After having over a hundred and twenty pounds pressing straight down on your shoulders, you finally make it into the bird, where the Air Force bitch tells you, "This is yours, this is your buddies," while handing you a seatbelt. You plop into the web seat and immediately rack the fuck out, even though you have to piss, which you cannot, and are starving. The bird is in flight, you are uncomfortable, and the only thing you want to do is get your fucking knees in the breeze. Finally, the jumpmasters callout the twenty-minute warning, followed by ten, followed by standup, hookup, equipment check, etc. You shuffle to the door thanking God that your stupid ass can finally have some fucking peace and quiet. You probably have a sloppy exit because you are weighed down by too much shit, and your entire body is rejecting the burden you are putting it through. You jump out, don't give a fuck about counting, and equally smile and frown that your main opened perfectly. You drift to the ground in a chaotic clusterfuck of stupidity. No one from your squad is nearby, let alone your platoon. You link up with other privates and specialists and quickly find out none of you paid attention to your OPORD. Since you are all pissed off for the hell you just went through, no one has an objective, and no one knows what the fuck is going on, you decide to just say fuck it, and kill anything that doesn't look 'Merican. That's an LGOPP or a little group of pissed-off paratroopers.

  So yeah, anyway, I channeled my inner asshole. Here's the thing, the enemy knew about magic, and apparently they had some cool charms or voodoo dolls or whatever prepared to stop any avada kedavra bullshit from working on them. They also had crossbows, pikes, swords, daggers, and some big fucking assholes.

  What they didn't have was a grunt with an M4, ACOG, and a whole lot of ammo. I had the cool guy ammo too. The environ
mentally friendly ammo, you know the stuff that not just kills assholes, but saves Mother Earth in the process. It was the M855A1, the one with the stacked cone, and I liked it a lot.

  I decided to play it safe.

  "Ready to head out?" I asked Snake Stomper.

  "One tick." He walked over behind Dykon's bar and grabbed a skin of what I presumed to be either wine, ale, or whisky. Smiling, he walked back and said, "Now I'm ready."

  I smiled and motioned for him to lead.

  It was a few hours past sundown, and we were thickly into EENT, that is the end of evening nautical twilight when its super-duper dark. There was no moon up, and illum was less than five percent.

  The poor in Teletha didn't waste their resources on something as unimportant as lighting a street, so the only glimpses of candles and fires came spilling from the various houses and businesses. It was dark and quiet.

  I put my nods on the rhino on my helmet and flipped them down. The PVS-14s turned everything into a comfortable light green, but it was still moderately difficult to see. I pulled on the switch and rotated it to light my IR. A small red light appeared in the monocle, and the street lit up as if I was waving a flashlight around.

  Snake Fucker didn't care that it was dark. He walked down the road, avoiding large puddles of mud and small piles of shit alike. I imagined him with a candle resting on his hat, suspended a thousand meters beneath a mountain picking away at a wall.

  We walked in silence for half a mile. He took me down alleys, side roads, and one time over a big wall. I was surprised when the stout man nimbly scaled the damn thing.

  I was in full kit, so it took me a little more time, but I eventually hauled myself over.

  We encountered no bad guys in the night, only the hush sounds of conversation and the occasional snore.

  The things I noticed missing the most were cricket chirps and dog barks. I hadn't heard a single one since arriving in the ancient city.

  We were halfway down an ally before Snake Fucker threw his hand up in the universal sign of stop fucking moving.

  I stopped fucking moving.