An Inefficnent Debate Amongst Gods, Titans, Deities, and a Black Guy

Gods

Black guy not pictured.

Zeus rose to his feet, his robe catching the edge of his chair slightly as he stood.

“I will not stand for this,” he shouted, then paused. “Figuratively.”

“Just give the humans one thing, that’s it. Just one thing,” Prometheus replied from across the hall. “Why are you so damn stingy. This is like fire all over again.” Prometheus glanced down at his liver and shifted awkwardly.

“I made it, it’s my choice,” Zeus said, banging his fists on the pulpit as he spoke. A tiny bolt of lightning bounced out from between the cracks in his fingers, then dissipated in the wood of the stand.

“You didn’t make it.” The room shook as the disembodied voice of God echoed through the chamber. “I made it.”

“You know what I mean,” Zeus said.

“No, that’s plagiarism.” A violent quake again trembled through the room. “You’re totes copying me.”

“It doesn’t matter who made it,” interjected Muhammad, his voice slightly muffled by a book blocking his face. “We get to choose who can’t have it.”

“Yes, and we get to choose who can have it,” said Prometheus.

“Why don’t we, uh, vote a have for this, yeah?” said Jesus.

“Dammit, Jesus, are you drunk again?” Shiva said. He rose from his chair and walked across the room, stopping in front of Jesus’ table. His dusty, white robes were strewn across it, sandals tossed haphazardly to the side.

“Definitely. I mean definitely not. Go away.” Jesus stretched out his hand as if to stop Shiva, a beam of light from the window behind him piercing through the small hole in the middle of his palm. Shiva pushed his hand to the side and stared into the water pitcher on top of his table.

“It’s wine. God dammit, Jesus. God, damn it.”

“No.” His words caused the room to shiver, as if each letter was smacking against the wall like a hammer.

“Come on, we’ve got a killer party tonight,” Satan replied, “We could use some of that wine.”

“No.” Again the room shook.

“Can we please get back on topic?” Ganesha said, trunk crashing against his own pulpit. “I say we give it to the humans.”

“Thank you,” said Prometheus. “Finally, someone who knows something.”

“Shut up,” Zeus said. “Who let you in here, anyway, you’re just a Titan.”

“Least I can stay up past 8:00 P.M., grandpa.”

“Behave yourself,” Osiris interjected. “Or, actually, don’t. I have some weapons if you guys want.”

“Enough,” shouted Raiden. “Look, let’s just give the humans this one thing. Then we can move on to something more pressing, like the holiday party.”

“I don’t think you exist,” said Anubis. “You’re from a video game.”

“I don’t think you exist, jerk.” Raiden stood up and tilted his hat forward slightly. “Maybe we should see who exists in, say, some form of martial arts kompetition? That’s “competition” with a “k” by the way. Figured I would try to help your tiny dog brain with some spelling.”

“Do you guys need some weapons?” Osiris said. “Maybe something sharp and lethal?”

“The humans, dammit. That’s what we’re here for,” interrupted Prometheus. “Can we please focus and stop bickering? You’re like a bunch of children.”

“Your mom’s a children,” said Jesus. He began laughing but stopped abruptly to hiccup. Godzilla whipped his tail around and smacked Jesus in the back. “Hey, that hurt.”

“Hold on. I don’t understand why Godzilla is in here,” said Apollo. “Wait, G-o-d-z—oh, I see. GODzilla.”

“Look, this is fun and everything, but let’s just finish this,” Dionysus interrupted. “I have a rager I need to get to later.”

“All in favor? No, you know what. Screw it. We’re not even voting,” said Odin. “It is decided. The humans will have unlimited any-time minutes when they buy a family plan under a two-year contract.”

“Whatever,” sighed Zeus. “Can we please move on to discussing the holiday party?”

“Christmas party,” corrected Jesus.

“Kwanzaa,” interrupted some black guy.

__________

Writing Prompt: There are thousands of gods and they are all part of a massive, obstructive, celestial and inefficient bureaucracy. Controlling everything from the wind to cooking to afterlife, they are doing a poor job.

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