THE CHRONICLES OF THE GODDESS MEFELUSIA Goddess of Ethelred the Unredde, Tender of Elbows & Patron Saint of the Color “Crayon”
I, the Goddess Mefelusia, being of sound Godpower and Ephemeral Body, do thus begin my chronicles with the blessing of the Great Random (May It Suffer No Explosive Sneezes!) on this Godville-Calendared day of the Twelfth Night (or what you will) of March, in the all-too-human year Two-Thousand and Eighteen.
Entry the First
I am busy gluing the wings back onto flies while also mindfully causing instructive pain to the small human with a black heart who separated them from the poor, wriggling things. I let him run off for a bit, then I magick his arms off, then magick them back on, then make them disappear again. Once for each fly I have to fix.
For I am the Tender of Elbows, and those who transgress against the joints of others shall suffer and lose the ability to defend themselves or execute a successful backhand whilst playing tennis!
Okay, so I’m only the Tender of Elbows because I was late to graduation and that’s all that was left. Well, that and Bestower of the Great Prom-Night-Nose-Pimple, but that went to a group of Grad Gods and Goddesses who were researching the effects of inflicting social anxiety on adolescent humans.
Finishing with the last of the flies, I release them and their torturer back to their daily lives. The puny human runs back to it’s God whining about me. This doesn’t concern me. His God owes me big time and he’s giving me a lot of personal space these days.
I watch the flies I repaired buzz happily around the carcass of a Dork Knight who thought he could win a battle against a hero with a sword by swearing at him in Klingon. Guess it didn’t work out like he’d planned.
“Hard at work?” Our Goon Sqad Guildmaster, the charming and widely respected Ilias Tete de Dragon, sits down next to me in the field (both of us upwind from the Dork Knight and his flies). I brush off my hands and squint sideways at him. He nods toward the puny, fly-torturing human’s God, who is busy trying to get his Hero to hold still so he can heal him from my careful attentions. “You two talking yet?” I shrug and look away. I don’t want to talk about my Ex. “Come on,” Ilias groans, rolling his Godly eyes to the sky, “it’s been like – several Eons, now.”
“Arse-holery doesn’t have an end date.” I frown at my Ex from across the field and a small but very dark cloud bursts open above him and rains worms on his head. “Hey!” we hear him shout angrily from the distance before he throws up his arms in disgust and walks off, shaking night-crawlers out his ears. Like I said, that guy needs to give me wide personal space.
“You have to stop doing that,” Ilias said firmly. “Even his Hero is starting to feel sorry for him."
“So? We’re the Goon Squad Guild. And I’m a goon. So I ... 'gooned' him.”
“And you also really have to stop drinking and creating.” Ilias continues as gently as possible, deliberately ignoring my last remark. “The Ideabox Guardians are pulling out their collective hair with all your weird submissions.”
“What "weird" submissions?!”
“Well, that one, for example.” He points at a creature with the back end of an elephant and the front end of an octopus. Or maybe a squid. Or perhaps a star-nosed mole on steroids. Something tentacle-y, anyway. “I mean, how can you define it? What can you even name it?”
" Her name,” I answer far too defensively, “is Elephiknow.” Ilias blinks at me. “It’s a pun.”
“It – “ (I glare at him. He rolls his eyes again) “…"She" – is a pun that eats garbage.”
“Yes. She’s very into composting.”
“I agree. She’s always composting all over the place. The other Gods and Goddesses are complaining.”
“Well, the plants love it.”
Ilias shakes his head at me. “That’s not the point. She’s just not a feasible monster.” I say nothing. “Is she?” he asks, raising a charming single eyebrow.
“She does just fine." I realize I am defending the indefensible, here. And it is true - I created her after one too many drinks at a Good Squad Recruitment Rally. "She just …wobbles a bit once in a great while.”
“You’re the Tender of Elbows, and you didn’t give her any elbows. You didn’t even give her front legs,” he points out.
“She doesn’t need them,” I retort as we watch Elephiknow tip over with a loud “Splat!” She makes frustrated noises somewhere between a gurgle and the sound of hopelessness. Ilias gives me a look.
“Anyway,” I continue, ignoring the fact that Elephiknow is struggling to get her head out of the mud in the distance, “I think the Ideabox Guardians are way too picky sometimes.”
“It’s their job to be picky! It prevents things like that – "her" – from happening, Mefelusia.”
Elephiknow smooshes her sort-of-face tentacles into the ground and tries get back up on her hind legs. In the process she spray-composts a good hectare of Elysian Fields behind her with loud, gastro-intestinal relief. Ilias clears his throat and covers his nose.
“Oh, fine.” I form the banishment spell as gently as possible. Elephiknow is surrounded by a softly glowing cloud of finely spun magic and begins to shrink. We hear her mutter “It’s about time!” just before she pops out of existence. I sulk loudly in Ilias’ direction.
“Elysium, and all with noses who live in her, thank you,” Ilias says as he pats me on the shoulder and stands up. “Now the hard part. Here.” He fishes into his bag and pulls out a small scroll made entirely of light and raw matter, bearing the crest of the Goon Squad. “You’ve got mail from The Guild Council. You have 48 hours to create a new hero or you’re out of the guild.”
“What?! But I’ve been a faithful Goon for forever!”
“For a just a very little while, actually” he smiles not unkindly at me, and holds out the scroll. I don't take it. Even Goddesses get the odd Process Server showing up now and then. Never take a scroll a stranger -- or your Guild Master -- hands to you. It never ends well.
Ilias sets the scroll on the ground from the Guild Council next to me. “It’s time to stop pouting over the breakup, stop "gooning" your ex and get back to Godding a Hero or face going guildless.”
“You’ve got way too many “G’s” in that remark," I pouted, crossing my arms and looking away from him.
“We mean it,” Ilias calls back in a friendly voice as he walks away.
“I’ll make the worst hero in pre, current and post history!” I warn him petulantly.
“Your choice,” he calls back without turning around.
“I’ll make him an American and name him ‘Ilias’!” I threaten further.
“48 hours,” Ilias replies from a distance with a backwards wave, and then walks into a portal and disappears.
I’m left alone in Elysian fields with buzzing flies, a dead Dork and the lingering stench of Elephiknow dung. I manifest a silver hip flask and take a deep, beautifully burning swig of well-aged single-malt.