Pantheon
I.
Buddy McGuinness was America’s sex god.
This was not, he would be the first to admit, on any part his own doing. He had never had sex in his entire life. But he had been cast as the young and dashing hero in so many movies, and before that sung so many love songs so often that the title had come to him without his own volition. Women swooned over him. He’d made People’s Top 10 Most Handsome Men three years in a row.
No one was quite sure why it was he killed himself.
Well, one person.
Though not really a person. More of a personification.
HELLO, BUDDY.
Buddy turned around and saw a smiling skull. Not that there was any other kind. “Who—?”
I THINK ‘WHAT’ MIGHT BE MORE APPROPRIATE, the skeleton said. WELCOME.
“Welcome where?”
YOU’VE MIXED UP YOUR QUESTIONS AGAIN. NOT WHERE. WHEN, MAYBE, OR PERHAPS HOW.
Buddy tried to get a grasp on the situation. “Okay. What are you, and when, or perhaps how, is this?”
DEATH.
“Um, was that the answer to the first question or the second?”
YES.
“Oh.”
INDEED.
Buddy blinked, and turned around. His body lay before him. And to the left. And right. And several other places. Jumping from a building had seemed like it would be painless, but he hadn’t really though about the mess it would leave. “I’m dead?”
THAT IS THE NATURAL CONSEQUENCE TO SUICIDE, YES.
“And you’re Death?”
YOU CATCH ON QUICKLY.
“Lovely bedside manner you have.”
SHALL WE GO?
“Where?”
WHERE DO YOU THINK?
“Heaven?”
HIGH OPINION OF YOURSELF.
“Hell?”
I DIDN’T SAY THE OPINION WAS UNJUSTIFIED.
“Than I do get to go to Heaven?”
YES AND NO. CLIMB ON.
“To what?” Buddy asked. But even as he did, he felt the horse nuzzle against him.
It was white, of course. A slightly pale white. And very big, and very powerful. This was not just a horse. This was what every horse wants to be. This was the DESIGN for a horse. When Buddy climbed on, it felt like he was supposed to sit there. Which, in the most roundabout philosophical Camus-esque view one could take, he was.
Death mounted as well, and the horse rode off. The world blurred as they moved on, but in a way that was clearer than Buddy had ever seen. “So we’re going to Heaven?”
YES AND NO.
“Well, which is it?” YOU IMPLY THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE.
“There’s not?”
THERE ARE AS MANY HEAVENS AS THERE ARE RELIGIONS. THE DEAD GO TO THE ONE YOU BELIEVE IN.
“But I’m an atheist!”
YES, WELL, IN YOUR CASE, THE QUESTION IS MOOT.
“Dare I ask why?”
I’M SURE YOU WILL ANYWAY.
“You’re pretty cheeky for a skeleton.”
YOU’RE PRETTY DENSE FOR A SPIRIT.
“So why is it moot?”
BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT DEAD.
“Then why are you here? And where are you taking me?”
I THINK IT WOULD BE BETTER IF YOU SPOKE WITH THE KING.
“God?”
IN A SENSE. The horse whinnied and came to a stop before large Golden Gates, whose arc silhouetted a bridge. HERE’S YOUR STOP.
“What the hell is going on?!”
WRONG PLACE. Death nodded and Buddy found himself somehow off the horse. He blinked and both horse and rider were gone.
“Welcome,” came a deep voice from behind him.
Buddy turned. “Does EVERYONE in the afterlife have to sneak up behind me?!” The man smiled. He was dressed in a glittering white suit. Buddy was sure he’d seen that man before. Finally he placed it. The postage stamps. “Holy shit, you’re Elvis Presley.”
“Good to know you,” Elvis grinned. “Glad to have you on board, Buddy. Nice to meet a guy who could make movies as good as his singing.”
“On board where?! Please, tell me what’s going on!”
“Well Buddy, I heard Death telling you about a heaven for every religion. What you didn’t hear about is about the unknown pantheon.”
“The what?”
“Me. Lincoln. Few others. We’re the new gods of America, Buddy. We’re what makes America. Democracy. Freedom. Discovery. Capitalism. Rock and Roll. Drugs. And, of course, sex. Which is where you come in, Buddy.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“You know how you were a sex god on earth? Well, enough folks thought you were killed, or even better not dead, and a few loved you so much they worshipped you. You’re a god, Buddy. A sex god.”
II.
The Pantheon was peculiar. Lincoln and Elvis side by side. Washington and Columbus and John Lennon and Martin Luthor King and several others. He recognized Charlie Chaplin, and Big Bird, and Humphrey Bogart the Statue of Liberty and a few others, and as many he couldn’t figure out.
Washington was easy with the wig and wooden teeth, and he recognized Jefferson from the twenty dollar bills.
It was when he was approached by Marilyn Monroe that he stopped to question his sanity. He just as quickly decided not to bother. Dead people don’t go insane. And if he was still alive and just imagining this, than he was probably beyond all help.
Besides. It was Marilyn Monroe.
She sidled up to him, her dress floating up with each step, a modern day Aphrodite who left vent updrafts in her wake instead of flowers. In a bubbly voice, she said, “Hiya, Buddy. Looks like we’ll be working together.”
“We will?”
“Sex takes two, doesn’t it? I’m the goddess of sex appeal, you’re the god.”
“So who did it before?”
“Me. And not. Mostly it just took care of itself.” She giggled. “Could say the universe opened a place for you.”
An overweight bespectacled man near her nodded. “Find the right man for the job and the right job will appear for the man.”
“Benjamin Franklin, right?”
He nodded.
Buddy tried to figure this out. “So, we’re gods. But what are we gods OF?”
“America,” Elvis states, emphasizing with a hip thrust. “We’re for the patriots big and small who got no where else to go. From the soldier who dies in the trenches for democracy to the environmental protestor fighting for tomorrow to the man who works nine to five to provide for his wife and two-point-four kids, they come to us. We’re the ones who shaped America into what it is, the ones with enough fire and purpose to turn make that country GREAT, the ones loved enough that we became deities in our own right. And now you’re one of us.”
“We’re late,” Marilyn interrupted, and as she slapped him on the back the two appeared in a bedroom.
“Where are we now?”
“On the job.”
“What job?”
“Well, what are you a god of, Buddy?”
Events were moving too quickly for the poor new deity. “Sex?”
Marilyn smiled. “So you figure it out.”
III.
“You ever see someone with someone else and think to yourself, ‘What the hell does he see in her?’ Or vice versa?”
“Sometimes,” Buddy admitted.
“Well, that’s what we do. Sex takes care of itself. It’s love that you and I propagate.”
“Hold on. First off, I thought you were supposed to be a ditz, no offense.”
“None taken. I was. But Zeus was just a Thor wanna-be before someone gave him some purpose. We become legends, and we take on the traits of those legends, Buddy.”
“But I’m still me.”
“No you’re not. Part of you is. But another part of you isn’t. You know so much more now than you ever did before, and can do so much more, but you’ve forgotten some other things.”
“Like what?”
Marilyn shrugged. “How should I know? They’re your forgotten memories. Usually stuff like causality and complications disappear. They interfere with our work.”
“And what is our work?”
“Them,” Marilyn pointed, and Buddy finally registered the couple sitting in front of the television. The news was till playing footage of his death. Suspicion of unusual circumstances was mentioned, theories of foul play, and as they were Buddy felt himself grow stronger. “You gain power the more people believe in you and think of you.” She pushed her dress down as a particularly strong updraft pushed it too high. “Sometimes that means taking bad with good.”
“So what are we supposed to do?”
“You know what to do. Make them feel love. You know how, so do it.”
Buddy concentrated, and tried to figure out what Marilyn was talking about. Then suddenly he knew: this was John and Sarah Finestein. They’d been married six years, but it was slipping. Their first kiss had been listening to one of his songs. He made them both remember that as his own song was played on the TV, and both hearing it and remembering how much it meant to them and how sad they were that he was gone, they began crying. Partners, both tearful, turned to one another, and sought solace in the arms of their lover.
John and Sarah Finestein had been having marital problems. But after that night, as they were allowed to relearn about each other, their love rekindled.
“Was that it?” Buddy asked. “Was that all right?”
Marilyn smile her breathtaking smile and gave him a kiss. “That was perfect, Buddy.”
He touched his lips where she’d kissed him. “What was that for?”
“Because I love you. I have for years. And now with the universe deciding you should compliment me as the other half of my work, you’re also probably the only person in the world who can understand me. So kiss me, you sex god, you.”
He did.
IV.
As the week went on, Buddy was getting the hang of things. Of course, in a few circumstances, he went a little overboard.
Two kids in the back seat of a Toyota fell madly in love when he miscalculated. They were humping like jackrabbits when he left and looked like there was no end in sight. He had to go find Marilyn to help sort it out. She helped and they laughed and flirted, two love deities who had finally found love themselves.
Then there was the one girl over in Miami when he mixed up addresses. The woman next to her was supposed to fall in love with her blind date, but Buddy messed up, and the poor lass ended up begging for as ass-fucking from a door-to-door refrigerator salesman.
But on the whole, he seemed to be taking to the god business quite nicely, and Marilyn had high hopes for him.
Until he disappeared.
She called a meeting of the Pantheon. When the King arrived, announcing, “Elvis is in the building,” she explained the situation. Finally, in despair she cried, “I don’t know where he could be!”
“I do,” Elvis said sadly. He snapped, and his three TVs appeared, all playing the latest news story: that Buddy’s car had been found to have cocaine in it, and a dead prostitute.
“Holy shit,” Big Bird cursed.
“Yup,” Elvis agreed. “We are made with belief, and we are what people believe us to be. And since Buddy’s now one of us...”
“He’s become evil,” Marilyn whispered.
Charlie Chaplin kicked a box in frustration so hard that he fell down.
V.
A god of sex, Buddy, the new, evil Buddy, felt imbued with desire and lust.
He could make women feel anything. And boy howdy, he would.
He was a god, he figured. He’d start big. He appeared outside the condo of a particularly amply-endowed porn star who went by the pseudonym of Lotta Schlonglick.
As luck would have it, he caught her in the shower.
He used no subtlety this time, nor any manipulation, just full-on desire. The girl’s enormous breasts heaved, soccer ball-sized mountains on her otherwise frail form, and she moaned as desire suddenly consumed her utterly. She fell to her knees, hot water running over her back, as she forced her fingers and then her entire fist in and out, in and out. After this week’s film she’d been as open as a railroad tunnel, and she needed cock, craved it desperately beyond all knowing.
Buddy approached her. He had no subtlety, no love, only wanton desire brought about by a country’s combined belief in his lasciviousness. He left her to work her cunt, preferring to take her from behind anyway, and with no ceremony rammed his pecker into her asshole like he was trying to slice her through.
After about two hours, after they’d both come so often that even the shower couldn’t wash away the smell, Buddy tired of his plaything and decided to move on. He grabbed her cruelly by the left tit, hoisting her high, and drew her ear near his face. “Now listen to me closely, my little slut. From now on you’ll never make another porn movie, because, ironically, you’ll be too busy having sex. All you can think about for the rest of your life is finding a fuck even half as good as me, and you’ll spend your every waking moment on this quest.”
She nodded as his divine message came unto her ears and his divine seed came unto her cleavage.
Then he was gone.
VI.
Elvis sighed sadly. Of course neither the hooker nor the coke was Buddy’s. They had both been placed by his producer; a clause in their contract stated that anything reflecting badly upon Buddy’s image like this meant that, for compensation to professional hardships, any income went to the producer. So in this last act said producer was legally entitled to all Buddy’s earnings and future stipends.
But there was no way they could go and tell this. Finally, Abraham Lincoln got an idea. “What if the guy confesses, though?”
“Why would he?”
“A sudden bout of honesty,” Abe winked, and disappeared.
Elsewhere, Tom Torry of Torry Records felt himself kind of, but not quite, feel another presence in the room. And suddenly he knew that he had to confess, to tell everybody what he’d done to poor, poor Buddy. And that he should become a eunuch as soon as possible.
Back in Heaven, Abe turned to Marilyn Monroe. “A eunuch, my dear? Was that entirely necessary?”
“No,” Marilyn smiled. “But it was fun.”
VII.
Buddy blinked as he found himself lounging in a college girls’ dormitory, nubile young ladies in the buff waiting on him on their knees. “What’s going on?”
Moans and erotic cried were his only response, until a deep not-quite voice stated, WELL, THAT’S ABOUT ENOUGH OF THAT.
“Death?”
YOU GET IT SO MUCH QUICKER THE SECOND TIME.
“Am I dead again?”
NO. A PART OF YOU IS, BUT YOU YOURSELF ARE ONCE AGAIN YOU. YOUR PRODUCER’S CONFESSION WAS ENOUGH TO CONVINCE PEOPLE THAT YOU ARE GOOD, BUT ENOUGH HAVE STOPPED ACTIVELY WORSHIPPING YOU THAT YOU ARE NOW, SIMPLY, DEAD.
“Is that good or bad?”
I’M REALLY NOT THE PERSON TO ASK. HOP ON.
As they rode, Buddy asked, “Death, are you part of America’s Pantheon.”
NO. AND YES. I AM PART OF EVERY PANTHEON, BUT ALONE UNTO MYSELF. I AM TIMELESS AND ETERNAL AND INFINITE. ONLY ONE OTHER PERSONIFICATION SHARES MY POWER AND UNIVERSAL NATURE, AND THAT IS NEVER ITSELF, ALWAYS A GOD OR GODDESS IN A PANTHEON, BUT JUST AS UNIVERSAL.
“What is it?”
YOU SHOULD KNOW, SINCE YOU ONCE WERE A PART IT. IT IS LOVE.
Buddy pondered until Death’s horse stopped. “Bye, Death.” IT WAS MY PLEASURE. I DON’T GET MANY REPEAT CUSTOMERS.
Then he turned back to Heaven. Elvis was not waiting there. But Marilyn was. She ran up and threw her arms around him and covered him with kisses. “Buddy! Are you you again? I was so worried!”
He laughed, and kissed her back. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m me. But I’m a fallen god. So I don’t know; where do I go?”
“Silly boy. You go here. Specifically, you go to my room.”
“Your room?!”
“Yup,” she smiled slyly, and gave a wink. “There’s a reason they call this place Heaven, Buddy.”
As they scampered into Heaven, the Golden Gates slowly closed.