Apply the blue eyeshadow, for sleepless nights of scheming.
Affix the pink nose and long moustache, for the twirl of the melodrama villain.
Don the pointy ears, for the heritage of a demon.
And finally the cap, purple as a bruise on the soul.
Now, protected by the sacred armour of failure, I may challenge the Gods.
It began like a cheap film noir, with an invitation from the Fat Man.
Most of us avoid the Gods, lest like Semele beholding the true form of Zeus, we turn to ash. Most of us avoid their wars, lusts, and games. But when they summon you, you have to obey, or they will seek you out, and crush you under their boot, or worse.
The Fat Man is sprawling body and sucking appetite, a stew of sweat and garlic, loathsome to look on, but tickled by every pleasure of pampered flesh.
He coughs up a gold coin as large as a baby’s skull.
And he tells me he needs a partner for tennis.
Through my terror, I demur. I am only an actor, and an unsuccessful one at that. Skin spoiled, hair thin, voice raspy, fit barely to portray a pantomime drunk. A skeleton of the man I could have been, lost and bitter.
He laughs, and tells me that I will be perfect for the part.
Doubles tennis. This is what they do, when they are not fighting each other for fleeting custody of castles or princesses. The masks clatter on the floor, and they race, or play golf, or throw dice on game boards that sprawl like continents. For good and evil is only their ballroom dance, forgotten at dawn.
The Fat Man has his nemesis, a brave and cheerful Acrobat, a plucky annihilator of millions. The Acrobat rampages for supposed justice, and the Fat Man to gorge his appetites. In destruction, they are twins. And now they will stand at a net, and tap a ball to each other with the politeness of gentlemen passing a cigar.
But this is doubles tennis, and the Acrobat plays alongside his brother. If the Fat Man is the funhouse mirror of the Acrobat, I must become the doppelganger of this brother. I will be paid beyond mortal dreams for this performance. If I disappoint, I will fall forever.
This brother is a notorious coward. Gifted with the same powers as his star-blessed kin, this clumsy and repulsive fool cowers at every shadow, trembling away his gilded immortality alone in a dark mansion. For every pantheon must have its loathsome clown.
I study news recordings, sanitised kingdom propaganda. We are both lanky. I can play with that. I ape his stumbles and floundering arms. I try on his pleading voice, and furtive grin.
It’s not enough. The Fat Man will want more.
So I seek an audience.
For this one, it’s easy. We all know where he lives, and know he is too bumbling to harm a supplicant. In any case, he has nothing to offer a petitioner. I knock on the door of his mansion. The door opens a hair’s width, and through the gap I see one quivering eye.
I tell him that I am on business of the Fat Man, and ask to come in.
He makes tea. I sip. Leaf of piranha plant. And I reflect.
I have never seen such a human jelly before. He has no idea whatsoever on how to deploy his hands. On his face, then on his leg, now on his chest, two gloved pinwheels twirling endlessly through eternity. I am desperate to give him some stage business, like a suitcase to pack, or a table to set, just to put us both out of our misery.
How can I parody this skulking poltroon?
Desperate and reckless, I call him a bungler, and demand to know why he wastes his power. I order him to tell me what he is so afraid of. Is it his brother? The turtle army? Women?
In answer, he taps the table with his finger.
It snaps down the middle, like a fissure in the earth, swallowing my heart.
And he tells me that he is afraid of hurting anyone.
I think of my life, with every opportunity for love squandered, every brief vanity humbled. I am one of the surplus now, encouraged to leave the stage, so one less repulsive can take my place in the spotlight. But now, for the first time in my life, I have a cause bigger than myself.
And in that moment, I am born again.
“No fair, everyone cheated!”
I expect a thunderbolt to sizzle me for my audacity, but it is worth the risk of summary obliteration only to see their faces so deliciously aghast! Has anyone ever spoken to the Acrobat like that before? I sincerely doubt it!
The Fat Man is pleased.
I summon my rage at years of being hounded for child support payments, and channel it into the swing of my tennis racket.
They are too dazed to even reach for the ball, and the point is mine.
I dance, kicking my heels as high as my chin, and point, and mock, and leer. I gyrate with the suppressed fury of enduring endless scoldings from martinet bosses. In a final insult, I pluck a cloth rose from my overalls, and toss it at the feet of the spectating princess. Meeting her gaze, I touch my plastic nose with my tongue.
These are the apex predators of our world, and have never had to face one who does not fear them. After a lifetime of crawling in the dirt and tasting every flavour of humiliation, I will show them how it feels to lose. For if I can mock them in the height of their power, all mortals can.
Thus may a man challenge the Gods.
One of them does not fear me. To think I once considered him a coward. Now I am his dark shadow, his every secret impulse unleashed. I am bold, I am rude, I love life, I am crafty, and I do not hide my light under a bushel. I show he does not need to fear himself. Inwardly, he rejoices at my antics. With his secret blessing, I will ever be the rotten egg in their salad, the ingrown toenail in their boot, the worm poking out of their apple! Their fickle amusements will turn to ash! Look on me, see the face of failure, and know it is your own!
Wah ha ha ha ha!
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