A Tale of Flatulus, God in Exile

"So, I'd like to stress this is not, in any way, personal. Not that you are, in any way, a person. But Olympus has limited space, and Zeus has really become taken with..." The officiary stopped and checked his clipboard. "Ah yes, racquetball. And given your most recent popularity numbers, well, we didn't actually have much choice in the matter."

The functionary looked over the rims of glasses that were, by definition, cosmetic.

"Honesty, it was just a matter of time. Racquetball, squash, bonsai galaxies, you were going to go sometime. Now is just that time. Anywho, send us a forwarding address and we'll get your things there."

Bureacrasis, god of delays and inconvenient documents, dragged a pencil across a box. When it completed its circuit from one corner to the other there was a slight popping noise, as if a vaguely human shaped vacuum had replaced where a god once stood.

With this tiny flick of a pencil, Flatulus, god of the inconveniently timed fart, was now homeless.

He shook his head. Bureacrasis was right. It wasn't like this was a surprise. He'd been a minor deity three thousand years ago. How he'd hung on at Olympus was a mystery even to him. The heyday of his worship had begun and ended with an Athenian cholera epidemic. He'd mostly just sat on the fringes, picking up the occasional prayer to keep a toga clean. It wasn't a bad existence, as things go. Nectar was abundant, as was manna and hummus. Dionysous hogged all the pitas, but that was just his nature.

Well, time to figure out where he was sent. He was, like all gods, a polyglot. This was useful ninety nine percent of the time, but when your brain automatically translates everything it is a bit tricky to recognize context clues. There were people. They were walking. There were roads with cars. Everyone looked cold. And cheerful. And curious.

Why were they curious?

Because there was snow on the ground and he was wearing sandals and a toga, holding an amphora of wine. He stuck out.

A young man walked up to him. Or at least Flatulus assumed it was a man. There were many layers covering him up.

"You're a bit far from Greek row. You need some help?"

Flatulus smiled.

"I do! I seem to be lost."

"Then follow me," said the voice in a parka."

Flatulus enjoyed the sensation of slush between his toes. It was not one he had ever sought out previously, but it was extremely unique.

"So which house are you at?" The parka asked.

"I was part of Alpha, but I fear I am not welcome there."

"They let you out like that and cut you? Those are some serious douche bags."

Flatulus, who was as well versed in the classics as one could possibly be by virtue of having lived them, said simply: " Agreed."

The parka voice led him to a largish building, dark and foreboding. On the front of it was three giant omicrons.

The parka voice fiddled with the door, then opened it. They walked into a warm well kept living room.

The hood came off first, then the scarf. A beanie came next, letting out a truly prodigious amount of auburn hair. Then the parka.

And now in front of Flatulus was a red cheeked young woman in a green

sweatshirt.. She stuck out her hand.

"I'm Allison."

Flatulus, who had heard of keeping a low profile but never quite understood it, said

"I am Flatulus."

The girl wrinkled her nose, as one does when meeting the god of inconveniently timed farts.

"So that is your Greek name. They really are douchebags. What is your actual name?"

Flatulus considered this. It was, in fact, his Greek name. It was also his actual name.

But, if the name was causing her difficulty it was probably best to obliged. He tried to think of the most modern name he could. He caught a flash of a TV show once.

"Elmer." he said. It was the best he could come up with.

"Elmer? So they were sort of doing you a favor with the whole Flatulus thing."

Allison said. Then she started. "Wait, sit on the couch, let me get you a blanket, you

must be freezing."

Flatulus sat on the couch. He was, of course, not cold. But he was deeply confused. As a God you got a great deal of deference, even as a relative lightweight. But you very rarely got consideration. There was a general understanding that, as a God, you really did not need the help.

Allison came back with a knit blanket, like something an uncaring grandchild would sell at a yard sale. She carefully arrayed on Flatulus, then put a hand to his head.

"You must have not been out there that long. You are still pretty warm."

"I was really only out for a minute. Though I currently have nowhere to go."

"Well, I am not promising anything, and I have to check with my sister, but we might be able to let you crash on the couch for a night, until you can get ahold of your parents."

Flatulus, who was a child of Hephaestus and the North Wind, was reasonably certain that his parents would not take his call. They were really very busy. He suspected the snow outside was his mother's fault. She had always been icy and distant and a little too in love with metaphors.

"I would very much appreciate that," he said.

And it was true. He had not had to worry about where to lay his head for thousands of years. It was a new worry to him, and here it was already well on its way to being allayed. It is important to note that Gods don't need sleep. Human's hadn't either, but when Morpheus came around he was so annoying that the Gods found a job for him that meant he'd only be in town for a couple minutes a night.

When Susan walked in and saw that Allison had brought a man home she was shocked. When she saw the man she went straight past shocked and into stunned.

This was because Flautus, despite his deeply unfortunate name and job, was a Greek God. And he was not one of the ugly ones. In general the gods default to handsome. Flatulus had gone a bit past handsome and ended up perfect. It was probably a cosmic balancing of the books(well, threads) for the fates, who had made his father so ugly. He did not know for sure, as after four thousand years their relationship had never really progressed past small talk.

It is also important to note that, depending on what exactly your domain is, a god may very well end up with one of a thousand body types. Fertility gods tend towards the round. Famine gods tend towards the gaunt. And, given the lack of established precedent, flatulence gods are generally shredded. The kind of shredded half a soggy toga and a carefully knit blanket can't really hide.

So poor Allison, liver of a blameless life that mostly centered on rowing practice and veterinary medicine, was not prepared for this. Flatulus lit up a room like a roman candle (the Greek firework industry having been shamelessly rebranded by their conquerors)

"Who is...this? That? You?" Allison said.

"Who is you?" Susan said. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Not ye-- No." said Allison. "Who is this person you have brought in to our sacred domicile of sisterhood."

"Is this a holy place?" asked Flatulus. "If so I must apologize for not paying appropriate respects."

Flatulus looked around nervously, as if expecting a bolt of lightning unsatisfied with his apologies.

"It is not. She's just talking Greek." Susan turned to Allison. "Our guest is Elmer. The Alphas were hazing him and threw him outside like that. Since I didn't want him to die of hypothermia I invited him in here to warm up."

"If it is any inconvenience, I could leave," said Flatulus, not entirely convinced he wasn't on someone's sacred turf.

Then Flatulus stood up. It is at this point a couple things should be understood. Winter is a dry season, which means there is a lot of static electricity. Togas are made of wool. Cut rate couches, of the type that are used in frat and sorority houses are synthetic, staticy, and naturally sticky. And, of course, gods do not wear anything under their togas.

So when Flatulus rose, a great deal of his outfit remained behind. And, cresting the folds of the toga, much like a ship breaking through ice, came one of the great gifts of godhood.

Both girls were very quiet. Their eyes were doing all the talking. After a moment passed Susan cleared her throat.

"Umm, Elmer. Your...glory is showing."

Flatulus, not one terribly comfortable with idioms, looked at his arms to check if light was emanating from within him.

"No. Your giant dick. It's dangling around in front of us." said Allison.

Flatulus quickly turned around, exposing his equally impressive but slightly less titillating ass. He pulled at the wool and tried to ignore the tiny lightning bolts his actions caused. When all was free he let it drape around him, then turned around.

Gods don't blush very often. It is not generally required. It is hard to be embarrassed when every being you meet is in awe of you.

Flatulus blushed quite a bit for a god, and saw no reason to stop now.

"I should go!" he said, and hurried to the door.

"You will not." said Susan. Allison chimed in with her agreement.

"Stay the night," said Allison. "You'll catch your death out there."

Flatulus relented, and sat back down.

"Will you check with your sisters?" he said, "I would very much like everyone to be sure it is acceptable."

Allison walked to the stairs and shouted, "Girls, quick house meeting."

One by one girls stumbled down the stairs, took a look at Flatulus, and then straightened up and wished they had worn makeup and good underwear. When all twelve had gathered in the living room Susan made her plea.

"This is Elmer. He was getting hazed by the Alphas. They sent him out in the snow wearing this!" she said, waving her hand at him for emphasis. "They didn't even let him wear underwear."

At this every girl tilted their head sideways, trying to make out what might be happening in the shadows of Flatulus' toga.

"So, quick vote. Who is OK with him staying the night? He'll be on the couch, and on his best behavior."

One hand went up. Then another, and another, until shortly all arms were raised.

"Great!" said Susan. "Elmer, you can officially crash on the couch."

"Do you know what this calls for?" said Susan.

The girls, with a single voice, screamed "Movie Night!".

There was a buzz of activity, with Flatulus at the center. In short order he had a second blanket, a pair of pink slippers donated by a very tall girl, and a bowl of white crunchiness that left one almost, but not quite, sated. And quite thirsty.

The girls materialized on the floor, and couch, some with blankets, some with bean bag chairs. On the screen was someone named Gosling, whom all the women seemed quite interested in. Flatulus, who had the ultimate classical education, kept waiting for Gosling to actually turn into a goose and ravish someone. But this was, apparently, not that kind of movie.

About halfway into the movie he noticed that everyone was holding some sort of mirror in their hands. Susan, who was sitting next to him, had pictures of young men on hers. She'd look for a second or so, then push them to the side. Another young man would appear in his place. Occasionally, if one struck her fancy (or the opposite), she would show it to another girl and giggle. Then she would push him and the process would continue.

"What is that?" Flaulus asked.

"This is tinder." Susan said. She saw Flatulus blank look. "It's a dating app."

There were a lot of questions Flatulus wanted to ask, but he suspected that if he asked too many they would figure out that he was not a lost college student. He was not sure that they would get terribly close to the truth, but losing their trust was not something he particularly wanted to do.

He whispered a quiet prayer to himself.

Flatulus reached into the shadows of his toga, where it is conceivable a pocket might be should you not look too closely. When his hand came out it was holding a fully charged smartphone with a data plan. In the grand scheme of things this was not the most impressive of miracles. But it was a miracle nonetheless.

"Can you show me?" he said.

Susan took his phone and opened it up.

"You need to put a passcode on your phone, or anyone can use it," she said.

She flipped through a dizzying array of pictures, then stopped.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty five." he lied.

"How tall?"

"One point nine meters."

She looked him up and down.

"Six two," she said. "Now stay still and look handsome."

Flatulus did. There was a flash of light, and then she handed the phone back.

"There, you are now set up."

Flatulus smiled the smile of the slightly confused. He was still not quite sure he understood bronze, so this was quite a leap for him. One th phone was a pretty brunette.

"Right if you like her. Left if you don't" said Susan.

Flatulus, who found nothing objectionable about the woman, swiped right. Another woman appeared. And again he swiped right. And again and again and again.

They were all lovely in their own way.

After about half an hour there were no more women, just a message that he should come back later.

As Flatulus settled in for what was apparently a Gosling double feature he heard a prayer. This was an infrequent event on the whole. There are a number of pantheons in existence, so he did not exactly have global relevance. In addition he was, as he admitted to himself in his darkest days, mostly forgotten.

But this prayer came through, clear as a bell. It was a single word. "Damn."

He felt a brief rush of power, a faint glow about himself. It was nice, a reminder of what he had once been.

Another prayer came immediately after. It was "Holy shit!". As these two things were the essence of his realm it did not seem a terribly odd prayer to reach his ears. Indeed, the only thing remarkable about it was its proximity to the previous prayer. Two in one day hadn't happened in centuries. He felt warm.

And then the rush came.

"Dear God!"

"Christ!"

"Fuck yes!"

"Obviously!"

"Of course!"

The prayers came by the dozen, and with each one the phone he had next to him gave a little ping. Flatulus was overwhelmed. He hadn't been this worshipped since Alexander's army got a terrible case of food poisoning during the Siege of Tyre. And still more kept coming.

He stood up, grabbed the phone, and excused himself. He could see an aura around himself, a cool yellow glow. Were the girls not entranced by their phones and the movie they might have noticed. Flatulus was grateful they did not.

He clicked on one of the pictures and read the text underneath.

He thought for a moment, then responded. Then she wrote back. This continued until he had agreed to something involving coffee.

Once he got his glow under control he returned to the couch.

"I have committed to someone on this tinder." he said to Allison.

"Let me see!" said Allison, who read the messages.

"That's awesome." She said. "Do you have any other clothes."

"I do not." he said.

"Then we're going out tomorrow!" said Allison.

__________________

In the morning Allison arrived with Susan and the sun. Flatulus lay one the couch under a blanket and felt the raw belief course into him from the phone.

"Are you ready to go?" asked Susan.

"I believe I am." said Flatulus. "Where shall we go?"

"You're different." said Allison, "Not in a bad way. Just kind of a fish out of water."

"Fish don't survive long out of water." Flatulus said. He was not much good at metaphor, but a God of digestive ills is very aware of fishing.

"Like, where did you come from? Were you religious? Did you have a lot of friends? What was it like?"

"I lived on a mountain. With all my brothers and sisters. It was very religious. But it was peaceful. We did not have phones. We did not have computers. We ate fruit and drank nectar. Every morning my brother would wake up with the sun. My father was cold and distant. Based on his behavior, I don't think he ever really liked us."

"So you were like Greek Amish? Can you grow a beard?"

"I have never willed it to be so. But Should I want one I suspect I could have it. My father had a terrible beard. Bits of his food would be left in it. So I choose not to have a beard."

"So you escaped your crazy religious family and came here."

"I was excommunicated."

"Why?"

"I was not well liked enough."

"Well that is about the worst thing I ever heard." Allison gave him a hug. Flatulus stayed very still. Spontaneous gestures of affection were not common for the Gods. As easily as they showed displeasure they struggled to show true warmth. Flaulus wondered if this was why they all took so much delight in torturing mortals. Perhaps they were jealous of what the mortals had.

When you have forever guaranteed it is apparently very hard to see beyond yourself.

Flatulus felt himself hug her back. It wasn't a conscious decision. It just seemed the right thing to do.

"Let's go to goodwill and get you twenty dollars worth of clothes," said Allison. "And when we're done we'll make it look like a million."

She released the hug, and Flatulus slowly let go. He felt better. Lifted, almost. The infusions of belief and awe were wonderful, but this was different. It felt more personal. More directed. It felt like caring.

Susan came down with her keys and they hopped into her car. Flatulus sat in the back and listened to the girls talk. They seemed so happy and full of life. It felt a bit weird observing from this angle, instead of them thousand feet up. There was nuance that was lost with distance. Small smiles, chopped laughs, moments of connection. He'd watched a million armies, but never that many soldiers.

When they arrived the girls ushered him to the dressing room. Susan grabbed the tape measure.

"Stick your arms out."

Flatulus obliged, raising them in a credible imitation of a zombie.

Susan blew her hair out of her face.

"To the side please."

Flatulus did as he was told.

Susan walked around him, occasionally holding the tape to him, or wrapping it around.

"Great. You have a thirty four inch waist, a thirty four inch inseam, and an absurd forty seven inch chest. That's going to be easy to shop for."

"Is it?" said Flaulus.

"She's joking." said Allsion. "You're built like an especially jacked underwear model. It is going to be hard to find things that aren't baggy on you."

Susan dragged him over a rack.

"First, the T-shirt test." she said, grabbing one off the rack and handing it to Flatulus.

"Try this on." she said.

He pulled the giant sweatshirt he was wearing off, and then pulled the shirt on. It was tight in the chest. And the middle. And by the waist.

Allison and Susan were laughing.

"There is a changing room over there." said Allison.

"I'm glad you didn't have him try on pants." Susan said, before both dissolved into laughter again.

Flatulus was not quite sure what was funny, but smiled as a sign of camaraderie. Perhaps he could ask one of them to explain it later.

After they had both caught their breath Susan walked around him with a critical eye.

"So you can definitely work that shirt. And it gives us a baseline. What do you think of as your personal style?"

Flatulus, who had been issued a toga at creation and never wore anything else, thought about this. He'd either worn a toga or been naked. His style, if such a thing existed, certainly lacked any real diversity.

"Simple." he said

"Right. Let's try the basics. I'm going to find him some white tees. Allison, can you scan the jeans and see what they have in his size. You," she said, pointing at Flatulus with as much authority as any god he ever met, "Look around and see if anything catches your eye. Don't take your shirt off until you're in the dressing room."

Flatulus nodded, and then meandered. The things that caught his interest were the new bits of ephemera that he had missed in the last thousand or so years. Pans had handles now. Mirrors were attached to boxes. There were fabrics he'd never seen before.