With the Nims gone, he abandoned any pretense of respect for the pair of fubars. From the expression he wore now, Ernie guessed Bengessert wanted nothing more than to frog march them back to the orbiting ship and shoot them out the nearest missile tube. Right now he was probably picturing himself pushing the fire button.
Standing apart from their escort detail, Randy Urquell paced the floating platform, waiting to load back onto the shuttle for the trip back into orbit. Ernie fingered the spot where the holographic medal reached on his chest, wondering where they would be sent next.
Having just been declared heroes, Ernie could be fairly certain they weren’t headed out an airlock as soon as they left for their next port of call but they’d probably be beached on the nearest colony world. He just hoped they’d have tasty local fauna for himself to work with. And some nice grains for Randy.
Proof the Gods Love Us
Chris Wong Sick Hong
“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Take a seat. You beat the rush and I caught the bartender checking you out as soon as you walked in the door. Even if you don’t swing that way, it’s nice to be appreciated. The beer’s cold, the nuts fresh, and the bar clean. If you had anything better to do, you wouldn’t be here. Neither would I, and it just so happens that I have nothing on my schedule for the next long enough, so we might as well talk.
Isn’t it beautiful? No, not the microbrewery logo laser-engraved on the pilsner glass, but the dark amber ambrosia within. Fit for the gods themselves and gateway to the secrets of the universe. Not many people know that. Not many people know either that back when it was first invented, beer saved the world.
Oh, the naysayers might claim that alcohol is the third leading cause of death worldwide—like we all don’t have it coming anyway—but a drink like this deserves respect. Beer is as old as civilization. In some ways, beer is civilization.
Back in those hazy ancient days, when older than dirt was still too young to drive, when the kings of Ur, Babylon, Eshnunna, Lagash and the rest suffered hardcore obelisk envy for Kemet’s bright limestone sophistication, you don’t think they grew barley just to make bread, do you? Well, they used barley for money too, but what better place than beer for money to go?
And it’s true sanitation was more loosely defined back then and weak beer was safer than drinking any water—due to the amoebas that would crawl up your nose and turn your brain meat into a bad case of the Mexican shits—but that makes beer depressingly practical. And who drinks watered-down beer if they can help it?
Anyway, beer is even older than that. Older than the gates of Babylon, older than Stonehenge, older than Gobekli Tepe. If you can ever figure out how to pronounce that last little gem I’ll buy you a pint. Any time you get about twenty people together—and twenty isn’t enough to crown a hobo king, let alone make a decent run at proper civilization—there will be conflicts. What else can grease the wheels of society so well, or at least take the edge off of being the losing side of a debate argued at spear point?
But beer saved the world before even that, even if it took humanity a few millenia to remember how to turn grass into liquid courage. Unfortunately, that was so long ago—right around the time memory was invented—that reliable eyewitnesses are few and far between. Fortunately, the most brilliant and best kept secret of all history, but especially mythic history, is that it’s history. No one remembers it, nobody really cares, and that means we’re free to make up what’s actually true.
You seem like an insightful, educated, appreciative drinker, so I’m going to tell you how it happened. Cheers.
*drinks*
Everything has to have a beginning. That’s just common sense. But when some smartass asks, “If you’re so smart, where did the beginning come from, genius?” you punch them because everyone knows the answers to that one: the gods. And not just any gods. The old gods.
Back before the world was made, they gathered in a not-yet-Irish not-quite-pub to plan the creation of existence, of pints of Guinness, and shepherd’s pie. Better yet, unlike city planners, who to this day can’t find a sewer line unless it’s hooked directly into their overworked sphincters, they had at least a dash of competence to them. It was a nice not-quite-pub, not very crowded because no one else existed and within stumbling distance of free parking. Let’s call it Mikey MacGuire’s. It’s not like it matters.
As you already know, the old gods, those booming apocryphal whispers from beyond Beyond that grab you by the hindbrain and shake, have never disappeared or truly been forgotten. Every culture names them different names. Every era clothes them in different clothes. Scholars and the intricately unhinged sink lifetimes into exploring the niceties of prehistoric idols, sacred geometry, human development and how the Ancient Aliens guy from the History Channel gets his hair to do that, but that’s complicated so fuck it. I’ll just call them what they are and if they have a problem with that… they don’t know where I am right now.
Their work was nearly finished—the majestic glaciers of Argentina, breathtaking Alpine vistas, the multicolored sands of frigid Thule, the intricate fjords of Norway and whatever the hell Australia is supposed to be—all of its bits and pieces arranged on the un-table before them. The most important of what was yet undone was the keystone, the linchpin that would bind the world complete.
“This shall be our greatest creation of them all,” Big Daddy Rainmaker pronounced. “Humanity.” If there had been a non-godly audience, the cheers would have been deafening. Even the other gods, properly awed by the magnitude of the task before them, nodded in sage agreement and understanding.
“And what shall these humans look like?” Big Daddy’s wife and sister, Oceania, asked reverently.
(Lay off. They’re gods, it was a different time back then and Arkansas had to come from somewhere.)
“Nothing but the grandest visage is worthy,” Big Daddy Rainmaker replied.
Thunderdome, excitable as usual, slammed his fist into the un-table. “Then it is agreed they shall look like us! What better reminder of the majesty and grandeur they will be heir to?”
“Look like you, you mean,” his sister, Sparkle Princess, replied. “Two heads, an extra nose and a shiny bald spot with what looks like fungus growing on it.” She could never pass up a chance to poke holes in his vanity.
Thunderdome sat straighter and fixed Sparkle Princess with his most regal, five-eyed glare. “My countenance will inspire epics and ballads for as long as this world exists! Descriptions of my magnificence will survive in literature forever!”
“And someone said inventing book burning was a bad idea,” beetle-headed Stinky Kid mumbled. Big Daddy Rainmaker shot him a warning glare filled with the promise of hurricanes, but he was otherwise ignored.
“Perhaps you have another idea to discuss, Sparkle Princess?” Oceania said.
Eminently pleased now that all attention was on her, Sparkle Princess primped and giggled. “Thank you, mother. They should be as radiant as the aurora, mighty as the tides and tender as the breeze which heralds spring in the east.”
Stinky Kid interrupted again. “We already have unicorns. Besides, we haven’t invented the aurora yet.”
She whirled on him with the disdain instinctive to older sisters everywhere. “I’m a goddess. I can see into the future.”