“Some hills are wussies. Some like Crow Flies High Butte roll up their sleeves and get to work. Where gods brawl, laughter kicks thunder’s ass.” ~ The Clown
The clown shaped himself into Crow Flies High Butte if for no other reason than to make the day’s work feel a little more earthy. The two lesser gods would soon be here for their annual whoop ass and so the Clown began channeling his persona as Gunnar “Game Time” Gunderson, master of today’s ceremonies. Clearing his throat he began his warm up using localized brogue, “Uff da! Dat boy speeded that puck right into dat net!” repeated five times. He moved on to ten repetitions of “Ya, sure, you betcha! We’re going to be rolling out that barrel right here on this old Butte today!”
Midway through this vocal warm up, the Gods materialized. To mark the occasion, the Clown set the grass undulating and the sky darkening. He’d done this too many times not to be bored but press on he must. He sent a stiff breeze across his flanks and yawned when he thought about the upcoming tragedy and comedy to come.
The clown began, “In this corner, the pride of Scandinavia, is Odin, father of all Norse Gods. He looks a little worn out today, maybe from the stress of deciding who lives and who dies in some far off and probably dumb battle. That may be a best guess since his helmet, horns and all, is smeared with fresh viscera. He’s sporting his trademark greasy blond braids today. He’s also missing some flesh around his cheekbones perhaps from a recent skirmish and is sporting an empty socket that used to house an eye. Odin is always a tough competitor. Keep your own eyes, assuming you have two remaining, on him today.
“In the opposite corner is Only Man representing the Mandan, Arikara, and Hidatsa peoples. He’s slim and sinewy and looks to be a bit bored with all of this. Oh, now, that’s interesting. Get a load of that small, off center smile. Only Man knows that there’ll be many gyrations and fake smiles to come today. He’s always a heavy favorite among the butte crowd.”
Gunnar continued, “Gentle gods let’s get the preliminaries over quickly and proceed to the real reason you both came. Please begin by shaking hands and exchanging the gifts you brought along.”
Odin led off in a sing song voice with a cadence and pitch mastered by every Starbucks barista, his eyes scanning the horizon “Hail, Only Man. May the winds not scatter your people too damn far this year, ya think?”
“And may your warriors remember which end of the arrow is which, Odin. I hear even your best men get completely turned upside down by the sound of their own breathing. By the way, can you stop already with that hokey Scandinavian-American slang?”
“Ya sure! Thor sends his regards. Still can’t keep his hammer from dragging, though. How are your people? ”
“That’s a good one, Odin. My people are well—enduring the usual wind, government lies, and not enough buffalo. They laugh anyway. And your mortals? Still chasing glory, or are they spending their lives drunk on their keisters at hockey matches?”
“By yumpin’ yiminy, they do as I manipulate them. I keep ‘em on their toes and they never know if I’m just being nice or real bossy like. You don’t know how to roll like that. If you’d learn how to properly terrify your mortals, they’d line up better and their lot on earth would be so much better.” Odin understood the paradox of time and effort. Neither meant anything to a God, but both were key to bossing mortals around.
Odin made it certain that if a Scandinavian mortal attended Lutheran church regularly and, approached old age by sincerely repenting of all his worldly sins, the gates of Valhalla would be slammed shut in his silly face. Death in battle was the only winning ticket. The lame, the sick, and the repentant Scandinavians practicing unseemly passive aggressiveness went straight to Hel, the Underworld, to suffer more, regardless of what that silly little German, Martin Luther, proclaimed in the 1500s.
Only Man’s afterlife on the other hand welcomed everyone. “My colleagues say your garage sale gods can’t help themselves but to mess with mortal’s lives. Maybe if you cut off all their noses, they wouldn’t be sticking them where they don’t belong.” A mortal only needed to take good care of other tribal members, especially the sick, old, and young to journey to the afterlife. You didn’t even have to kill an enemy, although that might help, especially if the victim was a menace to the tribe.
The Clown, fresh from cleaning his toenails interrupted, “Gentle Gods, enough banter. Let’s move on to the gift exchange.”
Only man brought a bag of Red Man Tobacco for Odin. Odin had bought Only Man an embroidered riding quirt. Insulted by his gift, Odin opened the pouch and put a chaw in his mouth. He then heaved the half empty bag onto the rocks far below, “What a cheap, cheap gift, Only Man. Cheesy, doncha know? I don’t suppose you could make it up to me in the future since you don’t believe in time.”
“It’s you that thinks time is manageable, doofus. Besides, offering tobacco to the Gods is a sacred act among my people. There’s a spiritual meaning with that gift that escapes you.”
“Oh, for nice. You Indians think that time can be stretched like a rubber band. This makes you useless and lazy, wallowing like diseased buffalo in a prairie mud hole.”
Unwrapping Odin’s gift Only Man snorted, “And your mortals still think wristwatches make them the masters of the earth. You’ve got them trained to cower in the corner, looking at their watches, hoping you’ll let them into the afterlife. What do you call it? Valhalla? Ha! Sounds like an old English Christmas carol. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, Valhalla!”
“At least my people earn their glory. Battle. Blood. Severed limbs. Spit. Sacrifice. Sliced genitals, mucus flinging. My brethren do so much more than hang around the fort and playing basketball.”
“Basketball is sacred. It’s another way to mend broken hearts. Your ‘glory’ is nothing more than desperation leading to violence.”
“You Indians are soft. Always were. Letting anyone who drew a breath into your so-called afterlife. What do you call it? The Other Camp? You let them all in! No standards, no tests of bravery, no bowing before the authority of proper gods. No wonder your hills ring with laughter about the human predicament when it’s not funny. Everybody wins in the end. You betcha! Ha!”
“Better to laugh than cry over Father Time. Better to admit to being human than to make endless cookies for an unfeeling pig. Some fine day soon those brain blasters you will eventually refer to as psychologists will invent a name for you cookie chefs. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”
“It’s deeper than just making cookies, you dimwit. I give them something to live for! A purpose! Without OCD they’d drown in their own mediocrity. They’re all born lazy asses, hoping only that someone else would feed and clean up after them.”
Only Man slapped his new quirt against his palm. “Purpose? You’ve trapped them in a fantasy even you don’t believe in. Valhalla’s a lie. A cage for dead boys and girls who never grew up.”
“Careful, dirt devil. The Other Camp is filled with old ghosts too weak from their lazy lives to be scary.”
“And Valhalla is full of corpses you’ve stuffed with empty songs of valor and meaningless rituals. At least my people live before they die.”
The Clown made the butte yell, “Let’s leave it here and let the face-off begin! No metal weapons allowed and especially, no swords. Odin, lay down your spear.”
The sky grew purple and cacti began humming an old refrain, “It’s happening, It’s happening, soon the blood will make the sweetgrass grow.”
“You see this?” Odin barked, shaking his fist under Only Man’s nose, “This is thunder!”
“This is lightning.” Only Man raked his fist across Odin’s jaw, tumbling the Norse god to the prairie. Round and round went the brown and white Gods, tumbling across the grass, leaping over gullies, abrading their holy skin, skipping over cactus and cussing at each other in archaic Norse and Arikara.
Flinging spit and sweat while dodging lightning bolts, they trembled with righteous rage. The Clown pulled the butte out of its stupor and set it trembling in rhythm. He made the sides of the butte heave and the top bounce with the sounds of combat. Boom! Bam! Swoosh! Thump! Bonk! Thud! Down below, the Missouri overflowed its banks, slapping foam on the muddy banks. The ducks and beavers frolicked in the surf.
Neither god would call for reinforcements. Odin knew the other gods would sooner mock his stench and arrogance than lift a finger to help. Only Man’s allies stayed away too, but out of respect for ancient rules of combat, not for him.
By the twelfth hour, Odin’s scrawny, battered backside was mashed to a pulp. Only Man stood victorious—but only by degrees. Now channeling Gunnar “Game Time” Gunderson complete with a thin rasp, the Clown dropped the mic and announced the all-time beat down scorecard Scandinavians 2, Indians 98. As dust settled, undulations abated, and bruises bloomed, the butte pulled out a cigarette and took a long drag. Rain would be good now. All living things need a shower and especially these two gods.
