Paris, the God of Overindulgence, moderated most weddings. Expensive, ostentatious events tended to be in his wheelhouse. Paris nudged mortals in the direction of the silver-plated cutlery, the elaborate destination weddings, the $200-a-plate meals. He ensured invitations were written for estranged family members, ex-best friends, and occasionally, ex-fiances. The more the merrier. More revelry meant more power for Paris.
Few people know about the modern gods and goddesses. The lords of cell phones and transit times and the Internet. But I do. I’ve met them. Spoken to them. After all, I’m the demigod the son of the Internet.
But Paris forgot that I was a nephew. He made sure Sharon mailed me an invitation to her wedding, despite the fact that she and I were once engaged to be married.
Now, Sharon and I had an especially bad break-up. Infidelity, a Facebook blowout, divided groups of friends, the whole works. She would never, never invite me to anything, much less a wedding. She wasn’t the type to rub it in. At least, not without influence. Godly influence.
I knew how Paris worked. He’d been the cause of many drunken brawls, of excessive drug use, of hospitalizations from any number of heavy-partying-related catastrophes. Someone had to stop him. My aunts and uncles had some kind of truce—never get in each others’ business. Some even worked closely together, like Doge, the god of the Internet, and iGod, the god of cellphones. None of them cared enough about mortals to stop Paris.
I went to the wedding. I wouldn’t have bothered if not for the fact that I knew Paris would be there, in some form. Usually as a photographer.
So I found the first photographer I saw—a bearded hipster form this time—and smacked the camera out of his tattooed hand.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
A hard upper-cut, right under that bearded jaw.
My demigod powers aren’t super strength or anything cool like that. They’re spectacle. They’re eye-catching. The son of the Internet, here. So when I slugged that hipster, he flew across the room dramatically, landing with a deafening crash on a table, drawing everyone’s gaze.
The hipster didn’t get up. Oops.
Thankfully, one of the other photographers—a young woman—dropped her camera, eyes fixed on me more intently than any of the wedding-goers—including my ex.
“Nephew,” she said in a voice that wasn’t her own.
And she was upon me. Some kind of drunken kung fu. My powers made the fight more bombastic, like a movie. Soon the whole of the wedding stopped celebrating to watch, and Paris’s powers waned. No more worship, no more revelry, no more overindulgence.
But they all took to the Internet to tweet, Facebook, and stream. I was getting stronger.
This would be a short fight.
Today’s three random prompt categories were, “At your ex-fiance’s wedding,” “A fight scene,” and, “A modern god(dess).”
I’ve used all three of these prompts before, but since I shared the hat trick game with a group of friends at a writing workshop, I put all my used categories back in. At least I didn’t use these three in this order!