A God That Is Often Summoned [Closed]

[Guest]

A little known fact among mortals. Some rituals are best untouched. As is the case with most mortal's lessons. This one too. Would also be learned the hard way.

It began with a man. Within reach of middle age. A carrier of mail. A player of electronic entertainments. A reader of pictorial fables. A braggart at weekly meetings where grown men rolled dice. He rolled to win battles for a statuette of Chaos. Gauchely painted. Ill fashioned. Male in make. Yet not once had the miniature agent of Chaos lost. For it, the dice always rolled in favor.

And as mortals so oft were. This one was mistaken. Ego causing him to see the world through nonsense colored glasses. He thought the dice rolled in his favor. He believed he was the one Chaos savored.

It caused a transformation. He became a blowhard. A speaker of proclamations. On this faithful night. In answer to these accusations: "It's not mathematically possible." "No one can win every time." "Check his dice." "Yeah, bet the asshole weighted them." "Check his attitude more like it." "I second that - his ass should be kicked out." "Sorry, Johnny, they've got a point..." came the final voice. The reluctant sound of a friend turning his back on friend. "You've got to admit something's going down. No one wins all the time no matter how good their strategy is."

"E tu, Brute!" spat the carrier of mail at his so-called friend. He looked at all their faces. Seven aging balding bastards. Sore losers all of them. That's what Johnny thought. When he didn't see an ounce of sympathy. He stood. Grabbing his dice. Grabbing his miniature. Grabbing his hoodie. "Screw you guys," he proclaimed. He shook his finger. His voice shook too. He wished that last bit wasn't true. "Something is going down. Don't you guys know anything? Obviously Loki's chosen me. As a vessel or something. I'll prove it!" He insisted that. As the other started to laugh. "Watch me!" He yelled over their rising chortles. "Just WATCH!"

He stormed out. He went straight home. He ignored the sounds of Mother calling. Asking him to bring her a soda and chips. He stomped down the stairs. Into his basement. He had to find a way to prove it. There was no time to waste. He threw his hoodie. He threw his dice. He didn't throw his miniature. He sat the statuette next to his box of wires. As he turned on his screen. He stared the small Loki down. Whispering a demand. "Loki don't fail me now."

He searched. The search: loki ritual. He found what he needed. At the very top of the search results. Victory was his. In just one click. A way to summon Loki. And everything he needed was in this house. He wasted no time. A wooden spoon. A glass of gin. A cardboard box. A kazoo. Something to make him laugh hysterically. And something to put in the box. A symbol of what he wanted to change in his life.

He painted the box like it said. Best he could anyway. Mostly it was words in colored marker. Of all the things he wanted changed in his life. He put the signifier inside. The miniature of Loki. Because that was what he wanted. To prove he was a vessel. He loaded up his something funny on his box of wires. The Numa Numa vid. That webcam dancing fool made him laugh his ass off.

He shut the basement door. Shut the lights off. Only the glow of the screen now. Picked up the wooden spoon. Spun with it in his hand counterclockwise. Slowly as he said "I cut the dark circle of light." He picked up the shot glass of gin. "I offer this to Loki." He poured it over his head. Just like the directions said. He took the kazoo. Played the Castlevania theme on it. Best he could. Then he hit play on the Numa Numa vid. And started to laugh.

Laughed harder than he ever had before. Until tears spilled. Following the directions. Visualizing Loki coming here. Into this basement. The directions said he'd know when Loki was here. He didn't know if he'd really know. How he could know for sure? Until the voice came. An extra voice in the Numa Numa song. It said, "Smash the box NOW."

He did. He punched his painted box over and over. Still laughing. But the laughter wasn't forced anymore. He really couldn't stop laughing. Everytime he punched the box he laughed harder. Until his fist sank inside. He grabbed the miniature within and pulled it out. He held it over his head. Screaming "Hail Loki, bringer of gifts! Hail flame-head, bringer of fire!" He panted between bursts of laughter. He looked around the room for the god. He didn't see anyone.

He didn't know what to do.

Until the movement. The figure seemed to come right out of the wall. Slinking towards him. He could see the crown. The crown just like the one on his miniature. He nearly threw up the gin. That's how much excitement came up in him. He'd done it. He'd summoned a god. Who'd grant the wish he put in the box. To become the god's vessel. And then he'd show them. Those seven losers who kicked him out. He'd show them all.

His laughter was victory. Until the shape stepped close enough. Now it was lit by the glow of the screen. And Johnny's laughter stopped. His face changed. To suspicion. The sound from him changed. To accusation.

"Who put you up to this?" Scornfully asked. "Loki's not a woman."

[Guest]

"Loki's not a woman."

It all happened so fast. The room started spinning. He was knocked back. Something slithering all over him. Holding him to his chair. His mouth opening but no sound coming out. The Numa Numa video started over on its own. Louder this time. The figure coming toward him. But now it kept changing shape. As it spoke. Right into his mind. So loud he thought his ears would bleed. Man-wolf-child-monkey-woman-spider-jester-fox and so many others. Shape to shape to shape as the voice pounded words into his skull.

"Know you me? So assuredly? Know you my dance, my fashion, my feature? Know you naught, empty man. Hollow shell. Bag of bones. Wasted life. You dare call? With a demand to be chosen? Think you Chaos chooses clumsy shells to carry out her cunning? Think you the rolls of dice pray of you?" Still shifting shape. The horror was a mere inch from his face. He could feel its breath. Hot and wet. Like hell.

He wanted to sweat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He could do nothing but sit. Until he was told. "So say the rules of ritual. Sixty seconds the summoner has. To state their case. Speak."

He spoke. In his mind, how he experienced these sixty seconds? He was more eloquent than any orator. He was Antony. He was Lincoln. He was Churchill. Such intellect. Such clarity. Such dignity. But outwardly? It was babbles. It was moans. It was whimpers. It was incomprehensible and peppered with weeping. Cut short and trapped in silence when the required minute lapsed.

Then. The figure stopped changing. Its shape back to woman. Unimpressed but alight with triumph. "Such things you say." The voice had changed. No longer ferocious. It was melody incarnate. It filled him with want. More dangerously it filled him with trust. He tried to lean forward. He could not. He wanted to hang from her. On her every word. When she touched him. Fingers stroking his hair. He wanted to sing. He wanted to cry. He wanted his manhood to release. The touch felt that good.

It's when things feel that good that it usually turns very bad. From her hand. Into his skull. Her electrics were released. Current claiming the full of his body. Her chant claiming the room. Granting his unwittingly made wish:
"Up will be down,
Left will be right,
Nothing the same for you
After this night.

Ears will see
Eyes will hear
What once was one way
Will no longer appear.

Laughter to sound fear,
Screams to sound joy,
None will see sense in you
Stupid, silly boy.

In danger all's safe,
In safety naught but danger -
You'll seem chaos' cause
To any passing stranger.

As you have begged it,
No more than this shall you be."

The disorientation was immediate. A whole world turned inside-out, upside-down, front ways, back ways and sideways all at once. Tongue felt thick and fat in his mouth. The instrument could no longer make sound. No more than the gargle that came from him, at least. He'd find over time. That if he wished to speak he'd have to use his nose. What chaos, no? And that was only the tip of this man's iceberg. A grim punishment for his show of ego.

How could a mind survive such shock? Because Chaos willed him to. This one would have life. As long as it was her will. For that was the sweetest part of these events. For this Loki could not get in trouble. Not even a chiding glance from Frey, torchbearer of Mercy. For what Johnny had become? He had asked for.

She circled her new pet. Leaning in close. Lips speaking to his eyes. So he could best hear her. "Called you, wishing to house chaos? Now as its home you shall live. Learn much, twisted child. I'll be watching."

So she would. This one would now draw Chaos to him wherever he tread. If slyly applied, he might serve her well one day. In her war against Brother Thor. But for now she left him there. In his chair. Gargling out of confusion. Seeing the world from the sides through his ears. With his mother pounding on the basement door. Demanding to know what the hell was going on down there.