by Jason Hart
"God is dead.
And we have killed him."
- Friedrich Nietzsche
A stiff, upright tuxedo stood waiting deep in the bowels of Bell South Stadium. The black suit, complete with cuff links, wingtip shoes, and pinstripes, had been hand tailored to be perfectly filled when worn by a very specific person. God, actually. The suit was worn by God.
An anonymous stagehand holding a clipboard and wearing a headset glanced at her watch and called out, "30 seconds!"
Solo shifted His weight and slipped His right hand into His left vest pocket. He pulled out a slightly rumpled 3x5 card He had written a few notes on the night before. Solo silently rehearsed the main points of His speech in His mind.
Solo turned to head down the long tunnel that led into the stadium. As He strode confidently forward, He caught His first glimpse of the massive crowd that filled the far side of the arena. Not a single person was still seated.
All across the stadium, flash bulbs started popping as thousands of civilians-turned-paparazzi snapped what one can only assume were blurry photos. Loud music sprinted out of dozens of mounted speakers, anxious to provide the appropriate atmosphere for their Creator. Heavily outnumbered security guards struggled in vain to prevent hundreds of flower bouquets from being tossed onto the stadium field.
But above all the ruckus, a most beautiful sound began to trump the flurry of activity. It started softly, but quickly grew until every other noise in the stadium was drowned out by it's intensity. It was the collective voice of the people. Calling for their King. Shouting His name. Thousands of voices, raised in unison chanting the name of their God over and over.
A grin took Solo's face hostage as He breached the tunnel doorway and stepped into the stadium. He began to ascend the stairs leading up to the platform, but as He turned and waved to the crowd, He sensed something was wrong. The once deafening chant suddenly sounded different. It wasn't, as He had previously thought, the sound of a thousand voices, it was only the sound of one. And for some reason, the voice reminded Him of someone. Finally, Solo realized that the reason He recognized the voice was because it was coming from His lifelong servant, Abad.
"What's going on?" Solo wondered.
Solo tried to steady Himself as He felt the world around Him beginning to crumble. He wanted to turn His head to see if He could spot Abad, but His neck seemed paralyzed. In fact, it was as if His whole body was stuck in quickly drying concrete. As the stadium around Him faded to gray, then black, Solo could just barely make out His name.
"Solo, wake up."
Abad stood at the edge of Solo's bed, leaning over His master's frame and gently shaking Him into consciousness.
Solo startled awake, and took a deep breath. He scooted Himself to the edge of His king sized bed and swung His legs over the edge of His thick mattress. He sat there for a few moments, propping Himself up with His hands, and collected His thoughts. Solo closed His eyes, stretched and swiveled His neck, and let His shoulders sag.
"Are you okay, Sir?" Abad prompted.
Solo smiled and let out a sigh. He glanced at the floor, "I guess there are some dreams you just don't want to end."
"A dream?" Abad asked curiously, "And tell me Master, what does God dream about?"
"I dreamed I was famous."
You can read my other short stories here.