SHUTTLE to BAD MOUNTAIN

 “A has-been athlete discovers the key to 

winning a supernatural badminton tournament hosted by God.”

A blue giant rips through the foliage with sweat dripping down his brow. The Herald’s stony muscles twist underneath his dark leotard with superhuman strength, shoving tropical trees aside like shower curtains. He escapes the green of the jungle and sits at the base of the mountain. 

Goddamn, thinks the Herald. Long-ass walk. He covers his eyes from the sun, looking up. The equilateral triangle of the mountain reaches past the clouds. A bright, reflective light shines at its peak. 

The Herald is nearly at the top, now, blending in with the sky as the air turns purple. He grabs the edges of the peak, sheer cliffs, and pulls himself atop the summit. There’s a flat camp with a pyramid-shaped tent in the very center. Smaller than my office, he thinks, I don’t believe I can fit inside. 

“It’s alright, you can come in,” says a kind, crisp voice. The Herald lifts the white flap and kneels, his head tangent with the fabric ceiling of the entrance. Inside the tent is blackness, and the unnatural sense that something is alive here. The thin glint of light reflects on deep human eyes, puncturing that darkness

“God,” says the Herald, “we have a visitor.”

“Mm.” There’s a calculating pause. “How curious.” God watches ants crawl in a thin line through the flap into his tent. “Then let the tournament begin.” 

SHUTTLE to BAD MOUNTAIN

By Jack-Henry Lee

Space. A flaming, silver shuttle hurtles towards Earth. The spaceship pierces through Pangea, shredding the mass into the continents. The spaceship pierces through the crust, pierces through the mantle, and pierces through a second crust. The shuttle flies into the Earth’s hollow center. Another planet spins inside, an artificial star rotating around its axis. A massive mountain juts out of the planet like an ice cream cone. Forests and jungles surround the base, with an advanced supercity sprawling over most of the surface. The crashed shuttle sends smoke out of the forest border

✱   ✱   ✱

Lucy sits in the forest outside of Agartha, the metropolis. She watches prehistoric ants the size of her titan fists crawl out of their anthole. She wears furs, a gigantic bear’s pelt covering her back. The bear’s dead mouth engulfs her face, two sharp eyes peering out of the maw’s shadow. A twig snaps. Lucy heaves herself off the ground and curls her fingers into vicious fists. A gray being, only a couple feet tall, teeters from behind the trees. He wears oval, white sunglasses accentuating his large round head. A transparent green visor barely touches the top of his shades. He waves a stick around, batting at a fly as big as himself. 

Lucy rubs her chin with two fingers, tilting her head. The little being makes contact with the fly. Lucy blinks, and the fly is gone. The being is gone too, and in his place is a three foot tall magenta man. His arms are muscular, compound eyes, and he wears the same glasses and visor as the previous figure. Lucy’s eyes widen.

“OHOHO!” She runs over to the little man. “Ahem, my name is Luciford M-O-U-R-N Mourningstar. Call me Lucy for short.” She holds out her hand to shake. “Are you in need of an agent?”

“Oigobonino,” responds the magenta man in a deep, masculine tone. He holds out a business card. ‘The Pro’ is typed across it in a generic sans font. Lucy takes the card.

“PLEASURE to meet you, Pro,” she says with the fast speech of a lawyer. “You’re my prize player, we’re gonna make it big, I guarantee you!”

✱   ✱   ✱

“EVERYBODYYYYYY PUH-LEEEEEEEEASE PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE NUMBER ONE BADMINTON SUPERSTAR! THE PRESIDENT OF THE ARCHANGELS CLUB! THE ONE… THE ONLY… SEEEEEEX MIIIIIIIIIIIIKE!” 

A crowd full of titans and demigods cheers as the celebrity enters the badminton arena, a glorious stadium in the middle of Agartha. He’s colossal, pecs as big as boobs. Muscles ripple across his golden skin like coiled machinery. A leopard thong is the only thing covering him, his groin adorned with an impressive shuttlecock. Thin lips and cruel eyes on an almond-shaped head are surrounded by shoulder-length blonde hair. Sex Mike waves to the crowd, suave and confident, only breaking his even stride to pose ridiculously for the excited audience. He spins his racket with one hand like a ball and chain, catapulting it into the sky. It disappears. The crowd goes silent. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh… 

THWACK.

Sex Mike catches the racket, arm extended into the air, staring at the ground with a proud smile. His opponent already stands before him, a chartreuse giant sweating profusely. The two take to their places on either side of the net. 

Lucy and the Pro watch from the audience. The Pro now stands five feet tall, with orange skin and new dark hair pulled back in a topknot. Lucy has shed her primal outfit for a sleek leotard and a tie around her neck. A wide wrestler’s mask continues to hide her face from view. 

“This guy’s a real douchebag-- I mean, that’s what everybody keeps telling me. BUT he’s also God’s favorite athlete right now, a great first contender--”

“Igobigobogo…” mutters the Pro.

“Wh--What? You’re not excited?”

The Pro shrugs his shoulders. 

“This, uh, this is the most infamous badminton star we’re talking about here! What better way for me! I mean for us -- for YOU -- to make an entrance?” 

Sex Mike swings his racket, the tendons in his arm stretching and dislocating like putty. The shuttlecock shoots forward, a rocket colliding with the chartreuse giant’s forehead. It slows down as it sinks into the skin, before it accelerates in an instant, shooting out the back of his head and spraying the court with violet blood. Sex Mike motions jacking off with his hand on the chartreuse giant's corpse as the crowd roars with laughter and applause. Then silence. Everyone looks up, way up the mountain. A glint of light reflects from the top. The mountain is still. The crowd erupts once again.

“LADIEEEEEEES, GENTLEMENNNNNN, FRIENDS OF ALL KINDS! SEX MIKE TAKES ANOTHER YEAR’S TROPHY… that is… unless anyONE WANTS TO CHALLENGE HIIIIIMMMMMMM?!”

 Lucy elbows the Pro. “This is our chance!” She scrambles to put away her briefcase, and stumbles into the aisle with the Pro in tow. “WE challenge!” 

Sex Mike squints his eyes. “Well, well, well… Luciford! Great to see you! Did you get a new condo in the city? Because last time you showed your smelly face you were living outside! In NATURE! BARF!” The audience reacts, half gasping and half acting as a laugh track for Sex Mike. Lucy and the Pro walk through the crowds into the arena. 

“Nah, I still live in the woods,” says Lucy genuinely, “by the way, love what you’ve done with your penis! I didn’t know tiny cocks were back in style!” Sex Mike quietly fumes, trying to keep his fake smile straight, eye twitching. 

“HA! Hahaha! Funny! We’ve got a comedian over here, gang!” The audience laughs awkwardly, the mood shifting in Lucy’s favor. Lucy cautiously steps over the corpse of the chartreuse giant, pulling the Pro by the wrist. “You know you can’t challenge me, right Lucy? You’ve been cast out of Agartha; fallen angel alert! Literally God’s least favorite person!” Sex Mike lets out a confident laugh. The light atop Bad Mountain glimmers, the base starts rumbling softly. 

“I’m not challenging you… he is,” she says, pushing the Pro in front of her.

“Bogoingogo,” says the Pro nonchalantly.

“Pfft, hilarious, you make me laugh, honestly,” remarks Sex Mike, not laughing. “God?” The mountain stills, the rumbling stops. He furrows his brow for only a second before squinting his eyes: “Then let’s DANCE!”

The referee tosses the shuttlecock to Sex Mike’s side of the court. The Archangel sets it on the shuttlecock attached to his crotch, and pelvic thrusts it into the air. Sex Mike spins, and serves diagonally.

THOOM.

The shuttlecock smashes into the ground on the Pro’s side. Fault. He looks back at Lucy. She cups her hands around her mouth: 

“DON’T WORRY, PRO! BUT ALso everything is on you, bUT THATS OK DON’T WORRY its just entirely up to you…” 

The Pro straightens his visor. His posture strengthens, muscles tightening. Sex Mike serves again.

THWA-DOOM.

Sex Mike laughs heartily. Smoke rises from behind him. A crater fills his side of the court. Fault. Sex Mike looks appalled.

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME!” screams Sex Mike. “Oh, it’s ON! You’re PULP! You’re FUCKING ORANGE PULP ON THE HEEL OF MY FUCKING SIX-TOED PERFECT FUCKING FEET.” The two athletes serve, hit, and return in an endless barrage of shuttlecocks. 

THWICK, WHACK, CLAP, SHOOM, FOOM, CRACK, FWACK.

21 to 21. Tie game, win by two. The Pro stands tall, gigantic. He’s hulkingly muscular from his point victories. Deep indigo blue skin, cool marbled obsidian, purple veins pulsing, and it’s the Pro’s serve.

 “Ogo,” says the Pro in a voice deeper than an ocean, “Igobigobo.”

Sex Mike shrieks and pulls at his blonde hair. “I’m gonna rip out your GODDAMN ARMS! I’M GONNA FUCKING RIP OUT YOUR GODDAMN ARMS AND PORK YOUR TORSO HOLES LIKE A HORNED-UP PUP!”

The Pro concentrates and serves, a diagonal arc of energy beaming into Sex Mike’s court. Sex Mike bunches up the muscles in his arms, his golden skin bursting, revealing fiery muscle mass underneath. He connects with the Pro’s volley, the shuttlecock wrapped in energy, suspended on Sex Mike’s racket. Sex Mike’s arms catch fire, and in an explosive burst, he releases the hit and sends the shuttlecock rocketing towards the Pro. The Pro dodges the doomsday missile at the last second. Fault.

Fuck, thinks Lucy. If the Pro tried to return that serve he’d have been split in half…

22 to 21. Sex Mike’s serve. The next point wins. Sex Mike’s arms are burnt crisps at his sides. In an instant, his limbs explode, uncovering brand new arms made of brilliant diamond. He swings his racket in a circle again, like a reaper’s scythe. 

“Mmm…” moans Sex Mike, licking his lips, “You think you can beat THESE bad boys? The GUN SHOW? My diamond DOGS?” He flexes his gem-encrusted arms.

The Pro shifts his feet, nervously. He looks back, wiping sweat away from his sunglasses. Lucy can feel the fear behind his shades. 

“Fuck…” she mumbles under her breath. “I’m sorry, the Pro!” shouts Lucy from the sidelines. “Fuck it…” she mutters. “Do what feels right! For you this time.” She looks down at the ground. “I can find my own way,” she says, looking up at Bad Mountain.

The Pro nods, and gives her a thumbs up. He faces Sex Mike, and lowers his visor. “Ref,” commands the Pro in his deep voice, “I yield.” 

Sex Mike’s eyes burst wide open. “WHAT! Oh, c’MON, referee! Can’t you see this poor, alien soul is dumb as rocks? He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, poor thing!”

“Pretty sure I know exactly what I’m saying,” responds the Pro. Lucy gives two thumbs up from the sidelines. 

“FUCK. LET ME MURDERIZE YOU INTO MILLIMETER CHUNKS,” shouts Sex Mike. The referee waves his hands, the audience in murmuring rancor. Suddenly the mountain rumbles. God has chosen.

“It’s decided,” says the referee. “Sex Mike wins this year’s tournament!” The crowd erupts in confused applause. Sex Mike paces in a circle, screams into the air, and snaps his racket over his knee. The Pro jogs back down to Lucy. 

“You can speak now!” she exclaims.

“Yeah.”

“Well, my prize player: we’ve always got next year!” says Lucy. 

The Pro rubs his shoulder. “Actually, I don't think badminton is what I’m meant to be a pro at. I want to experiment, try new things. I saw a cafe was hiring on the way into the city.” He shrugs. “I don’t want to lock down my career that fast, I guess.”

“Oh,” Lucy looks down. “No, yeah, good for you, the Pro.” God’s white pyramid glints down at Lucy. An intimidating reminder of rebellion. “Yeah, yeah, go for it the Pro! And if you’re ever in need of an agent of any kind, even a barista agent, you know where to find me.”

“The woods?”

“Yes, the woods,” says Lucy.

✱   ✱   ✱

Sex Mike shatters his trophy into the corpse of the chartreuse giant. He exits the arena and hops inside a stretch limousine. Two figures sit in the back, cloaked in shadow.

“Pathetic,” says a lean silhouette in a seductive, syrupy voice. “‘Number one superstar,’ my ass.” 

“Seriously a failure, man. Like, I know you just won the whole thing, but you kinda came across as lame, dude,” adds the stocky silhouette in a baritone voice. 

Sex Mike seethes, holding himself back from shoving their faces through the car’s window. 

“Next time, take out the encore opponent when you first have the chance,” says the first voice. She leans back into the seat. The limousine speeds around a corner and drives deeper into the city of Agartha.