God of Thunder

One wet Tuesday evening, the God of Thunder was playing pool with his good friend Darren down their local pub, The Red Lion.
“Hey!” he said, causing Darren to miss a game-winning shot into the middle pocket.
Darren, who was used to this kind of petty behaviour, exhaled steadily through his nose and said, “What?”
“You still seeing whatshername?”
“You mean Liz?”
“If she’s the one with the huge” – he cupped his hands in front of his chest – “then yeah, sure.”
“Do you mind?” said Darren. “This could be the girl I marry, potential mother of my children.”
“Lucky buggers,” said his friend with a smirk, then launched an absolute monster of a shot into the bottom right corner. The black went in, but the cue ball careened across the pub and smacked one of the regulars in the back of the head, killing him instantly.
“Bloody hell!” said the landlady. “Brian was literally my best customer!”
“But Jackie,” said the God of Thunder with mock hurt, “I thought I was your best customer.” He cocked one eyebrow. “No, wait… I’m your best-looking customer.”
“You’re a bloody liability is what you are,” said the landlady with an indulgent shake of her head.
The God of Thunder blew her a kiss and turned back to Darren.
“Burger or pizza, mate?”
“Not fussed,” said Darren, draining the last of his pint.
“Kebab it is, then.”
He strutted out of the door and held it open for a couple of attractive, rain-drenched students who were on their way in.
“Bit wet tonight, ladies?” he said with a wink.
They rolled their eyes and pushed past. Darren winced with embarrassment, but the God of Thunder snapped his fingers, bringing forth a flash of lightning like it was the punchline to a brilliant joke.
“Boom,” he said, just as the peel rolled and rattled across the city.
He marched off, head held high, blond hair whipping in the wind, while Darren scurried along behind, hunching his shoulders and wishing he’d worn a hat.
“Yeah, he’s a bit of a cock,” he said to Liz later that night, “but I feel sorry for him in a way. He doesn’t have many real friends.”
“Why doesn’t he hang out with the other gods?”
“He says they’re boring.”
“But he hangs out with you?”
“Hey, cheeky!” said Darren, rolling on top of her and pinning down her arms. He gazed into her eyes and thought, Yeah, I think you’re the one.

Giles Montgomery writes ads for a living and fiction for joy, previously seen in Storgy, Spelk, fat cat magazine, Tiny Molecules and Reflex Fiction. He lives near London with his family and can be found on Twitter @gilesmon.

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