What are ya gonna call it Dude?

Earth's god was deeply troubled, he urgently needed a horse to come first and it looked like his bet was about to pay off. Although it wasn't so much a horse he was betting on big to turn his rapidly fading fortune around, 'No, it's nothing so grand' he often thought wistfully to himself, it was just that, this time, he could not believe the filth which he'd staked all of his creation on. For the last few thousand years Earth's god had been much admired, amongst the gods of other planets at least, for his ability to select particularly vile life forms from Earth to be featured on a reality tv show. A show very similar in format to Big Brother we are so familiar with but on a much bigger scale. However, his grandiose experiment, of letting life on his planet spiral into a mesmerizing horrific soup from which from which to calculatingly pick a winner, had recently been feeling a rather uncomfortable financial squeeze. Right where it hurt too, these days he was constantly having to count the silver in his robe for beer and his missus had stopped putting out because he could no longer sustain the payments on her obsession for accessories.

All knowingly, he knew it was the commercial pressures of today’s mass entertainment, the advertisers non stop threat of taking their product to other networks in other universes. Worse, they were winning the battle and it seemed to him that, until recently, his efforts had been left unnoticed amongst the wash of advertising and propaganda the audiences were flooded with nightly. Compounding the Earth’s god dilemmas was the audience, mainly lesser and half gods, becoming ever more demanding, wanting ever more viler and revolting life forms to gawp at. Well, tonight he’d show them all, the uneasy feeling could, after all, be nothing more than a slight wavering in his ability to create. He had been out of practice a while and his hands were getting a bit shaky. Privately, he knew he could become oddly sensitive and self-aware where his creatures were concerned and it deeply regaled him that Earth had become renown only because of it’s filth.

Meanwhile, modern times being modern times, as well as his current financial woes, dictated that tonight’s show urgently needed to be remembered for Earth’s vilest and not the jingle for MacUniverse, another of his creations which had managed to escape his weary clutches. Still he had reason to be quietly optimistic, as just a few weeks ago, there had emerged, amongst a few long term pet projects, a creature whose repulsiveness had even astonish a hardened breeder as himself. This thing, naturally, could only be a human, or rather a sub species of this abhorrent race, amongst whom he was known as Rock climber.

Now, Rock climber, whose existence had previously been restricted to climbing the rock features for which his planet was famous, had refined a bizarre form of human behaviour, namely the compulsion for naming things, to an all time low. The omnipotent masses had been enthralled by these parasitic opportunists who often found themself in a position to be able to name the geological formations on their planet, and by the mere stroke of a pen, reduce them to their shitty level. Mesmerized by their billions, as mongooses are by cobras, they had tuned in to watch aghast as universally unique rock spires and grandiose mountains were christened with filthy names such as Sheep fuckers Range, Long Shlong Peak or Baby Shit Wall. The Rock climbers never seemed to dry up their nauseating naming well and continually surprised the ever observing gods and half gods with their filthy climbing route names, usually involving dog excretions or their mother’s genitalia or both. Their perverse repressed obsessions constantly finding expression in the names of their obscure creations, the more obscene the better it seemed.

This morning Earth’s god had, preferring to rely on his ancient methodology rather then luck, carefully selected a Rock climber from his planet and delivered him, mightily confused, to the show’s producers who had instantly, and rather unceremoniously, shoved him before the huge audience usually in attendance when ever anyone has been nominated to leave the house. Yes, that’s right. One of your kind found itself suddenly involved in one of those never quite fully satisfactorily explained climbing accidents.

In order not to be held liable and sued for defamation (which is unfortunately the way of this and many other worlds) we’ll call him climber X. Life had been going well for climber X when suddenly and for no apparent reason, all was not as it had ever been before. Unbeknownst to him like Hitler, Chairman Mao, Pol Pot and a host of other notoriously bad infestations before him, he had been plucked from the hide of his planet. And now, most disconcertingly, he found himself in front of a vast studio audience, closely observed with eager fascination by billions upon billions of Beings the like of which he had never encountered before, not even in the worst of his most terrifying nightmares. The lights were blinding and at first he thought he had taken that deadly whipper he had known so long would one day come. “I’m well and truly screwed now” he thought to himself not quite believing what he was seeing and not quite understanding why he was, for want of a better word, 'dead'.

The second before he had been high up on a rock face, very certain that all knots were securely tied and that his belayer was, unusually, wide awake. He knew this for sure as he had just been passed the can of spray paint with which he was in the act of spray painting his name, in bold blood red letters, matching his Mohawk, upon the rock face, for all the world to see. His latest, as yet un-named, creation was one of his less inspiring efforts in both scale and short listed names. He knew the route was only 21 metres long and slightly contrived as it only narrowly managed to squeeze in between the routes of other climbers, but, it was his, all his! Those few metres had been conquered and over bolted by him and by strict abidance of the laws set down in stone since time began he alone deserved the right to name the thing; call it what ever the hell he liked, so not only was he going to name it, he was going to write his name, in blood red, into mankind’s history as well.

Standing here now before an audience of uncountable billions, and having watched enough reality television, it slowly began to dawn on him what was required. He was here to try and explain away a very dirty conscience. He knew that those Beings watching behind those bright lights wanted answers and they wouldn't put up with any bullshit. He would no doubt be required to explain the dark urges, only he was at a loss to how. For the very first time in his miserable life words failed him, no matter how he started the opening sentences in his head they would seem conceited and false.

Tentatively, he explained that as far as he was concerned the naming of climbs was tradition amongst his kind, the passing on of myths. Why he felt obliged to claim his own stake in history in such a vile way he was at a loss to explain. “Well it’s like this…” he began intuitively knowing that this was going to end badly. According to climber X it had been rife since he could remember. A man with a theodolite and an altitude metre had named some big mountains in the Himalaya and he knew of various famous explorers who had also done the same, naming things willy nilly without much rhyme or reason and briefly, he had wondered, unfortunately aloud, whether this had anything to do with lack of oxygen. As far as he was concerned he was part of history and the method one chose to become immortal was irrelevant. In the end nobody really cared how universal fame was achieved, even if it was for climbing rocks, for he knew that in the annals of history notoriety was as impressive as sainthood. “...and what do you all make of that then?” He concluded, warming up his crowd.

He sensed, no doubt through experience gained whilst travelling in search of rock Meccas, that these particular natives were getting restless, they seemed surprisingly dissatisfied with his worldly ramblings. He was cutting no ice and it occurred to him that they might be getting bored. Was it possible that inadvertently he was a major disappointment? He heard a few whispers amongst the front row and realised they thought him less interesting than Hitler. Inexplicably this thought bugged him immensely. He became more agitated in his explanations, jumping up and down like the preforming clown he had been all his life. The survival fight or flight mechanism of a failed comedian reverting to racist or bodily function humour kicking in. Remnants of his carefully nurtured ego still intact, he began to believe that his performance might, just yet, save his sorry arse.

A change of tact was required to regain their interest, he’d give these things something they might be able to relate to: “the great Buddha once said...” he began again, blissfully unaware that His Holy Eminence was in the audience, now wide awake in seat 69 third row, “...that the greatest of all sins is ignorance!” He was sure he had read this somewhere, “...therefore I was merely informing the public of the names of my humble creations, don’t you see?” he continued, beginning to regain some measure of self-worth, “Not only did I single handily stop the spread of ignorance but I also stopped humanity drowning in a Tsunami of bad Karma...” Perhaps he thought they were angels and this was the Pearly gate; if he had to atone for his sins he would do so in style.

Gesturing wildly he started shouting, telling the audience; Hitler unlike himself had never conquered any new worlds. All the territory his armies had conquered were known lands, he had simply renamed them. His own contribution eclipsed Hitler’s manyfold as he had on numerous occasions very nearly lost his life trying to achieve his selfless aim for the glory of man kind and not for some senseless grab for territory. Weren’t these acts of self sacrifice worthy of forgiveness? Pity pity please? he pleaded, his voice, most entertainingly, hitting the high notes as his throat ran dry.

The show producers, rather more relieved now climber X had somewhat regained his footings, agreed amongst themselves that he had been an excellent choice. Of all the critters available within the universes right now, he was defiantly the most disgusting. At his core he was just as big a Nazi egomaniac as that other wild blob of organic material that he so entertainingly perceived to be his competitor for a place in history. This creep was a cut above the usual eviction night fare. Never pausing to dwell on just how incredible it was that the masses considered this stuff entertainment, they began congratulating themselves. Deep down they didn’t really care how low was low just as long as the show churned out a profit it would keep the Bigger Boss of their back. They would attempt to give climber X just enough rope, not to hang himself with but just sufficient to keep him dangling slightly longer to satisfy the enthralled audience. As soon as climber X’s verbal diarrhoea had come spluttering to a messy end, it would be time for the public vote.

When the time finally does come for the final curtain, the viewers who had been telepathing incessantly all week, are asked, in a much anticipated part of the show, whether it will be thumbs up or down for this week’s evictee. An important moment for the producers as the advertisers demanded a huge spectator base, and as Earth's god has taught us, viewer numbers are all important when trying to survive in an already over crowded reality show industry. But what about the survival of our hero you ask? Well, if it was the thumbs up he would be allowed to stay, no doubt eventually sold of to some freak show travelling the outer regions of lesser known universes. Thumbs down means he would suffer the worse of all possible fates and return to his previous existence. A hell that even the most demonic of gods secretly found hard to stomach as they had grown perversely fond of climber X and his hat full of obscenely mesmerizing magic tricks.

Climber X knew instinctively that he had finally arrived at the place the priests had long ago told him about. It was as if he had shrunk, he felt immensely small. What was it he was supposed to do again? He couldn’t remember. Was there anything he was supposed to say at this moment? If only he had listened. Suddenly he felt incredibly juvenile. Somehow he could feel that those in charge of this show were collectively holding their breath, as whoever was out there judging him, was reaching its final verdict.

For Earth’s god, as ever watching in the wings, as well, a daunting moment, with a gambler's uncertainty creeping in. These crowds were always unpredictable and things could yet go very badly for his unlikely star. There was a lot resting on those scrawny shoulders and it wasn't just the obscene Mohawk. Could he have badly misjudged him? Had his new found policy of continuously out grossing the public gone too far? Had he misread their perversion tolerance level? Or had the audience become too desensitised to the vile ideas dreamt up by one of the most disgusting minds known?

Not to worry, all the questions of this self doubting god will soon be answered, as soon as the commercial break is over.

“What’s the matter dude? You’re getting paint all over my new rope…” Climber X heard his belayer’s concerned voice coming out off the void. “Wow shit man, you’re shaking like a dog shitting apricot seeds. Are ya gonna fall…?”

He did. Hard. Thuck, thuck, thuck... Inexplicably the shiny new bolts ripped out of his route as he plunged downward. Shot down in flames into the bottomless abyss filled to the brim with unimaginable self disgust and unfathomable self loathing. He didn’t know how long after the sickening thud he had carefully opened his eyes, knowing he had blown something big. He didn’t really know what, only that it was bad. Almost unbelievably bad. “Think I’m gonna puke” he had whispered hoarsely, before the never ending darkness came.

Did he imagine it or had it been real? Had he truly heard his belayer correctly? Not that it really matters where Climber X has gone, soon what went before won’t even be a distant memory, he will just never know that he had been absolutely right. “Now there’s a great name for your new route Dude..” was indeed how his belayed had replied to his, soon to be famous, last words.