Wrath of the God of Dance

I’m the God of Dance. Ridiculous? Ask the children of Hamelin. I can compel anything living to dance. I taught the snake charmers. I’m responsible for dancing bears, which I regret.

            Other gods mess around with lightning and thunder. Not me. What good are those powers on a clear day?

            I’m not vicious by immortal standards, but I am vengeful. Recently I’ve been listening to a lot of Beyonce. That woman gets it. When life gives you lemons, hit a fire hydrant with a baseball bat.

            Yesterday I was minding my own business, creating spontaneous flash mobs to rob people blind. Yes, I can do that. The choreography can be whatever I like. If I want you to drop your cash during the chorus then kiss your Benjamins goodbye.

            I’d just made fifty thousand dollars in Times Square for a grand total of three minutes work. All the single ladies put their hands up, so did the married ones. And the men. They also put their cash down, then a sexy cop grabbed up all the cash while moonwalking, I mix my moves, sue me.

            The soon to be screwed piggie danced his way away from the bag with his jazz hands raised. Then some meathead slammed into me looking like the spawn of an elephant and a dump truck.

            All he had to do was apologise. I would have let it slide, cha-cha slide perhaps. But no. He had to be the big guy. “Watch where you’re going,” he said.

            “I was, moron. I know those eyes are deep in your skull but try using them some time.” I picked myself up with a simple flip from my back onto my feet. I practice what I preach.

            “Want me to knock the crap outa you?” He asked.

            “Does anyone ever answer yes to that?” I looked the mountain of muscle in the eyes which was difficult. Either they were grey, or it was just the shadows. I saw his muscles tense.

            “Screw you.”

            Nope. I was done being lenient. Mess with a bull and you get the horns. Mess with a god and you get the wrath. Big guy like him, probably not a fan of ballet.

            “What the hell?” His little eyes bulged as he began to pirouette. Given that he had my full attention, he was doing it really well.

            “This is me, screwing you.” I stopped him, his leg lifted as far as his taught muscles would go. “Dance now, until the day you die, for I am the Lord of the Dance says I.” I stepped back and clapped in time as he began to spin again. Round and round, faster and faster.

            A crowd gathered to watch. Many of them hadn’t noticed they were missing the money that I had zipped up in a gym bag. People began to laugh, pulling out their camera phones and recording the colossus as he danced to the moves of Swan Lake.

            Tears rolled down his bacon-built face. Sweat began to stain the pits beneath his arms. Without mercy, I watched. Pulling out my own phone I played Run the World.

            His shoulders began to twitch in time. His legs fanned as the song began. People sang along as my puppet played his part. The crowd didn’t know what to think when the passionate dancer pissed himself.

            When the song was gone, I faded into the crowd. My taste for revenge was sated, and I wanted a vanilla Frappuccino from Starbucks. With great power, comes great appetite.

            Seventeen people formed the line in the coffee shop. Seventeen people in my way. Like Moses parting the red sea, I made the suckers dab for me. Walking past stunned mortals, I made my selection, paid with stolen money, and took my receipt.

            People say a meal made yourself tastes better. I’m a god so there’s no chance I’m lowering myself to menial labour. The meal I make others pay for tastes best on my tongue.

            With a drink like blended ice cream filling me up, I watched a doomed police officer nod to me from beyond the glass. The blissful smile of a man enjoying his drink turned to a predator’s lip licking as two men in blue walked in.

            “Sir. Can you please show us what’s in the bag?” They were the kind of guys you expect to see defending excessive use of force at a press conference. One had his hand on his holster. Not cool.

            There were rain clouds forming outside. I picked up my paper cup, no plastic, I like the world thank you. I walked towards the men in blue and Michael Jackson’s Thrillered them out of the door.

            Sipping my drink, I had them soul train their way around their car. Then the rain fell, and I had to pay homage to Rihanna. Two out of shape men performing Umbrella on a car is delightful any day of the week. Two police officers? That was priceless.

            Sadly, I can’t make people sing. That would have been the icing on the cake. It’s swings and roundabouts really. When they were done with Umbrella, I sent them off with Singing in the Rain because I’m cheesy like that and who doesn’t like a little bit of Gene Kelly? Using their batons as umbrellas only made it more comical.

            Dancing the nuisances out of sight, I carried on with my day. In Grand Central Station I made some more money as people danced to U Can’t Touch This by MC Hammer, even though only I could hear it. People recorded it on their phones. The internet will fill in the blanks for me.

            With enough cash in my bag to buy a local bank, I rolled out of the station with a smile on my face. Gods don’t sleep. I looked to the horizon and wondered what was next for me. I like to keep up with the latest trends. Tiktok has been a great source of inspiration recently. I’m planning a bank robbery choreographed to the soundtrack of Guardians of the Galaxy. I just want to see people making it rain to the sound of Come and Get Your Love by Redbone as someone plays the part of Star Lord. If that sounds childish, all I can say is thank you. You have to stay young somehow.