the beaver god Buc-ee

The Humans Have Odd Friends, Part I: It’s That Rodent Again

To put it kindly, the humans know some odd people.  Tonight we have been invited to dine with a few of them.  Sigyn is a bit apprehensive because they have a rather enormous canine, but I have promised to protect her.

Ah.  These friends would appear to be devotees of the cult of the Beaver God, the one known as Buc-ee.  They have set up a shrine with votive images.

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Apparently soft altar furnishings are acceptable.

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This Buc-ee is evidently a capricious god, one who invites his followers to challenge him to pit their bravery and luck against his might in a ritual known as a Farkel®.

Perhaps I should take a page from his book and increase my fame by allowing puny mortals to challenge me?  Not that any of them could best me at anything!  Not at magic, not at feats of arms, not in contests of wit or cunning.  No, while word would quickly spread that I am invincible, unless I were to throw a few of the matches and pretend to be less than I am, I am afraid that the Midgardians would perceive it as a cruel and unfeeling pastime and turn against me. (No one likes to be set up to fail.)

Best, then continue as I have and seek to work my way into absolute rule* in subtler ways.

Ones that do not involve plush simulacra of my noble physique.

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*I hear that the Provost position at the University is coming vacant.  That might be a good next step…

 

 

Are We Home Yet?

We seem to have been away from home forever.  While I do not begrudge Sigyn one moment of azalea-based merriment, I am more than ready to go home, take a nap, and get out of the company of these tedious mortals.

Arrgh!  Why are we stopping?  Ah, yes.  The humans, with their inferior internal plumbing and frail bodies, have to stop every so often to “Fill what’s empty, empty what’s full, and scratch where it itches,” as the female so delicately puts it.

While the humans enter this sprawling roadside caravanserai and waste another quarter hour of my valuable time debating the merits of one brand of bottled beverage over another, Sigyn and I will examine a strange sculpture that stands in the parking lot.

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It is a little cramped in here.  Sigyn, can you fathom what this is meant to be?

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I am still not sure, but I admit to being more than a little apprehensive.

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In a dozen thousand  years, when I have long since squeezed what I can out of this miserable realm and it hangs, a sucked-dry fruit on the lowest branch of Yggdrasil, archaeologists from distant realms will visit and try to make sense of what remains.  I suspect this bronze monstrosity and others like it will perplex them.  Eventually, they will put two and two together and realize that is a three-dimensional representation of the Beaver God Buc-ee, a pseudo-deity associated with clean toilets and dubious snack foods. (He and I have met before.)  Their scholars will debate for hundreds of years why an oversize rodent would peddle jerky, fudge, and motor fuel.

Do you know what?  I have no idea.

More perplexing is the Great Beaver’s dedication to public restrooms.  It is a scientific fact that beavers can’t abide the sound of running water.  The sound of continuous flushing should be enough to drive him utterly mad and trigger a building spate of epic proportions.  One would think the cleaning staff would be mucking mud and sticks out of the stalls around the clock.

Perhaps the Great Buc-ee, thoroughly stuffed and sated on his own superabundant snack foods, has grown too corpulent to effect construction.  It’s a theory.

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