Clem Percy

Clem Percy, Descendent of Gods, by Morgan Hoffman

Clem Percy had always believed in the supernatural, so when the lady with green hair turned his friend Bubba into a boulder, it was merely the confirmation of a long-held belief. It was Bubba’s fault, anyway. He had gone into the old mine shaft despite Clem’s vehement protests. The threat of ghosts, goblins or worse was merely superstitious nonsense, and, besides, Bubba wasn’t scared of anything. He never had been, even when he and Clem were kids in the Arkansas foothills and Clem would try to scare him with horror stories. The only tale that ever frightened Bubba was the story of the men that were killed by a giant one-eyed monster protecting its sheep. And that had nothing to with the men’s deaths, but rather Bubba’s odd sheep fixation . . .

All of this passed through Clem’s mind as he scrambled madly towards the patch of light that he knew to be the entrance to the mine shaft. As he ran, he noticed an odd hissing sound, which grew faint as he drew closer to the surface. He had no idea what the noise was, and he didn’t care that much, either. It just wasn’t nearly as important as getting out of the mine alive.

When Clem returned home, he had some trouble convincing any of his kinfolk that Bubba had been petrified by a woman with long, wavy green hair that seemed to move of its own accord. In fact, some even seemed to feel that Bubba had had an accident, and that Clem was making up stories to cover his own part in it. Or, as his grandfather put more bluntly, “How do we know thet you ain’t killed Bubba and hid ‘is body somewheres?”

All of this suspicion started to make Clem feel that he had to prove that Bubba really was a statue, and not chopped up in little bits and fed to the hogs. But if proving his innocence meant going back into that old mine, then Clem was going to let his family think whatever they wanted. And since they had no way of proving that Bubba wasn’t a statue, Clem wasn’t all that worried. He didn’t like the way his own family distrusted him, but there was really nothing he could do about it.

One day, several weeks after Bubba’s unfortunate encounter with the stony-eyed lady; a man appeared in front of Clem. By now, though, Clem was an old hand when it came to supernatural events, and he barely even blinked. The man had a crown of grapevines and wore a toga. But what Clem really liked was the shotgun the man carried; since Bubba’s disappearance, none of his family would trust him with firearms of any sort. In fact, if Clem held so much as a butter knife, he tended to get as much alone time as he wanted.

“Are you one Clem Percy?” asked the man.

Clem was rather surprised that the man would know his name, but he managed to nod in reply.

“And did you have a friend who recently met a rather unusual demise?”

“Yeah, Bubba Clampett. You ain’t from ‘round here. How’d you know ‘bout Bubba?”

“I am Hermes, messenger of the gods. I have come to ask if you –-“

“Now hold on a gol-durn second there. I don’t know about you being a god, but you certainly ain’t herpes. My cousin Edna Mae has herpes, and it ain’t pretty. And what does herpes have to do with Bubba? You sayin’ he gave it ta Edna?”

“I know not this herpes you speak of. I am Hermes, messenger of the gods, and I have a que—“

“Hermes, you say? Coulda sworn ya said herpes. Anyway, how can I help you?”

“Deep underground, in the darkest, most forsaken place on Earth, there is an unspeakable evil, one that must be destroyed before it comes to the surface again. You are the man to do this – you are the descendent of Perseus, son of Zeus, who slew the first Gorgon, long ago.”

“The what? Now, I don’t know ‘bout no Gorgons, but there’s a mine over here as that has a rather strange lady in it. You know she turned Bubba to stone? And I coulda’ sworn I heard her hissin’.”

Hermes looked slightly frustrated, but plowed on nonetheless. He hadn’t been alive all these years without developing some diplomacy, and he knew that yelling at the man, or turning him into a toad would get him nowhere. If only Zeus would stop making these damn Gorgons, life would be less hectic. But no one ever said that being a god was easy.

Heaving a sigh, Hermes made one last effort. “So you know where the monster lives? Most excellent. Take this weapon and mirror, dash on down to where she lives, and dispatch her, if you would. Just take care not to look her in the face, or you’ll end up like your friend Bubba.”

“Now you just wait a second . . .” But Hermes had already left, and Clem was left holding a large mirror and a rather fine 8-gauge shotgun. He pondered what Hermes had suggested for a few minutes, and then realized that this was the perfect opportunity to prove to his family that Bubba really was stoned, as it were.

Clem found the mouth of the cave without any problem, but forcing himself to go inside took a lot more effort. And in Arkansas, effort is measured in six-packs. Unfortunately, a side effect of this unit of measurement is that for the more effort expended, the less a chance there is of anything actually getting done. Because of this unique system, Clem woke up the next day with a headache, a shotgun, a mirror, and no idea how he had acquired any of them.

This was not the first time Hermes had run into such difficulties. In the millennia he had been alive, he had discovered that divine blood did not improve with age. In fact, for each generation removed from the original infusion, the recipients tended to get slower, fatter, and dumber. The only thing god-like about them seemed to be their ability to drink liquor. This knowledge prompted Hermes to check up on Clem’s progress, and what he found did not please him.

“You got drunk when you were supposed to be killing the Gorgon? What the Hades were you thinking? She could be out turning whole villages to stone, and you got hammered?”

“Yeah, I figure I expended almost as much effert as the day we helpt’ Cloyd move into ‘is new house. ‘Course, I didn’t break nearly so much stuff this time, but that don’t count for much but aes-thingies.”

“Aesthetics? And what connection does that have to alcohol or effort, you ignorant cretin? I suggest that you get yourself back to the cave, and do the job this time! That means no beer!”

So that was how Clem found himself trudging through the woods, once again clutching the mirror and shotgun, but no beer, the loss of which greatly angered him. And there is nothing so dangerous in the wilderness as a pissed-off, heavily armed, hung-over redneck.

Clem once again made his way to the mine, and this time made it as far as the entrance before having second thoughts. He stood there until he remembered Hermes saying something about “divine retribution,” which Clem didn’t understand, and “a big-ass lightning bolt,” which he understood very well. So, without a choice, he crept down the mineshaft to the spot where he had last seen Bubba.

Bubba was still there, with the same dumb look on his face that he had worn most of his life. He had gained a thin layer of dust, which lent his figure a dim aristocracy which had definitely been absent in life. As Clem examined his friend’s statue more closely, he heard a hissing noise behind him. He almost whirled around, but thought better of it and dived behind Bubba’s statue. Taking out the mirror, he hurriedly set it in front of him so it was angled towards the back of the cavern. He could just make out a shadowy figure, and took what he judged to be good aim. Clem squeezed the trigger ever so gently, and the resulting blast almost ripped his arm off. It also caused a large chunk of rock to fall from the ceiling, hitting Clem squarely on the top of his head.

Several minutes later, Clem came to and groggily sat up. He spent a good minute getting his bearings, and then made his way over to the still body of the Gorgon. He was rather proud to see that his shot had hit her directly in the neck, with just enough spread to neatly decapitate her. What puzzled him though, were all the hoof prints and white feathers he could see in her blood. He thought he heard a faint whinny in the distance, but Clem was about magicked out, and had no desire to go see what was making the noise. If he had, Clem would have seen a very confused winged horse taking off into the sunset.

Clem examined the head of the Gorgon more closely and realized that the green hair consisted of snakes, some of which still hissed faintly. One even took a snap at him. He gingerly placed the head into a gunnysack he had brought with him, taking care not to look at the face. This was going to be his proof that he had nothing to do with Bubba’s death.

As Clem walked back into the house, his grandfather was the first to see him.

“And where might you have been, Clem no-good Percy? Out stealin’ cars? Killin’ more innocents? And whatcha got in the bag? You rob a bank?” Grandfather cackled at his own joke.

So Clem pulled the head out of the bag, thinking what a surprise it would be for his grandfather to see that Clem had been telling the truth all along. His grandfather took one long look, then froze.

“See granddad? I wasn’t lyin’ was I? Granddad? Granddad! Damn. . .”