Emmanuel Quartey

Warren Ellis’ SUPERGOD

(Above: Malak, the Iranian experiment.)

It took 3 months for my five-set collection of Warren Ellis’ SUPERGOD to make it to my mailbox, and it was worth every second of of the 90 minutes it took to read all of them.

How best to describe this series? The official description from Avatar Press comes close: “South-east Asia is on fire, an artificial angel whose brain is a faulty radio to God has been loosed on the world, something unimaginable is rising in China, attempts to reactivate America’s superhuman in his underground fake childhood town are not going well … This is what a superhuman arms race would look like. This is what asking to be saved by men who can fly would look like. Take every superhero comic ever published, shove them into a nuclear-powered blender, soak it in bad vodka and set the whole thing alight. SUPERGOD will crawl out and eat your brain.”

Basically.

(Above: Krishna, the Indian experiment.)

One of the defining moments of the series occurs when the narrator, under the influence of sherry and drugs, unwisely confronts the British experiment and demands “What are you for?” The monologue is a bit heavy-handed, but it perfectly exemplifies the attitude that most of the gods have towards their makers. It replies:

I am for that thing in your genome that demands it. I am for that thing which keeps you animals alive. I am, at most, a slice of monkey suspended within the stuff of universal intelligence. You are a monkey in nice clothes.

In the harsh environment you refer to as a habitable planet, group behaviors are required to survive long enough to procreate. Since you are stupid monkeys, you have no natural affinity for group altruism. And so you have evolved a genetic pump that delivers pleasant chemicals to your monkey brains. One that is triggered by awe and fear of an anthropomorphism of your environment. Earth mothers. Sky gods. Bits of bush that catch fire. Interesting-looking rocks. An oddly-shaped branch. You’re not fussy.

When your brain does this idiot work, you stop in front of that bump or stick and consider it fiercely. Other monkeys will, like as not, stop next to you and emulate you. Your genetic pump delivers morphine for your souls. You have your fellow monkeys join in. Perhaps so they can feel it too. Perhaps because you feel it might please the stick god to have more monkeys gazing at it in narcotic awe.

The group must be defended. Because as many people as possible must please the stick god. And you can continue to get your fix off praying to it. You draw up rules to organise and protect the group. Two hundred thousand years later, you put Adolf Hiltler into power. Because you are, after all, just monkeys.

I am a thing born of lies. You lied about needing to explore space. You lied about needing an edge in your arms race. Ultimately, I believe you lied about your need for a messiah figure to consider.

I am your stash.

You can get the 5-bag set here.