ALL HAIL POP GODS! (2023)

“What’s up, Muses! It’s ya’ girl, Kerry Dwen, comin’ at ya’!”

Kerry’s eyes sparkled as she talked to the camera, broadcasting her livestream to her followers all over the globe. Everyone was there to listen to her. To hear her spread the good news. The gospel of the pop goddess Tulpa.

“Welcome to my special livestream!”

Dylan smiled from his director’s chair as he watched the performance. Kerry, or Betty if you were using her god-given name, talked to the camera from the set he designed to look like her bedroom. He had plucked her from obscurity, just shy of a thousand followers, and elevated her to stardom. He had seen her potential when no one else did. Now, here she was, a divine entity created from nothing but his power and influence. His will be done.

“We’re gonna’ make music history tonight with a countdown – or should I say count up – as I herald in an earth shattering 30,000,000 followers for the divine goddess of music herself, TULPA!”

Kerry could be melodramatic. It took Dylan time to adjust to that but numbers don’t lie. After Kerry brought in her whole “Pantheon Shtick” for their pop singer “Goddess” and called her fans “Muses”, Dylan couldn’t believe the spike in record and ticket sales. Or, he could, he had worked in music long enough to know the truth. If you packaged it right, people would buy anything. They would believe anything. Poor souls in search of meaning for their pathetic lives. Kerry fed them the lies he created and it became truth.

“With all of her beautiful acolytes tuned in around the globe, we’ll be hitting that magical number in no time! Then Tulpa will be performing her brand new single live right here on my stream to celebrate her glorious ascension to the most listened to pop artist of all time! Move over, Swifties! The era of Tulpa has come!”

Dylan watched the crew scurry around the set, his own personal shadow cult. If he said “jump” they would ask “how high?”. Being a music producer had better perks than being God. And now, with his team of programmers working in their dark, crypt-like offices, he had found the magical formula that had given him ultimate control. Dylan laughed at the cleverness of his own cosmic joke. Tulpa wasn’t even real.

“I have a direct line to Tulpa’s team,” Kerry lied as she feigned pressing an earpiece connected to nothing to listen to the Goddess herself, “Send your requests in now for her livestream later and a few lucky winners will have their song dedicated to them live on the air!”

Promise Divinity And Land Among The Stars. A name from a simpler time. Dylan had dreamt up that title and used it for Tulpa’s first album and it had all been one success after another ever since then. Dylan laughed to himself. It was all so goddamned clever. Everyone had been skeptical of his plan at first. Playing God with a completely fabricated singer. Digital image, AI-generated lyrics and music. Sure, the Gorillaz had done it, but this was next level. Creating divinity from lines of code and then selling it to the masses. K-Pop had nothing on his formula. He had solved the problem music producers everywhere had struggled with since the invention of the job: how to make money off art without the hassle of dealing with an artist. No more trashed hotel rooms. No more royalty check squabbles. No more goddamned creative differences. Tulpa did whatever Dylan wanted. He created her and he could destroy her. He had built the biggest cult on the back of a lie since the Catholic Church. Fuck Jesus Christ.

“We’re almost there, Muses! Just a few more followers and Tulpa goes live with her brand new single! I haven’t even heard it yet! This is going to be the greatest night of our lives!”

Dylan looked through the floor to ceiling glass wall that surrounded the control booth. His programming team flipped switches and turned dials. To be honest, he didn’t understand everything they did. But he didn’t need to. They dug and searched through the ever-expanding digital archive he paid for, composed of every form of art he could find, acquire, and license. And when he couldn’t acquire something legally, he would steal it. But with all the blurred lines in the new field of AI-generated art it could hardly be called stealing. At least, that’s what his lawyers and a few key congressmen he paid very well told him. He had everything from obscure YouTube performers to archaeological finds from ancient Egypt. Sure, it was a lot. But if you wanted to create the greatest artist of all time, you needed to build them from everything ever created. The whole of human experience in his beautiful, glowing servers. His digital temple to a deity only he controlled. All he had to do was light the torches and the unwashed masses threw themselves at the feet of his goddess. They freely gave themselves over to her as she reflected their own desires back at them. Tulpa was only as real as they made her. Now that she was the top-selling artist in all of human history, she was very real indeed.

“Only a few more followers to go! I need everyone listening to hit that share button! Spread the gospel of Tulpa! Let’s give her the recognition she deserves! Let her ascend to the pantheon of greatness! Let Tulpa shine as the greatest artist of all time!”

Dylan held an open bottle of champagne in his hand. Premature? Possibly. But this was a sure thing. His programming team had assured him they had a hit on their hands with some recent, obscure acquisitions to their digital archive. They tried to explain where they found it and rambled on about potential repercussions, but Dylan didn’t care. He told them to just give him his song and make sure it was a hit. He never worried about the “how” just the end result. And money always got him the result he wanted. At first his programming team had complained about the timeline for this new single. They said they didn’t have enough time but some overtime pay shut them up really quick. Money had a way of making little problems like overwork, exhaustion and mutterings about unionizing disappear. Dylan didn’t care how it happened. He had a vision and nothing was going to stop him. He had proven once and for all that business was more powerful than art. Music could be controlled, calculated, set to an algorithm and fed to the masses. Everyone got what they wanted. Tulpa’s fans got undeserved salvation from their false deity. Dylan got power. Fair trade.

“We did it, Muses! 30,000,000 followers! Thanks to your faithfulness, Tulpa is now the most listened to pop artist of all time! Are you ready, acolytes? It’s time to cut to her live set! I give you your Pop Goddess! TULPA!”

A quick click and an AI-Generated image of Tulpa herself in all of her perfectly calculated glory took over the feed being projected. She smiled a brilliant, digital smile and spoke in her glowing, godlike voice.

“My beautiful Muses! Your faithfulness to my cause allows me to share my art with the world and for that I am eternally grateful. Allow me to now bless your devotion with my new single. It is called Harp!”

And with that, the song began. Dylan had stopped really listening to the songs years ago. They all sounded the same to him. This one felt different, though. Maybe it was the champagne or maybe just the adrenaline high he was riding that lead to this moment. He wasn’t sure but he felt compelled to listen as the first chords of the harp being played on the track reverberated across the studio. He did not know where those notes first originated but they felt ancient. They felt powerful. They felt worthy of a deity. His deity. He smiled. And then –

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

Kerry’s scream echoed around the studio. Arcs of electricity crackled everywhere. The crew scrambled, looking for a loose, live wire. Dylan was thankful the feed was cut over to a rendering of Tulpa “performing” her live set in front of a live audience of lucky ticket winners. All fabricated. The magic of computers on full display. No one knew the difference. No one cared. They just wanted something to aspire to. To worship.

“Who dares challenge the gods?”

Dylan’s pulse quickened. He had never heard that voice before. It sounded unearthly, supernatural. He looked to his programming team. This must be some childish prank they were playing. Some way to get back at him for making them work so hard. Dylan’s righteous anger began to build, ready to smite whoever was responsible for this bullshit when –

Silence.

Everything froze. It was as if time had stopped. Dylan reached for his walkie-talkie, ready to give his lead programmer a lecture on professionalism when he realized he couldn’t move his hand. Sweat dripped down Dylan’s face as he tried again. Still nothing. Realization slowly crept through Dylan’s mind. He could feel his body and he could move his eyes; he could see the world frozen around him, but his body would not move. His muscles were paralyzed. He was stuck in his director’s chair, unable to move so much as a finger. His mind raced. This was beyond his programmers. This was something else. He could hear the feed from Tulpa’s set as she continued to sing, unaffected by whatever was happening in the studio, in her digital world that she ruled as a false goddess. Dylan tried to move again when a bolt of electricity arced through the air and hit Kerry square in the chest. She screamed and was lifted into the air as if by some supernatural force. Her body glowed and convulsed with the electricity but did not burn.

“Who mocks the mighty Dagda?” That voice again, except now it echoed out of Kerry’s mouth. It seemed unnatural, impossible. But it was happening.

The voice reverberated around the room and made Dylan’s body shake. He tried to move again, he tried to run, to be anywhere but where he was, but he could not. His mind spun, trapped in an unmoving body. This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible. And yet, it was. Kerry’s eyes shot over to him.

“You! Mortal! What is your name?”

Dylan felt his jaw release. He could speak but the rest of his body still did not move. He opened his mouth but no words came out. For the first time in his life, Dylan was speechless.

“Are you Fomorian?” Kerry boomed in her now supernatural voice, filled with divine wrath and judgement.

“I’m a music producer,” Dylan managed to choke out.

“So, you are the one.” Kerry smiled unnaturally wide, stretching her face farther than seemed possible, then fell to the ground like a rag doll.

Electricity arced from the equipment and around the studio, coalescing in a vortex in the center of the room. Slowly, a figure began to take shape, forming from the electrical energy until finally a man, the largest Dylan had ever seen, stood in the center of the room. He had a long beard and a huge gut, the type that would normally give someone an easy-going, carefree look but his eyes were filled with wrath. If Dylan could move he would have trembled before the man who now stood staring down at him. He held a large club in one hand a harp in the other.

“You! Music producer!” The man boomed, practically shaking the studio with his voice, “Why do you mock the Dagda?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dylan choked out, “I’m not mocking anyone!”

Dylan watched as the man looked around the room at all the equipment. His eyes settled on the monitor showing Tulpa. She sang on for her false audience. The stream seemed to remain uninterrupted.

“You pervert the music of the gods with your cheap imitations! The others have been patient but now you twist the music of my ancient harp!”

Realization began to settle in Dylan’s mind. The new single. His programmers had told him they had discovered something new, something obscure. He didn’t ask questions. He assumed it was some hipster bullshit and told them to add it to the archive. It seems they had delved too deep and stumbled on something ancient. Something sacred.

“Look,” Dylan managed, “if it’s about royalties, I can promise you a cut, an offering!”

“SILENCE!” The man boomed and the studio shook. He watched the monitor where Tulpa performed. “You foolish mortals know not what powers you meddle with. You seek to make yourselves gods and enslave those with true, divine power.”

Dylan felt small under the gaze of the man, frozen in place, unable to move. Unable to escape. He felt a sudden rush of warmth as he pissed himself. He had lost all control. He just stood there, humiliated before the might of this ancient deity.

“For your transgressions against the gods, all of you must perish.”

With that, the man began to pluck the strings on his harp. The notes rang out across the studio with a haunting, dissonant tone. Tears welled in Dylan’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if he was moved by the beauty of the notes or terrified by the way they made him feel. Exposed. Small. Insignificant.

“You will die last, music producer. First, you must witness the consequences of your hubris.”

The man continued to play and as he did the crew members began to move, slowly at first, then in larger, sweeping motions. They were dancing to the music, but it looked unnatural. Their eyes were wide and filled with terror as they leapt and spun to the melody. Dylan could tell they were not in control of their bodies. The music compelled them to dance. Soon everyone in the studio except for him was moving in time to the music, a haunting rhythmic display and all Dylan could do was watch.

“Witness true, divine power, mortals.”

At first the music was sweet and gentle. The moves it provoked were graceful and slow. Then the notes took a harsh turn. The tempo sped up and so did the movements of the crew. Faster and faster the music played. Everyone, even the programmers, moved to the beat. Their eyes welled in fear as their bodies moved, unyielding to their thoughts to stop, to escape the power of this man. This God.

“Now, for your transgressions,” the man boomed as the final note on his harp ended, “you will die.”

Then, with a swift movement, the man plucked one high note on his harp and let it ring out. Everyone in the studio let out one sustained shriek and then began to tear the flesh from their bodies. Dylan watched as everyone screamed along to that one piercing note as they ripped themselves to shreds. Blood, viscera, muscle, and sinew tearing as everyone convulsed and with one final note the shredded, bloodied corpses of the crew ran around the room shrieking like banshees, colliding into equipment and walls like pinballs. Bones cracked and broke. Someone shattered the windows to the control room and broken glass rained down, shredding the already deformed corpses. Brain matter and blood covered the floors as the bodies convulsed and danced in a horrific, macabre number from somewhere out of Dylan’s darkest nightmares. Then -

Silence.

The music stopped, the bodies collapsed to the floor and stopped moving. Everyone was dead. Dylan watched the man walk across the blood-soaked floor to Kerry, who laid on the ground, the only one unaffected by the music.

“Thank you, herald, for bringing me here,” The man said in a soft, almost fatherly tone, “May your spirit find peace in the afterlife.”

The man looked back to the monitor. Tulpa was finishing her new single to the wild cheering of her fake audience.

“Now rise, Tulpa, I give you form and welcome you into the great pantheon!”

Kerry’s body convulsed and then her eyes opened. Dylan looked and saw that Tulpa was no longer displayed on the monitor. The feed cut out.

“Thank you, Dagda,” Kerry said as she bowed her head. But her voice sounded different. It sounded like Tulpa. As if somehow, Kerry’s body had been inhabited by the spirit of this false deity. “What would you have me do?”

“I would have you bring justice to the mortal who enslaved you.”

The Dagda smiled and looked knowingly at his new daughter and then at Dylan’s frozen form. Tulpa’s new eyes met Dylan’s bloodshot ones. Then her father handed her his club and took a step back. Dylan watched Tulpa take a few practice swings as she adjusted to her new physical form.

“These foolish mortals will never learn,” The Dagda said in a hushed tone.

“Driven to madness by music,” Tulpa responded.

And with that Dylan watched the goddess he had controlled for years, now free, with vengeance burning her eyes, lift that giant club and lunge at him. In one mighty swing he was crushed. His skull cracked and shattered, brain matter sprayed across the floor as the two deities set right what he had tried to distort. Dylan’s pantheon had ended, consumed by something far more ancient and powerful. All in the span of a pop song.