The Pope handed me my ball, a 9-lb Hammer Doom. I slipped my fingers into her three willing holes and rested the ball against my chin. My last thought before passing out from alcohol poisoning was a line from my adopted father, Mickey Spillane, “Alright, I’ll play ball but I’m going to make up a lot of rules you never heard of… You’ll be up against a guy with a mind gone rotten and a lust for killing!” That didn’t make me popular with the Saturday night Ottumwa bowling league.

The fate of the world rested in my knocking over a single pin in the last frame of the Ultimate Bowling Match. I’d been drugged for years, my hammer auctioned off, and my bowling ball stolen. Caught between warring pantheons and corporate interests battling for control, it would take all my skills as a Thunder God and hard-boiled detective to save civilization as we knew it. But why was my half-brother Jesus hiding behind that rock with a camera crew?