The Water Serpent.
As every era and culture gives rise to it’s own primordial abominations, esophagitis so did the Great Malaise birth That-Which-Devours-Ten-Gallons-To-The-Mile, pharm the Bane of Campground Utility Hook-Ups and the Host of a Thousand Greasy Coke-Fueled Orgies.
Tempting the vain and unwary with its opulent excess, it would bleed them dry as it rolled from stadium to stadium, spreading a toxic particulate miasma in its double-wide wake. “This is your just due,” it would whisper to its Chosen One as he lay in a languid haze across its rotating bed, dead to his accountant’s talk of things like sustainability or depreciation.
‘Twas not a hero who slew the beast. The killing blow was dealt by the fearsome Zeitgeist, abetted by a blown manifold gasket.
Its corpse was left to rot in a field. In keeping with the ur-mythic cycle, the remains became a haven for new generations of creatures….namely the beech tree that grew up through the rotted floor panel and a clan of raccoons who took up residence in the hot tub.