V S M Mortality is the 2014 Honda Element

Kopaka

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"Hermes. Stop. It's obscene."

"It is a holy symbol made to stave off the evil eye. Begone, strummer."

Apollo looked on as Hermes finished spraying a large, fat rendition of a cock and balls on the side wall of the gas station convenience store. A dozen yards away, Dionysus stood in a half-stupored reverie as he dilgiently fueled up the fat, squat Honda Element parked next to the pump. It was night time on Erde Nona (when the God of Light tended towards grumpiness), and they were still five hours from Arcadia. Grampa Cronus had estimated this to within the least milisecond before falling asleep on one of the minty green SUV's spacious folding seats.

But how did it all begin? Well, perhaps the muses shall indulge us in some backstory. You see, when the deposed Titan Cronus (ex-tyrant of the universe, god of time and the harvest, eater of babies and noted eunuch) decides that the blessed isles of Elysium are no longer suitable for his retirement, he slips past fierce Magaera, through the Gates of Horn and Ivory, and into the fractal worlds beyond the eyes of baby Zeus and his delectable siblings.

But not before inviting along some friends. What friends does the Titan keep? Why his grandchildren of course! Much in the same way a disenfranchised upperclassman will often turn to the fertile pastures of the junior schoolmates, so too did Cronus turn to the progeny of his traitor children.

Wing-footed Hermes and sly Dionysos were quick to take up the offer, of course. Neither was in the habit of snitching, and both were Chthonic deities not given to keeping the company of the fickle Olympians and their cloud-headed bickering. Hermes could travel back and forth between the Greek World and the Crossroads so quickly, none of the other pantheon could notice the interval. Dionysos? Who knew where he was sleeping any given month.

But Apollo? The Golden Child of Leto? Fair haired, with beard to shadow his face or loins? Whence had he deigned to bear the yoke of the saturnian bastard king?

Apollo asked himself this very question as he and Hermes skulked back to their awaiting chariot. It could be said, though unwillingly, that Apollo had been 'duped' into this expedition. When his two cousins had asked him if he wanted to tour the cosmos with their mysterious, historied grandfather, Apollo had been admittedly curious. What he had pictured was tearing across the aether on the back of his golden, swan -drawn chariot.

Now, as he slid into the driver's seat of the affordable, spacious Honda Element, he could no longer restrain his rancor.

"Why this dingy crate, though? The mortal offering the rentals had many such chariots, all with shape more sleek and fair." Apollo lamented. His sunny curls bounced across his flawless skin as he dutifully checked the mirrors and lanes of traffic before pulling back onto the highway.

"Cuz' we're trying to really blend in. It's all part of the fun. All part of...part of the play, tree humper. You wouldn't want to ruin the play? Eh? God of the Arts?" Dionysus slurred from the back seat. Apollo blew out a petulant breath, and acquiesced. There was no use arguing against the drunkard.

As the bleached, lifeless light of the gas station shrank into the distance behind them, Apollo glanced at the crumpled form of Cronus sleeping in the back.

"If it must be so, then ought we find a proper costume for dear grandfather? The man cannot be seen swaggering about in a pinned bedsheet." Apollo sighed. Cronus coughed out a harsh noise that managed to blend amusement and rancor.

"It's a robe! A proper toga!"

"Grampa it's a bedsheet with pins." the lyrist countered. Another angry chortle, then silence.

Somewhere, on some rugged shore wrapped in silken breakers, Apollo was sure he could hear the ghost of Python cackling at his plight. But for now, drive he must, as the Muses commanded. Being beleagured and belittled by these...cave gods was tolerable insofar as he was confident that by story's end he, Apollo, would emerge the better deity.

After all it's how it had always fuckin' turned out before, right? Spoiled dipshit.
 

Cyrus

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Hermes shook the paint can the whole way back to the truck, pleased by the rattling sounds of the little contraption. He’d been looking forward to this trip from the start: when Cronus had pitched the getaway, Hermes raised his hand as resident mortal expert. The great demiverse had been a little too… glum, lately, what with plagues and miniature social apocalypses popping off, and he found himself fretting a bit more than he’d liked. Yes, a trip with the boys would be a fine salve for the wounded ennui that had been plaguing him for a few years or ten or so, he’d lost count. Hermes lobbed the spray paint can into the open window of the squat truck and hoisted himself in without another word to his shining cousin.

The truck ambled down the road and Hermes fished down into the space between his ankles for a snack: he had to credit Dionysus for the ingenious plot to smuggle ambrosia into their trip by means of the most clever of ways: bags of chips, cookies, pudding cups, cans of generic soda, even MRE rations were all lovingly packed by the god of merriment into little blue and white coolers and stacked into the square back hatch of the truck. Hermes peeled open such a bag now, and from within a great and warm glow emanated up against the crinkling silvered interior. Hermes plucked a single potato chip from the bag and inspected it as the floodlights from overhead beacons throbbed through their dash: yes, it glowed too. He popped the thing into his mouth, and munched thoughtfully for a time.

“You’re going the wrong way, “ Hermès interrupted a no doubted rousing and belligerent spat between Cronus and Dionysus.

“How do you proclaim this, Hermes? You have yet to consult a map!” Cronus pointed out with a raucous laugh.

“Don’t need one. Roads are my thing.”

“Not this shit again,” Dionysus rolled his eyes, “Izzin like, Ever’thing your thing?” Perhaps with a bit of resentment, but he wasn’t wrong: the god of travel did have a habit of proclaiming any odd, yet somehow wide-scoped thing to be, indeed, his thing. Roads, for example. Also, the number four?

Apollo squinted. “We haven’t yet discussed a trajectory, Hermes."

“Bad feeling. Wrong way, definitely. Get off here,” he rapped the window with a knuckle as the sign for a motel loomed up in the dewy darkness.

Apollo sighed - He had a sneaking suspicion that his cousin was being glib, but: who was he to argue with the god of travel? He twisted the truck's steering wheel with a golden hand and turned them onto the off ramp, toward the faint red glow of a darkened building that advertised itself to be Vacant.
 

King Shark

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“…and they’re so ingenious with the methods they come up with to get drunk. In recent years, you know, they’ve started inserting funnels into their anuses and they just…they pour alcohol right in there! GLUB, GLUB, GLUB! Soaks right into the, uh…into the…”

“Colon,” inserted Cronus stiffly.

“Right, right – into the colon. It gets them absolutely blasted. And these things?” Dionysus thrust an open can into Cronus’ face emblazoned boldly with the logo ‘FOUR LOKO’. “These things could wake the dead, to tell it true, Grandfather. That’s how you know that the alcohol is really, uh…really…serious, you know? When they measure it in lokos. If there’s four lokos in a can, then...right now? I’m like…thirteen and a half lokos to tell it true.”

He pressed the lip of the green can to his own lips, tipped his head back, and gulped.

“Fourteen. Fourteen lokos! You simply have to try-“

“Do not offer that swill to our Grandfather,” Apollo cut in. “Would that you wouldn’t indulge in such…fragrant…potent potables in such close proximity to your brethren, either.”

“I’ll indulge in whatever I fancy-“ Dionysus burped suddenly, had the decency to look startled at least, and then continued on fecklessly. “-because I’m not some grey cloud drizzling its pompous naysaying upon every little piece of happiness I deem beneath my station.”

Apollo did not take his eyes from the road, but Dionysus noticed him stiffen and smirked. He’d stuck the needle in with that comment, he knew. The God of Wine reclined further, radiating smug, and took a celebratory swig of his malt ‘beverage’. It filled his pallet with sickly sweet nectar and stung his eyes with its potency. If redder his cheeks could grow, they did. Rarely was he anything but rosy.

“You’ve slopped some of that onto your shirt,” pointed out Cronus, leveling a bony finger at his grandson’s chest.

The shirt, so unbuttoned as to barely garb him at all, was an exercise in excess that bled vibrant pink into the eyes of any who beheld it. Blossoming lilies of stark white punctuated the garment in even spacing, and a darkened spot of wet had emerged on the collar of it.

“Whatever,” Dionysus shrugged. He’d already slopped a considerable amount of the beverage into his thick, unruly brown beard and his inebriation precluded any chance of him giving a damn.

“We’re here,” announced Hermes suddenly, pointing. “Pull in here. This is the place.”

Apollo did as instructed and swung the Element into a gravel parking lot so suddenly that Dionysus’ world lurched. For a moment he thought he might douse his grandfather and the entire back seat in fourteen or fifteen lokos, but he managed to compose himself in the knick of time…perhaps his Grandfather, sensing the danger, had gifted him the breadth of a second within which to suppress the nausea. Moments later the Honda slid to a smooth stop, and its other worldly inhabitants poured from within, resplendent in their own unique interpretive garb meant to mimic their opinion of the mortal realm. All of them save Cronus, anyway, who still wore a tacked sheet arranged in the traditional toga.

“You, uh, definitely…you definitely stand out in that, you know,” said Dionysus, his voice a thick burr of booze. “But you still look great. I mean that.”

Cronus’ cantankerous eyes measured Dionysus uncertainly, and the Grandfather of Gods opted not to grace him with a response.

“Gather your wits and attend us, brother,” commanded Apollo, peeved. “I’d have you present yourself as befits your station.”

“You can befit your lips upon mine ass cheeks,” mumbled Dionysus, quietly enough that his brother would be hard pressed to hear.

His Grandfather heard, however, and sniggered slyly.

Hermes led them onward across the parking lot in a loose gaggle and through a plain wooden door with a sign that suggested they ‘Enter’. Enter they did, emerging into a dimly lit open lobby decorated on one side by a lengthy counter (complete with a slumbering elderly gentleman behind it), and on the other side by a row of ordinary chairs the likes of which one might find in any waiting room. The motel lobby was simply arranged, if not a bit dusty, and wore signs of obvious age. Peeling wallpaper, smudged windows, and the elderly attendant snoring gently behind the counter who had not stirred at their entrance granted the place a certain podunk charm – likely what had enticed Hermes. Rustic waystones to the traveler were ever his domain.

A radio on the countertop quietly crooned a tune through tinny reverb. ‘I’ll be the water when you get thirsty, baby; when you get drunk, I’ll be the wiiiine~’.

“I fucking love love this song!” Dionysus bellowed, thrusting his nearly empty can emphatically. He began to sway his hips and bob his shoulders, head rocking hither and thither. “I’LL BE THERE FOR YOU! THESE FIVE WORDS-“

“AUGH!” the startled innkeep nearly tumbled backward out of his chair. His eyes were wide, roving, and panicked as he sought out his bearings. “WHAT’S – oh. …Oh, it’s guests. Welcome.”

While Dionysus caterwauled drunkenly in the background, Apollo approached the counter and laid coin upon its surface.

“Our coin would see us housed here, innkeep,” suggested Apollo, offering the man the slightest winsome quirk of a smile.

“…that your family?” asked the elderly man, raising a bushy eyebrow and tugging at a long white beard absently.

Behind Apollo Hermes and Cronus bantered idly while Dionysus shambled awkwardly about the room in what might pass for a dance to the truly inebriated.

“I’m afraid so,” the Golden God replied, troubled. “Still, I’d be glad to see us roomed in your…”

He looked around, surveying.


“…quaint establishment.”

If the attendant had taken offense he showed no sign of it, rising from his seat and shuffling back to the wall behind him to retrieve a key which he planted in Apollo’s upturned palm.

“Room 24, out around the corner. Can’t miss it. …try not to wake your neighbors, few as they are. Folks like it quiet around here,” the man’s eyes were on the God of Wine, who’d turned his attention to the counter and was making his way over to it.

“And where can a man get some drink around here, you dusty old crone?” he demanded, pointing a swaying finger at the open air beside the motel’s castellan. “I’m nearly out of lokos,” though his offhand had drawn yet another from a hazardously dangling knapsack at his shoulder.
 

Izaneus Phortea

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"My memory seems to be failing me, as I am beginning to forget why I initiated this... Small family journey of ours." The amount of boredom to make a deific such as him lethargic needed is... Large. To say the least

"Hmm, have the mortals fallen in their construction? Or have I simply become accustomed to the Elysian standard for Architecture?" The old man quietly asked himself.

"WHERE'S THE LOKO???"

"Sir, I apologize but I think you're inebriated enough as it stands." The castellan stated anxiously.

"You see THAT'S the problem, I can still stand" Dionysus explained exasperatedly. "Now tell me where the Loko is!"

"My, the Mortals have grown quite the habit of talking back in my absence. I wonder if my dearest son is properly doing what is expected of him." Cronus stated with a mild hint of malice.

Though the Elysian fields provided reprieve, and a chance for him to understand what he did wrong. He still felt... Anger. Toward being "dispatched" by his own Kin.

"Thank you was that so hard?" Dionysus stated, a new alchoholic beverage on hand, swaying with every step.

"Sir? Would you like some clothes?" A nearby employee asked father time.

To which Dionysus promptly spit out his drink in a fit of laughter. "WE TOLD YOU GRANDFATHER, ITS A BEDSHEET" he howled.

Cronus became slightly more frustrated, as his apparent use of his favorite Toga, was to be cast aside as a mere bedside accommodation.

"...very well..."he stated sourly. Speaking slow, and gravelly to indicate his growing frustration.

Not but ten minutes later, that selfsame crabby face came out in a red shirt with yellow leaves decorated about it. With a cap that circled out around his head; commonly found on fishermen, and a pair of knee shorts.

To say the least Cronus was mildly perturbed.
 

Kopaka

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Apollo nodded approvingly. The mortals of this House of Motel, evidently his sixth house, were appropriately supplicant and servile in accordance with the natural order between Gods and their terrestrial counterparts. While Dionysos bleated for more liquor, Apollo went with the chambermaid to shown to their rented room. If Motel himself had been here, the Olympian was confident he could have persuaded the nobleman to give them free lodging. After all, the law of Zeus was eternal across any skein of reality, and the law of hospitality was chief among them.

But no, Apollo could not fault his slaves and servants to shirk their duty to the master in his absence. Their demands for payment of tawdry metals was honored this time. As for the room itself...

"Just the...two beds?" Apollo balked. He stood at the threshold of the hovel's entryway, and swallowed in repugnance.

"What's the problem, strummer? You've never been shy to bed with boys before." Hermes chirped. Apollo startled slightly and whipped around, but relaxed with a despondent sigh. It was in his half-brother's nature to simply appear unbidden, speaking whatever was on his mind. Phoebus had gotten used to it over the centuries.

"Would that I could but lay with a fresh-faced kouros, 'ere Hypnos seizes us. Alas, sprinter, I do not portend rest shall come easy with any of you bedfellows..." Apollo said, holding his hand against his forehead in a dramatic posture of foppish resignation.

"Is that like an omen or oracle you're doin' or is it just drama?" Hermes said, slowly chewing on another handful of glowing chips.

"Both are within my domain; have a guess. Where is grampa? Did you leave him with the drumstick?" Apollo sighed, brushing his manicured fingers through bouncing, golden locks. Hermes paused his munching as a distant, mortal shriek cut through the night air of Nyx. The messenger was gone in a blink, leaving the poor key-wench alone and wide eyed with the radiant Son of Leto.

"I can...uh...get sheets if someone wants to sleep on the couch..." she said slowly. Apollo made another face, but nodded in assent.

"Very good. You may go." Apollo said with a twirl of the hand. The mortal skittered off to whatever closet called her, and Apollo stepped into their room. It was...rustic, to say it charitably. The walls were made of un-plastered wood, and the ground was covered in a woven mat dyed the color of rotten turquoise. It was a garish color, and Apollo had to assume it was meant to try and disguise the multifarious stains that hid along the base of the wall.

No such discolored memories could escape the discerning eyes of Apollo Phoebus. He shuddered.

A single lamp and overhead fan were the sole sources of light available in the room. The washing chamber also had lights, and Apollo was pleased that they could be summoned by a simple flick of a small ornament on the wall. Helios and Prometheus had just been knocked down a few rungs of importance, the God of Light mused.

Cronus, Hermes and Dionysus appeared in the doorway a moment later, carrying a few of their travelling items with them. Simple necessities, such as ambrosia, bow and arrow, spare laurels, various instruments, and the like. Their Chariot of the Elements was visible across the paved courtyard from the window. Good.

Apollo was eager to discuss their bedding arrangements of course, but Dionysus froze as he saw the Lyrist standing in the bathroom. He half gasped, half squealed with joy and brushed past the sunny youth with manic fervor.

"An automatic chamber pot! I've always wanteda try one." Bacchus gloated.

"Yes, I'm sure the Lokos are running their course. Brethren-" Apollo started, but the orphic bastard cut him off again.

"Oh already took care of that. They had rose bushes out front. Made 'em bloom." Dionysos slurred.

"And the master of the house was pitifully ungrateful!" Cronus spat. He had already shut the door to the room behind them and immediately disrobed. He sat heavily in the single, weathered armchair, airing out what little remained between his legs. Apollo didn't even blink.

"All that aside-" Apollo started again, but Hermes interrupted this time.

"Hey Dion, do mortals really drink with their ass these days?" the feather footed youth asked. The father of all satyrs nodded impishly, but Cronus cut in before he could respond.

"Feh! And you taught them the secret of wine! If mortals started shoving my gifts up their ass, they would be smote in blasphemy." Cronus rumbled, leaning forward slightly to scratch his legs. He pondered for a moment.

"Hermes, you made the lyre. Do you think it could be improved by the ass of a mortal?" Cronus gestured. Hermes seemed to genuinely contemplate this, but Dionysus cut back in.

"To the contrary, they could harmonize! The ass is an instrument unto isself! Behold!" the wine god roared.

The God of Music immediately turned around with a wrathful fire in his eyes.

"Don't."
 
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