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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.
"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.