🎶 Off the Chain - a musical interlude
L&W21: Good boys of Olympos & the Underworld are never naughty or plotty, nope!
Today’s musical snark-snack is brought to you by the Gods of LOVE & WAR, and by the Denizens of the Great Below. If you’ve just arrived, hooo boy, what a way to introduce you to these tales. With the shenanigans that go on around here, sometimes we need to blow off steam with an excuse to dance, chortle, throw our hair around, and jam. Especially when we’re on the verge of wrapping up a season. Which we are.
Specially concocted for ye craic addicts who have been with this tale the longest:
😈 Cowboy & Sid: AllTheSnark & music, for you who love it as much as I do. (Snark? Or music-fest? Ummmm…YES.)
🐶 Ajax: More Cowbell!
You ask, you receive. This gnork-fest is for y’all! MUAH!
👻👻👻🔥💀🔥👻👻👻
The Tormentor of Tartaros, Host of Many A Ghost threw an abrupt realm-wide revel for absolutely no (official) reason other than that he wanted one and felt that his subordinates deserved it. (They did, considering who their lord was, and considering the taxing, exhausting extent of their divine duties.)
While His Chthonic Majesty swigged blood-nectar and caroused about with every raucous being in the Underworld (most beings in the Underworld were raucous, and those who weren’t were simply devious), he ensured that the most loose-tongued rumor-mongers overheard “how upset he was” over his fight with Demeter, so that they would be sure to whisper, trickle and rustle that this was the real source of his debauch.
He hoped no one would be the wiser about what he was truly celebrating.
Zeus had finally replied, and had sent explicit instructions on what was to take place once the sun rose.
Haides hoped no one would figure it out until it was too late.
💘⚡️💎⚡️💘
Oh, yeah…
In case there was any doubt about how The Diamond-and-Boulder Affair turned out, the God of Love left his grandfather’s chambers with wings glowing far more brightly than they had when he’d buzzed up there. Soaring on his back to his own temple with his hands laced behind his head, wearing nothing but his own triumphant smirk, Eros sang the following song:
It should also be noted that he is such a deft, plotty rapscallion that he made off with that diamond tucked inside his fluffed-up wings. Once discovered, Zeus was so impressed with the theft that he allowed his grandson to keep the oversized bauble. (For now.)
Naturally, the King on High let word leak that he had bestowed it as a gift.
Naturally, Eros let him have his lie. (Because everybody knew the more likely truth, and the God of Love always enjoys being generous.)
He sincerely hopes you’re dancing with him:
Meanwhile, back down the 999,999 stairs:
🌝🌊💀⚡️🌚
The Underworld’s ethos had been stagnated for over four hundred years. Hekate had seen this shift coming in her prescient visions, but all she had been able to do was wait. And watch. Now that the moment had finally arrived, she was free to dance, to make merry, and to blow on the tinder that had finally been ignited.
Such a rowdy blowout had not graced the Great Below since Haides’ earliest centuries as its ruler. As a result, Kharon’s pounding drums and Pryiphlegethon’s pryotechnic show caused minor quakes all across the southern coastlines of Poseidon’s Sea.
The Sea King sent Hermes down with a message:
What the quaking fuck?
The Tormentor of Tartaros had only one (drunk-scrawling, brother-brawling) comment in reply:
You’re just jealous you’re not here, urchin-fucker.
Hekate volunteered to bring that flat little mouth-slap-of-a-river-stone up herself. Since she had also brought a peace-offering to the party—a jar of honey, infused with sunlight and lavender, transformed into food of the Underworld by her spellbinding ichor—Haides found himself unable to resist making up with her. A smile would have done it, but his favorite Upper Realm delicacy was well appreciated.
As such, he handed her the tiny message to Poseidon, which kicked off an entire evening of insults and challenges. Spellweaver delighted in zinging notes back and forth between the two brothers. They had barely communicated since that time they’d had to shift the Walls of Bronze and Night a hundred leagues west after a fissure had birthed a new archipelago in Okeanos’ easternmost waters.
After several message volleys armed with jabbing bident and stabbing trident, Poseidon had to agree that, indeed, he was jealous. Because nobody threw a party like Haides Off the Chain.
The brothers then decided that it was about time for Good King Zeusy to consider allowing temporary passes to the Underworld. This way, Olympian royalty could come down and par-tayke in such festivities without being subjected to eternal entrapment after guzzling or gorging on chthonic delicacies.
And the delicacies down there were very, very good.
Urchin-Fucker and Muck-Sucker also came to the sniggering consensus that their longtime suspicion was probably correct. To gain absolute confirmation, Hekate brought a message straight to the King On High himself. The way Zeus fired back settled the matter once and for all.
Wrote Haides unto Poseidon:
Well, then. Our brother’s response proves it irrefutably. When in private, Zeusy really must suck his own bolt just for the jolt.
After delivering the message into the depths of the sea, Hekate just so happened to stroll past the tippy-topmost tower of Olympos, where she let slip the contents of the message from the loosest of her trio of lips.
Naturally, this incited a three-way tussle of messages reminiscent of the spear-swinging, sucker-punching, prank-playing camaraderie that the brothers had shared during the Titan War.
Naturally, Poseidon and Haides had to gang up on the baby.
Naturally, Zeus had to come back hitting below the belt.
That was all right. They all wound up laughing and clapping each other on their long-distance backs as they turned their barbs to an even greater source of entertainment: exchanging pot-shots about Demeter and Hera.
(Hestia, Goddess of Home, Hearth & Hugs, tended to remain safe from such juvenile odium because, as the eldest and most mature, Hestia tended to remain aloof from all of it—the bickering, the brawling, the trysts, and the entanglements.)
Miraculously, in spite of how drunk all three brothers were, and in spite of how frequently they mentioned the Queen of the Earth’s scathing response to Haides’ request to marry her daughter, neither Haides nor Zeus told Poseidon that the King On High had decided to override Demeter’s refusal. Neither did they so much as peep about the elaborate scheme that would allow the Lord of the Underworld to claim himself a bride right out from under Earth Mama’s hyper-vigilant nose.
In fact, Haides had only told Hekate, and Zeus didn’t tell anybody.
Spellweaver could only approve, because Fickle Trickle Poseidon had never been able to keep his tongue from babbling things he shouldn’t. The success of this venture would require stealth and unhesitant, lightning-strike action.
And it would succeed. Hekate had foreseen that, too.
Along with everything that would crumble down in its wake.
Tickled, the Mistress of Magic and Mystery kicked back on Haides’ abandoned throne, ankles crossed, feet dangling off the bejeweled arm, cup of blood-nectar floating in the air within easy reach. She painted an illusion around herself that showed the throne to be empty anytime somebody glanced at it.
Hardly anybody did. Mostly, the Underworld’s residents lifted un-emptiable cups in salute, fucked like Olympian Gods, and made braying donkeys of themselves (even if they didn’t have a clue what they were actually celebrating).
The only time Hekate allowed herself to be seen was when Haides needed her to run another message upstairs. With every hour that passed, the Lord of the Underworld grew ever more unleashed and unhinged, laughing—no, actually guffawing, playing the Great Below’s most obnoxious tunes with his friends, and drinking himself halfway to Oblivion.
Exactly how Spellweaver wanted to see him.
🌝⚔️🔥💀🔥⚔️🌚
Under the influence of a ridiculous amount of blood-nectar flowing everywhere, the King of the Dead eventually found himself inspired to sear one last note into a spearhead of sharpest obsidian.
He just couldn’t take it anymore.
Because they just couldn’t shut up about it. Ever since Hermes had delivered that shade of an improperly disposed mortal who had been divinely snuffed before its time, it was all anybody had been whispering about, anytime they thought their lord wasn’t in ear shot or wasn’t paying attention (or when they had no idea that he was looming over their shoulder in his Helmet of Invisibility). But now that they were even drunker than he was, they couldn’t keep their tongues from flapping no matter the threat to their heads.
You see, the Conductor of Souls had conducted more than a Restless Soul to the Underworld. Hermes had also come bearing a juicy tale from the Temple of War, complete with the summary of a secret message from Ares to Demeter.
Hermes had tattled the tidbits to Kharon, who had quietly informed Haides, who had sent his most trustworthy rumor-mongers to confirm the outrage.
Words on the winds whispered that the Bringer of Blossomtime had snuck to Ares’ temple, knelt down to worship him, and choked on his fat spear. But Haides’ own gossip channels through roots, trickles, and shadows were always more reliable than bloated Olympian sensationalism. His own sources assured him that the God of War had only stolen one kiss and a little hot-handed groping, so the very inebriated Lord of the Underworld only sent a very brief message.
Considering how wrecked he was, the fire-blasted words were a tad unsteady. He wasn’t worried. The thick-skulled recipient would never notice the difference.
Ares.
Stop sending me souls before their designated time and without the proper funerary rites, or I shall ensure that you are transferred to the banks of the Akheron to tend my Restless Dead for the remainder of your miserable eternity. You’ll find that I am not as lackadaisical with my subordinates as your father is.
Also. Keep your profane tongue out of Olympian maidens’ mouths. Keep your blasphemous paws off their asses. And keep your compulsively stabbing spear aimed in a more appropriate direction or I will take up my father's sickle and cleave every one of your offending appendages straight the fuck off before roasting you in my river.
Love from your infernally instructive,
UNCLE HAIDES
The Tormentor of Tartaros had Hekate deliver this message with greatest secrecy of all.
And the most threat.
Accompanied by her pack of ravening black dogs and a cadre of 999 menacing ghosts, the Divine Sorceress caught Ares on the stairs as he was descending into his dungeon bed chamber. He was even drunker than Haides, and had apparently been at it since sending Kore home to her mother.
The God of War returned fire to his favorite uncle with a lovely, never-used, adamantine-barbed scourge as a bribe—ahem, a gift, rather—and copious assurances that he had learned his lesson where Olympian maidens were concerned. He promised that, as soon as he was sober again, he would get on those Rites of Reparation for that Restless Soul:
Although Haides replied, “Apologies accepted. See that you do,” he instructed Hekate to lose her way, thus delaying the delivery, which she took devious delight in doing. “Let him stew in it,” the Tormentor leered.
Rest assured, Ares did.
Especially after a seemingly random lighting bolt blasted the northern tower of his Olympian temple to rubble. The Sky King claimed “negligence” by his servants. The servants knew better—knew that the Master of Law & Order was completely out of order tonight, and did not hesitate to inform anybody who would listen. As such, the God of War decided to extend his stay in his underground Thrakian fortress a bit longer, in the hopes that the Grin of Imminent War would stop grinning about The Kore Debacle.
Unfortunately, the sculpture wouldn't cease pumping out the scent of orange blossoms along with the ozone, burnt wood, and sulfur.
(Which only made Ares hard.)
(Fine. Harder.)
(For which he cursed—no, blessed—no, definitely cursed Lady Love and all the sappy, winged spawn she had borne him.)
🐍🐶🐶🐶🐍
“It’s good to see Treat-Bringer-Head-Scratcher smiling again,” Snuggly whuffed. He was the bass yowler in the vocal chorus that sometimes accompanied the Underworld’s orchestra, so he pretty much always sounded like he was growling. Those who knew him knew the difference; those who didn’t quaked, pissed their booties, or fled in terror whenever he so much as said hello, which tickled him greatly. He stretched higher up on his central vantage point atop the three-headed neck to survey his favorite god. “It’s been far too long since we had a proper romp.”
The serpents of his mane danced in agreement. So did the viper at the tip of his tail. Tonight, Chomps couldn’t decide between wagging and swaying.
On the far right, Snarky narrowed his eyes, one more so than the other. (It was the one surrounded by the white spot, of course.) He snorted out a spray of globular annoyance, then grumbled, “Stupid Olympian arrogance. Just let me catch sight of Zeusy-Boy. How dare he so much as hesitate to wed Treat-Bringer to the Beauty of Blossoms! I’ll rip that perfumed cloud-prancer’s head off his neck! I’ll bore an intestinal tract up him with his own lightning bolt, and then impale his grinning skull on it! I’ll—”
“Maul this chain!” Barky snapped. “Let’s go play!” He tried to gnaw Snarky’s ear but he couldn’t quite reach from his position on the far left.
Snuggly snapped back at him, snapped at Snarky for good measure, and rumbled, “Agreed. I’m starving.”
In unison, Barky and Snarky sniggered, “You’re always starving.” Since they were starving, too, they drew inward to merge with Snuggly so that the single head could slip free of the collar. (The restraint was more for effect than a genuine encumbrance. It painted the illusion that the Hound of Darkness was unhinged and rabid in addition to merely ferocious—a myth he wholeheartedly propagated. It made his job so much easier that way.)
The adamantine chain clanked on the ground. Snarky and Barky emerged to yowl once more, and the three-headed hound bounded away, splattering slobber, scattering river nymphs, upsetting platters of food, and gobbling up a smattering of every type of fare available.
Once full (enough), he bowled Head-Scratcher-Bone-Thrower straight off his dining throne, onto his Olympian ass. Barky bapped the god’s forehead with the mauled leg-bone of a self-roasted drakon he’d single-snoutedly devoured.
In time with the bapping, Snarky snarled, “Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey,” while Snuggly grinned and drooled.
The classic wrestling match ensued, which all the heads and all the snakes agreed was long overdue. Eventually, Bone-Thrower won the bone (it would be counterproductive to not let the god win). He sent it sailing out over the Akherousian Mere no less than 1,572 times. At that point, the hound decided that he would rather have his belly rubbed, which the dutiful valet obliged with gusto.
The poor god had been overly stressed of late, and the Hound of Darkness always strove to be a generous master. True, he had his merciless reputation to uphold—he was the proud heir of the storm-belching Typhoeus and the Mother of Monsters, after all. But he gave Belly-Rubber-Treat-Bringer a treat of his own.
After gnawing the gown of a nymph from the River of Fire into shreds, the hound friskied up ever-so-proudly to drool glowing droplets onto the god’s sandals and throne cushion, making them extra-toasty.
This instigated a protracted obeisance of head-and-butt scratching. Such devotion warranted copious amounts of wagging, panting, face-licking, and hiss-kissing, along with some affectionate chomping from Chomps. As was customary, Head-Scratcher-Flea-Annihilator apologized for his shortcomings—“Easy, Kerb, I only have two hands!”
A thing easily forgiven. He was only an Olympian, after all.
Eventually, Bone-Thrower-Chin-Scritcher abandoned the party, wandering into the depths of the Darkness and the Night, out on the ninth ring of the Styx where even his aura could not pierce the black. No matter. The Hound of Darkness had been spawned in this place so he could see all too clearly what the dear tormented god was doing.
Staring up, up, up through the abyss along the Walls of Bronze and Night.
Agonized yearning was painted all over him, just like it was whenever he sang in the Akherousian Mere. Such blissful pain wafted from his scent and pulsed in the cadence of his heartbeat. Yet tonight, he also wore the hard-jawed, fierce-eyed not-quite-smirk that signaled how intensely he was plotting something.
More Blossomtime business, no doubt.
So Snuggly tugged on the ears of both Snarky and Barky. They settled down with snouts on a cushioning clump of mane-serpents to wait until the god’s moping was done. Such an Olympian, that one. Too few heads and limbs; too much heart and balls to do his diabolical brains any good.
Even so, Treat-Bringer really was a good boy. The Hound of Darkness had no doubt that, once all these marriage shenanigans were resolved, they would get back to all the music-making, bone-throwing, treat-sharing, river-running, moon-yowling, nymph-menacing, and wrestling they used to enjoy.
After all, no mere goddess could ever come between a monster and his pet god.
UP NEXT: Our Season Finale: THE PERFECT DAY FOR PLUCKING BLOSSOMS
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