“THE NEMEAN LION WAS AN ENDANGERED SPECIES!”
The crowd hissed.
“HYDRAS HAVE LOTS OF MOUTHS TO FEED!”
The crowd jeered.
“THE CERYNEIAN HIND’S MIGRATORY PATTERN WAS DISRUPTED FOR THE SAKE OF SPORT!”
The crowd roared.
“POOR LADON WAS JUST DOING HIS JOB, AND HIS REWARD FOR THAT WAS AN UNDIGNIFIED DEATH, ONE –– according to our wise scholars –– WHERE HE IS DOOMED TO TRANSFORM INTO BLACK GOLD AND COAL ORE!”
The crowd naysayed with extremely disapproving prejudice.
“EVERY DAY,” the head of the protest angrily shouted. “EVERY DAY HEROES ARE MISTREATING LEGENDARY ANIMALS!!!”
“He comes! The Living God approaches!” an attendee at the back of the crowd reported. His voice positively dripped with dismay. At that, the wind was taken from their sails mighty quick. It was far much easier for the warriors of justice social to fume and fret when the targets of their ire were nowhere in sight and had no way of interfering with their grandstanding. Fortunately, but, alas, unbeknownst to them, the pretty swell, and most definitely swole hunk of man named Herakles wasn’t much for that kind of disruption of free speech.
Unless he was in a foul mood. Then, as the colloquial word on the street went, “Pop, pop, pop – motherfuckers gonna drop.”
The Twelve Labors: a series of task that should have been impossible for a lone man to accomplish. Yet, he had accomplished every single one he had been directed towards. No one in the history of anything had ever done that. It was pretty swag.
He was rightfully venerated as a hero by many. However, Ancient Greek Greenpeace was not thrilled with the events that had led to his triumph. Herakles was a big, scary, quickscoping son of a bitch among sons of bitches who was said to be immortal following his ordeals, but if the crowd faltered in their goal of heckling the living legend, they wouldn’t be able to live it down even in safe confines of their hugboxes.
They wouldn’t stop at just guilt-tripping him.
They would send him on a shamecation.
“Have you heard what this so-called ‘hero’ of ours has done, lately?! Of what travesty transpired so grotesquely at the cape where Charybdis and Scylla dwelled?!”
“Word of that has spread so far already?” Herakles asked. “That was hardly anything at all.”
The head of the protesters was absolutely gobsmacked. “ ‘Hardly anything’?!” he gaped. “She was a beautiful creature, AND the only one of her kind. What you did was, was, was, was, was…!”
“-- Hit with the wow effect, that’s what! Damn, son, that was no Labor, but I’m sure glad that I was there to get it all!” a strange man with a harp and a fully laden satchel stepped from behind the hero and blurted this out.
“And who in the name of the Pantheon might you be?” the heckler asked with icy incredulity.
The newcomer set his harp on the ground. He cracked his knuckles in cocksure anticipation and then proceeded to give a bow. “Me? I am merely the vagrant bard – Majorleaguegamingicus.”
“……………………Come again?”
“That’s what she said!” Majorleaguegamingicus chortled like a child. “No, seriously, Scylla was all up on this here demigod like me-ow. Herk didn’t turn that down for what, ya get what I’m sayin’?”
Herakles rolled his eyes. Interestingly enough, he didn’t deny
“Sweet Apollo, it’s even worse than I imagined.”
“Gather round and listen to this tale, all of you townsfolk! For your epicurean pleasures, I come bearing crunchy, fried ambrosia and sweet, fizzy, caffeinated fruit-flavored nectar!” the bard proclaimed such with a voice like that of a horn.
The townies did so, and Majorleaguegamingicus recounted a tale that he personally rated 10/10.
^
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/ o .\
/........\
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The daughter of Lamia and Triton, Scylla was a foul beast. She was a fallen demigoddess, a hybrid whose demonic heritage half had won out over her divine pedigree. She was also a womanly woman, with flowing silken hair, eyes that stripped you bare, killer boobs, and hips that could be graciously described as “child-bearing” if it weren’t for the fact that snarling dog heads and groping tentacles jutted out from below her torso. Her story was one of loss, vengeance, and released inhibitions.
It was by happenstance that the Monster of the Mediterranean and the Greatest Hero of Greece happened to cross paths.
Scylla was a feared creature. She devoured crewmen that had even voyaged with Odysseus. However, her animal instincts knew that the hero’s mighty presence meant that he would not allow himself to be prey. And he, he traveled many leagues over land and sea, and it had been too long since he had found release in a hot, writhing, nubile body.
Herk fucked her right in the pussy.
He then resoundly smote her for being a disgusting scaly scrub that kept ruining everyone’s day.
“360 Shooting No-Scope Heads.” A grand technique that imbued anything and everything with green lasers that stank of the finest kush. The click of hitmarkers blazed the land. So much was the martial prowess needed to pull it off that thousands of years later an Optic scrub whose whole schtick was being fake and gay could only copy up to nine, Snoop Dog-cum-Lion-free strikes. This was the pimp hand that he used to lay low the ornery and vicious monster-girl.
It was just another day in the life of Herakles, monster-dominating, quest-fulfilling Faze badass that he was. Still, the bard had witnessed this all from afar, and was so moved by this turn of events. The tragic end of Scylla’s tale was 2sad4him. He simply had to support Herakles after seeing such a legendary deed performed right in front of him.
^
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/ o ,\
/....... \
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“This poem, fine bard, what is the song name?” one of the audience members asked, in between mouthfuls of the feast of snacks.
“This event transpired on a beach so…” Majorleaguegamingicus trailed.
“…let’s call it ‘Sandstorm.’ ” Herakles replied matter of factly.
“Wow,” was all one, involuntarily winking guy could say in awe.
And that’s how gnarly ideas that spread from person to person within a culture came to be.
The only way to stop meme-ing is to meme so hard you’ll never want to meme again in your life.
Happy semi-belated April Fool's, by the way.