“Now that’s a suitably epic conclusion!” smirks Odysseus, wiping blood from his spear.

“Epic?” says Athena. “That muse doesn’t exist yet, and this is the second epic ever, and its conclusion is me ex machina. Again.”

“I could have taken them,” says Odysseus, smearing bloody hands onto his bloody breastplate.

“Obviously,” mumbles Laertes. “You already killed their sons. And grandsons.”

“Whatevs!” says Odysseus, wading into bloody surf to blood the blood off his bloodblood. “I’m king again, at least until I die peacefully, in water, as prophesied!”

“Isn’t that something shiny?” points Athena.

“Wow!” says Odysseus, and strikes out from shore.

RESULTS: MODS CLAIM HOUSE FROM ROCKERS! chokes the headline before Freddy rips the paper in two and lets it flutter dramatically away. Then he kicks his bike.

“Those scootering cunts! We’ll never have a decent speed limit again!” moans Chuck. “Let alone the radio. What will we do, Freddy?”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” Freddy throws his scarf back over his shoulder. “We’re going to grow out of faddish politics, and let a younger generation find common ground in a new ethos called ‘punk.'”

He stands there for a while, fluttering.

“Isn’t that the same as losing?” says Chuck hesitantly.

There’s a peculiar crackling of electricity, and mysterious blue smoke issues from the breaker box. It pools like oil on the floor and pillows forward, wrapping the rickety banister, up the stairs to the foyer. It congeals into a fat little man in a loincloth.

“Hello,” says the cat, watching.

“Hail!” says the little man. “I am Sextus Spiritus, itinerant household god. Whose abode is this?”

“The big bipeds’ upstairs,” says the cat.

Sextus peers at it. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that you allow them to live here?”

“Are you kidding?” snorts the cat. “They could kick my ass.”

Do you think he’ll buy it?

Certainly. In one sense or the other.

… Ah.

Don’t get scrupulous now. It’s not as if we’ll do the work ourselves.

But if he’s learned enough to understand the offer–

If he walks away, knowing what he knows, he’ll march himself into a hasty grave.

Elucidate.

The mind retains information by contorting itself, but some facts contort it into dangerous patterns. He’ll start seeing hidden pieces of the world; soon he won’t be able to see anything else. There’s no return from–

Look.

Oh.

He’s signing.

In blood?

Honestly, we’ve found tomato juice keeps better.