This is a place of darkness. Obscurity. But most certainly of all, peace. With no known beginning and no tangible end, here you'll find time to be quite irrelevant. Gravity rather optional. In here, the nonsensical is what's come to be expected. Where the strong come to nourish their vitality. The battle worn search for relief. Poets fulfill their deepest creative desires. In here, it may be dark but this is not a place to fear... In here, the light will paint the way.
BZZZZZZT.
Odd. A disturbance echoes from within the darkness. It sounds as if it's coming from another world entirely. The most irritating noise to ever violate this realm.
BZZZZZZT.
Steven shoots out from his slumber, shielding his eyes from the morning sun pouring in from the blindless windows. Eyes closed, he blindly feels around his bed. Searching for his cell phone to see who dares interrupt his thirteenth hour of slumber. Six missed calls from Roger and a text message that reads,
["Sorry I couldn’t stop by this morning. Last minute change of plans. Arrived at school early in preparation for our extra credit report. I hope this wake up call will suffice. ^_^'"]
'Oh shit. School.' The shroud of sleep fades away and is replaced by the shroud of being superbly stoned. Steven now remembering his wish to become permanently stoned, which is clearly in full swing. More of yesterday's recycled memories upload to his brain at the efficiency of a cracked floppy disc running on Windows 11. But worst of all, an overwhelming feeling creeps in. A buttery sensation that causes Steven to melt to his bed like warm baked brioche.
He sluggishly growls back at the alarm clock radio that screams at him. It's been screaming for hours. A hunk of plastic that barely hangs on the edge of his nightstand is controlling his entire life at this moment. There’s eight minutes until the bus arrives. Which means there's a chance. Never in the history of mortal man has anyone this belligerent made it to school on time by their own accord. If anyone can take this small step for successful stoners everywhere, it's Steven. But the question remains, is getting out of bed worth it?
A wake and bake with a smooth joint will provide him the answer. If Steven wants to stay out of summer school for one last no-bummer summer before graduation, he absolutely cannot afford another tardy. He knows partnering with Roger on any school assignment is a guaranteed A plus. Most of his teachers end up taking notes during one of Roger's renowned presentations. The principal, Dr. Bann, would often record his speeches as a contingency plan for ill-prepared substitute teachers or to show certain professors how its done. Gauging from Roger's excitement in the various voicemails and text messages, this sounds like a lucrative project to bank them both extra credit beyond what is already being offered on this assignment. Which in turn would level Steven's grade to a well deserved D minus. All he needs to do is show up.
No time for a shower. The notoriously punctual I.M. High School bus refuses to wait a single second for any man, woman, or even creature of myth. So, with the swagger of a drunken action hero, Steven slumps out of bed.
Seven minutes until the bus arrives.
A quick rinse of mouth wash, a dollop of water to straighten his hair, and a spray of cheap mystery Christmas cologne. Now he's Johnny Bravo fresh. There’s no amount of eye drops that can aid his radioactive eyes. It doesn't matter though, Steven claims to act convincingly sober at the drop of a dime. He shuffles into the kitchen and snatches the last two granola bars before darting out the back door.
Six and a half minutes remain.
This is the last leg of the journey. All he has to do now is go up the driveway, walk two houses over, and wait at the stop sign on the street corner. Until... a familiar bellow from the other side of the fence stops him in his tracks.
"Hey! Erhrrreh, neighbor!" Mr. Steinberg shouts in a chowdery jewish-boston that's so deep it sounds like a straight up parody. "May I borrow one, er, spare moment of your time?"
Steven examines his wrist to find he isn't wearing a watch. Heavy eyed, he trudges over to the fence dividing the two yards.
"Steven, you look like a walking comatosed patient." Steinberg puts bluntly. "Listen. Last night during the sunset hours, I was preparing my Wednesday evenings stove-top popcorn. Irp. I realize this was at a later hour than usual but I'm a, eh, firm believer that stove top snacking can be enjoyed outside of, er, regular dining hours..."
Steinberg is an excitable man. Sporadically adjusting his newsboy gentleman's cap as he speaks, allowing his gray hair to occasionally poke out. The nippy morning wind has already turned his buck nose flush red. Steven is trying to process the man's ghost tracing hand gestures as his colorful bowling shirt dances in the wind to the rhythm of mother nature's beat.
"... To my surprise, upon the unpackaging process, I found that the Mrs. had accidentally purchased an off-brand stove top, eh, popcorn- - As I heated said popcorn product, the first kernel had popped with such a velocity that it shook my entire property. Shook it straight to the foundation..."
Steven is clearly having a difficult time focusing on Steinberg's wild story. He attempts to maintain a mild interest but instead appears totally fried out of his mind.
"... I must apologize if my pop-quake disturbed you or your mother. I have already taken the liberty of withdrawering the required money from one of my offshore hedge fund accounts in order to repay you and, ehrrr, your mother for the damages done to your garage, there. As well as to, ehh, purchase the proper stove-top seedlings to prevent any such future occurrences... Oh. One more thing before you go, a concern in regards to yesterday's news broadcast-"
Less than one minute until the bus arrives. Steven cannot wait any longer. Amidst the wavering ramblings of Steinberg, he breaks free of the conversation. He strides up the driveway in the same fashion as a chimp walking through jelly. A man on a singular mission. Instead of taking a left on the sidewalk towards the bus stop, he takes an aloof right turn in the opposite direction. Taking a U-turn back into his garage and climbing up into the attic. Dead set on summoning the mighty Jihnn so he can wish for some delicious name-brand stove-top popcorn. He hasn't had stove-top popped popcorn in years, his mouth waters at the very thought. If only he could remember where he hid the wondrous bubbler- His pants vibrates at the exact same moment the school bus squeals away in the background. Steven is too distracted by the phone juggling around in his loose grip as he undertakes the Herculean task of rationally replying to Roger's text message…
[ROGER- 7:15 AM : "Sorry I couldn't stop by this morning. Last minute change of plans. Arrived early in preparation for the extra credit report. I hope this morning wake up call will suffice. ^_^"
{Read}
ROGER- 7:22 AM: Meet me by my locker before 4th period. I'll debrief you on the changes to our report.
STEVEN- 7:26 AM: Woh shut mah. school is afoot. Jihnny smoithin the cluB, my man. no worries though. Well be poppin' off now, man. I didjt forget or did I?"
ROGER- 7:26 AM: what?
STEVEN- 7:29 AM: = 🐼 +🍿=🎉
ROGER- 7:29 AM: Just message me when you get here.]
Roger slides his cellphone into his sweater pocket, collects his visual aids, then slams his locker shut. He's off to first period history. A specialty of his. In all honesty though, every subject is his specialty. Still calculating the success ratio of 4th period's extra credit report as he slides into his desk. He runs evaluations in his head, gauges the variables. Not worried about his own perfect grade of course, Roger is far more concerned about having a relaxing summer with the Chill Crew. He needs to minimize any risks to his summer fun, remembering all too well how annoying it is to make plans while one of the crew is stuck in summer school for five days a week on top of all the random super villain interferences.
"Roger!" Mr. Shaffer shouts. "Can you start us on page three-seventy-six? It appears we've reached the term that focuses on the more theoretical side of history. Sure, there's been sightings and supposed artifacts of supposed gods. Heh. I might as well teach you about the supposed bigfoot-... And yes, class, I'm well aware of what is written inside of the supposed chapter thirty-six. That nonsense will be removed from the curriculum for as long as I teach this course."
Roger digs through his backpack to find an ancient history book. His mind is too cluttered, he always leads the morning class discussion, he's usually more prepared. He lays the book on his desk, the title has been crossed out in sharpie marker with a giant "X" and "Pseudohistory (Morally Irreprehensible Reading)" has been written in its place.
Roger clears his throat, skimming to page three-seventy-six. He reads aloud...
"On the ridge of the Eastern Pacific Ocean, where the chasmic canyon meets the Pziat Plateau, you'll find what remains of the earth's tallest mountain. That is, before that summit was stolen by the Olympian gods. Who used the earthly mountain as the core foundation to craft a new home. The few ancient humans who have glimpsed the renovated mountain have described it as a perfect paradise. The king of the gods, Zeus, however, described it simply as the home the gods deserved. Nothing more. Nothing less.
When the mountain was uprooted from the earth, the gods discovered a second peak attached to its underside. An upside down mountain so to speak, once buried deep into the earth is said to have the appearance of an Egyptian pyramid built entirely of emerald and gold. Which may give us a hint as to who crafted this upside portion of the mountain. The upside down peak dug so far into the earth's crust that the emerald tip actually penetrated into the earth's core. Earth's magma morphed the summit into a unique sculpture, a union of the craftmanship between god and nature, it is difficult to describe, in layman's terms, the mountain's underside peak is a renowned piece of abstract art. The whole of the structure was once dubbed, the mountain with a peak at both ends, but now more often referred to as, Mt. Olympus.
Using the strength of Zeus' mighty chariot and his four horsemen to pilot it, Mt. Olympus was carried into deep intergalactic space. Leaving nothing behind on Earth other than an unnatural shattered cliff side. For decades the crater remained un-whole. Until nature found a way, a monstrous beauty would eventually grow in the mountain's place. A colossal sequoia tree that grew ten times the size of the average tree. With branches that reach far above the ocean caverns. A tree so massive that it blocks the sunlight for miles, yet plants still manage grow there. Plants that thrive in the dark.
Translated texts suggest that the double peaked mountain has been expanded upon even further, making it larger, more robust, and more fantastical. Somewhere in a galaxy far beyond our own. Believed to have been taken to a pocket tucked somewhere near the whirlpool galaxy. Where several solar systems have fallen into the orbit of Mt. Olympus, every one of them now under Zeus' rule. Of course, as mortals, we can only theorize..."
Apollo rubs his eyes. It somehow worked. The Jihnn's magic was actually able to alter Zeus' banishing magic. Ah. The nostalgic feeling of the soft Olympian surface squishing beneath his sandals. Textures of a cloud. Something he thought he’d never feel again. For the first time in two thousand years, Apollo has made it home.
You'd never find a view like this on earth, every single star is visible in the night sky, as if they were created to shine down onto the heavens. A dazzle of glittering grass under the bright starlight. The floral zest of a summer garden is in bloom. Off in the distance, the sound of Hephaestus’ sentient harp radiates, it's all just as he remembered. Everything else, beyond the gardens, however? Looks completely new to him. Of course it does. How could Apollo expect everything to stay the same? Even with Zeus' desire to keep all affairs on Olympus “in order,” a lot can change in over two thousand years. Especially in recent years after new cultures have proven their worthiness in Zeus' trials to earn the title of full godhood. The most recent of which being the so-called, 'galactic gods.' They've been rewarded verbal permission to access this new home as their own. With all the power and status that comes with it.
Every light strung along the lantern lit road resembles a different animal crafted out of papier-mâché, each illuminated by the stardust that floats around inside. Apollo can only guess if he's heading in the right direction at this point, hoping the lights lead to a major city. His plan is to find a familiar face, preferably a friendly one. His banishment may be forgotten but past foes will no doubt still remember their old grievances.
The road ahead seems to lead into a nearby town. Even at night, Zeus' palace is always visible, always the center of attention. It's size and it's beauty is by design. Without fail, it attracts gods from near and far to behold it's brilliance, while simultaneously mocking the peasants who can only afford a view from galaxies away.
Apollo scoffs.
"What a shit hole… I need a drink."
Dionysus winery and ecstasy pub. An old style tavern which specializes in exotic beverages and home brewed wines. Apollo enters. Another sense of nostalgia crashes over him. So familiar yet so foreign. Memories of puking right on this very same booze drenched oak wood floor. Never did he think he'd again smell the aroma that only Ariadne’s gin can provide. Old crackles coming from the cardinal red fireplace, smoke dancing its way up to the mounted head of a slick black dragon. Closer to the bar, the entire back wall is decorated with the rarest bottles of liquor in all of Olympus. Apollo sneaks his way past two gods playing a round of indoor beer discus, he continues past a sign that reads, 'Angels night. Angelic Karaoke Every Wednesday.’
"That'll be twelve, Morrigan." The jolly Bartender reminds one of the three goddesses chatting among each other on the other end of the bar.
Two heavy coins clang together as the barkeep accepts a payment from the black-haired woman with a blue streak through her hair. The bartender wipes his forehead, below an ivy wreath that maintain his un-groomed white hair. Before closing the register, his sage green eyes go wide. He grasps at his mighty beard, completely bewildered.
"If this not be a dream, then I've surely been placed under a spell... Apollo, you cannot stand before me."
"Dionysus, it doesn't matter how long it's been. No god who's puffed on Plato's pipe could mistake this existence for any sub reality again."
Dionysus releases his thick beard.
"Hmph." He says, pouring a glass. "Plato's pipe was destroyed, you know."
"I remember." Apollo replies.
"That must've been right before-"
Dionysus slides the god sized mug over to Apollo. "How is this possible?" He asks.
"How's this possible?" Steven grumbles in front of an empty classroom.
Moments ago he had used his final wish for a ride to school, with a pit stop for some munchies of course. Maniacally shoveling a handful of main brand popcorn into his mouth, he contemplates his current situation... 'Hmph. I've never been this early before.' He concludes, before slumping into an empty desk.
'Has it been five minutes or thirty? This damn desk is twisting my back out of whack. Where in the hell is everyone? They couldn't have gone on another field trip? Am I learning?' Steven's train of thought is quickly interrupted by a knock at the opened classroom door. A stern Office Administrator pokes her head in.
"Steven? What in the world are you still doing here?"
"Waiting for first period."
"School hours have ended quite some time ago."
"Yeah, but it's Wednesday."
"..."
"..."
"I think you should see the principal."
Dr. Bann's office is clean and organized with a subtle touch of 70's memorabilia scattered throughout. Today's fragrance, apple cinnamon, which will soon be replaced by the smell of skunk thanks to the joint Steven forgot to smoke at the bus stop this morning. Ready to put his philosophy of what he calls, "incogblazedo," to the test. The act of being superbly stoned around authority figures without raising any suspicion whatsoever.
"Evening, Steven." Principal Bann says somberly, he extends his hand.
'Yes. This is normal.' Steven thinks to himself. He accepts the handshake.
"My assistant informs me that if it wasn't for a trail of littered popcorn in the hallways, you might've been sitting at that desk all night."
'Are my hands too sweaty? Is my grip too loose? Too tight? Is there peanut butter under my skin!? WHAT ABOUT NOW!?!’
"What about what? Have there been troubles at home, son?"
Worried that his buttery popcorn fingers might cause the handshake to become sloppy, Steven subtly increases the speed of the up and down gestures so he can slide his drenched palm into a more solid grip.
"And Miss Cramptry has mentioned you've been having trouble keeping your attendance up. Even disappearing during yesterday's field trip?"
'Up and down. Straight and clean. Like you're taking a sobriety test.'
"These are serious offenses, I'm afraid."
Principal Bann looks up at the clock above, each tick louder with every passing second. Tick after tick. A desperate principal and a stoned student stand silently in the center of the room like they're in the middle of a western shakeoff. A moment in time that won't seem to end. Neither sure of what to say.
Both shaking hands.
"I'm afraid I have no choice but to expel you, son."
The Principal's voice is heavy as he breaks off the handshake. Steven's face animates to life for the first time, he looks down at his own empty hand. He looks over to the principal's empty hand.
‘Does Dr. Bann know I'm baked!?’
"I know you're upset. I'm upset as well. You see, there's been concern about this Friday's Titillation of Talent. It's created unfounded pressure on myself. This is perhaps where you and I can help each other. It is my understanding that you and Mr. C have been preparing some sort of special act for this year's improv show, yes?"
'What's the sober thing to do? Grab his hand and force the handshake to continue? Would that be classy?'
"I need to justify my expenses as of late. The board doesn't share my philosophy that creating happy students paves a happier future for us all. And as a result, all eyes are on this Friday's talent show. I skyrocketed well above the budget and they want to know why. All I wanted to do was ensure this really makes a splash to student morale. But, I still have yet to find the surefire act that I need to seal the deal. I hate to ask you this, but it's for the children, damn it!- Would you be willing to debut your new material at the Titillation instead of the improv show? You'll be provided with more stage time, a headlining spot, and let's just say it'll be easier for janitorial to sweep away any, erm, said tardy's, during the post show clean up. We’ll have to give you a few in school detentions to keep up appearances- So, do we have a deal?"
'One special edition, director's cut, comedy special for Tuesday night's titillation coming right up, sir.'
Principal Bann's right arm twitches as he instinctively reaches for a handshake. Panic. Maybe a fist bump? No. Instead he retracts his hand into his pocket. Rather accepting Steven's incomprehensible ape-like grunt as a verbal agreement. Which means this Friday is officially set for titillation!
Titillated and bubbly, Apollo glances down at his chalice half full of wine. Appreciating the tastes that have led him to this half empty glass. Dionysus' two pet cheetahs sit across the bar, they lick their chops at the grape scented wine. They aren't enticed for long, their focus stolen by the two mugs presented by their master. Customers need to be served. If you were to blink, you'd miss it. The bartending cheetahs serve up these beverages at the speed of sound, they return to their master's side before the foam on the customer's beers can settle. Apollo clears his throat, he presents his drink.
"Starting off easy, are we?" He asks.
"You recall puffing on Plato's pipe, but the potency of my wine slips your mind? I'm insulted." Dionysus says.
"I'm lucky to remember how to use the toilet after a night of drinking with you." Apollo replies.
"Ha. I knew it. Already stiff drunk. Before finishing your glass, too."
"This buzz is great but y'know what'd really hit the spot? Some Olympian kind bud." A smile sweeps Apollo's face. "It's been so long. The mortal stuff has gotten a little better over the years but it just doesn't hit the same."
"Sorry to say, Apollo. After your banishment not one soul dares grow on this cloud. I've heard of occasional word, those desperate enough to visit earth or even the Dovetrian galaxy to get a cheap fix. Very few view the journey as worthwhile though. Which hasn't been bad for business to be honest."
"In that case, ya know anyone looking to score some ganj? It's mortal grown but hot damn is it fire- Wait. You remember my banishment?"
"It may've been a long while now but to forget the banishment of my own blood? Are you okay?.. Apollo?"
"Yeah. Sorry, just thinking out loud." Apollo apologizes. "Has anyone ever found out why we're allowed to grow everything under the twin moons except cannabis? Have you heard anything?"
"No." Dionysus replies.
"I have one of my crazy tinfoil hat theories to lay on ya."
"Yeah?- What's tin foil?"
"Doesn't matter. Listen up. A few years ago, back on earth, I smoked the last of my Olympian stash with a mortal. But the batshit part is, the weed didn't kill him like the others, it like mutated his genes or some shit. Now whenever he smokes, even mortal bud, he gets abilities just like ours... And right now he stumbled across enough weed to make us rich."
"Are we talking demigod? Or?"
"Demigod, fosho. But the higher he gets the more powerful he becomes. I'm not sure if there's a limit."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You're the only guy worth trusting on this side of the mountain."
"Yeah, well-"
"What are you doing here?" A fiery voice shouts.
Apollo chugs the remainder of his drink then asks Dionysus to top it off. The conversation between two friends has fallen silent, overtaken by senseless drunken chatter and the loud purring of the two cheetahs. The two pets excitedly wag their tails. Apollo doesn't bother to look away from his mug, he already knows who approaches the bar besides him. His sister, Artemis, goddess of the hunt.
She wears furs and leathers crafted from animals hunted by her bow and quiver. Rage and confusion fills her valiant moon colored eyes filled. Apollo dodges his sisters attempt at eye contact, instead noticing the purple streaks flowing through her modern style mullet, those are new. The black rose dressed above her right ear is not.
Unwilling to repeat herself, she forces eye contact with Apollo.
"Oh. Y’know, just stopping by, so I can be rightfully appointed the god of chess." He exclaims.
"No. You tell me why, now."
Artemis' leering expression causes Apollo to shift his to a less defensive one. There's no point in playing coy any longer. The jig is up. Over a few drinks Apollo spills the beans about ditching the field trip, the mysterious Jihnn, and his selfish wish. Shaken, Artemis is left with only one proper way to respond.
"Wishing magic?" she says.
"Yeah. I thought you guys would be in on it though! Like the banishment never happened at all. Guess the wish only got me back through the gates. I want my money back."
"Which is unfathomable regardless. And without alerting the twins?" Artemis' tone is dire. "It'd be best for everyone if I didn't remember any of this. Dionysus, a double shot of your strongest honey nectar."
The cheetah sitting closest to Artemis chomps onto a handle and slides the mug across the counter-top. It coasts straight into her open hand. Artemis doesn't hesitate to guzzle it down. The sister cheetah refills her drink the very moment she sets it on the counter. Artemis gives a scratch to the black spot behind the large cat's ear. Thank you.
A group of loudmouth gods burst into the bar.
"Not tonight." Dionysus says under his breath.
The gods form a line beside the entryway in preparation of the arrival of their champion. A decadent red rug is rolled out. An aggravated sigh escapes Dionysus as he reluctantly picks up a tacky microphone from behind the bar. Nervously, he glances at Apollo to gauge his reaction.
"And now, ladies and gentleman, let me present you, our longest reigning angelic karaoke champion. You know him as the many skilled god. Earning such titles as, the god of craftsmanship, storms, and sorcery. A god of oath and overall nobility. Not to mention a well documented historian, blacksmith, and accomplished playwright. Beloved by all. He is the shining one. Your god of the sun!.. Lugh!!"
A youthful, well proportioned, shining god enters the bar, joined by a group of demigods all wearing skimpy clothes otherwise known as his, "angels." The main god wears an elegant Celtic crown atop silky bright blonde hair, covered in battle armor from his neck tattoo and below, all the way down to the legendary boots of Hermes.
"So the idea of me becoming a god of chess is laughable but this douche wipes his ass and gets appointed the god of shit?" Apollo asks.
"You know dad won't anoint a god for a specific game." Artemis replies.
"Dad can suck a fat one."
"What did you say?" A bitter voice calls out.
It seems that Lugh didn't come to karaoke night alone and this angry man certainly isn't one of his backup angels...
Apollo sighs.
"Hey pops." He answers.
To Roger's surprise, he once again finds himself stepping off of the I.M. High school bus by himself. He dumps the extra credit report into Steven's garbage bin before making his way into the garage attic to spark one up. Roger hears quiet dissonant sounds, noticing that Homer is wearing headphones over in the surveillance corner. He speaks up above the music.
"What's up, man?"
Startled, Homer removes an earbud, pockets his gaming/musical device, then responds in a groggy manner.
"Oh, hey."
"Is everything okay?" Roger asks.
"Guess you haven't been online."
"No. I've been busy attempting to contact Steven all day. Speaking of which, have you seen him?"
"Nah. Not since last night." Homer replies.
"What happened? Super villain activity?"
"No. It's the Ackmed situation"
"It went without a hitch? You saved the day. Put the bad guy behind bars. Business as usual." Roger says.
Homer lets out a deep breath.
"Everyone is pissed at me for taking the hostage situation off the air. They're saying stuff like, I ruined the only watchable thing on television and how everything I do sucks ass."
"But the Pinchman had a gun to Ackmed's head! He was going to pull the trigger if he didn't get a fix!"
"I know. But now Stonerman LLC. is being sued by the network for ruining their highest rated news program in years."
Homer shows his cellphone to Roger. The headline reads, 'Stonerman once again refuses to share the spotlight. Lawsuit pending.'
"At least there isn't a body they can physically sue thanks to Mr. P... So long as your identity remains hidden." Roger replies.
"True. Just sucks."
"By my estimation, you did the right thing. Doesn't matter what they write in the headlines."
"How am I supposed to add positivity to the world when all of my efforts are twisted into something negative? Sometimes I feel like I'm doing more harm than good. Everyone talks shit until something worse manifests. Nothing changes. Maybe I should hang up the cape, disappear for a while."
"We both know that isn't true."
The conversation has reached an unconventional stalemate. Roger grabs a pre-rolled king sized joint from the toppled joint-Jenga pile in the hope to cheer up his friend. Homer silently scrolls through his news feed as he tries his damndest to find a credible or at the very least, coherent, news article written by the mainstream media. Not one is to be found. They’ve all been bought out by LegitGoodGood Inc. Or AI slop copying the articles with narratives that have already been bought and paid for. Just as Homer is about to give up, something catches his attention.
"Hmph." he says. "These targeted ads are getting lazier and lazier. They're actually trying to advertise the German version of the Berenstein Bears? Did they run out of products to advertise and now expect me to think this was some kind of new product just because it not in English?"
"Who?" Roger replies, peeking at Homer's phone. "Oh. They're Canadian, not German."
"The Bearenstrüsin Bears?"
"Homer, are you sure you're okay? Bearenstrüsin Bears was a favorite of yours as a kid."
"No. Bearenstein. I read the Bearenstein Bears."
"I'm calling the ROACH unit to initiate a brain scan."
"Not possible!" Homer shouts.
Homer spills a pile of weed on the floor, he bolts out of his chair at lightning speed. He must've been smoking for longer than Roger had originally anticipated in order to achieve super-speed so effortlessly. Roger is again left alone, but this time with endless piles of weed and several king sized joints to contemplate this concerning situation.
Homer is so baked the twenty-two mile trip that took the school bus hours, now feels almost instantaneous. He moves at speeds impossible to register on any surveillance technology available in the Midwest. He zooms into the old antique shop on Sunken Shores Ave. The enchanted store bell, a sound Homer wasn't expecting to hear again so soon. There's no time to think. He scurries over to the same bookshelf that infatuated him yesterday. Everything looks the same. Alex Rider, Goosebumps... No. It can't be.
"Bearenstrüsin!?" Homer is out of his mind at this point. Is he losing it? "The damned Bearenstrüsin Bears!?"
The elderly Shopkeep is not shocked to see Homer's return nor by his breakdown. She stomps her staff on the floor. One. Two. Three. She has only one thing to say...
"Has reality lost hold of another one?"
She howls like a hyena. Homer tries to cope with the gravity of his situation, her laughter continues to echo all the way into his thoughts. He bursts out of the shop, speeds back up into the fort. Roger still sits in the same position as before, exhaling a hit.
"Back so soon?" He wonders.
Homer nods, already punching a code into the fort's safe. Bits of weed fall from his trembling hand as he packs the wondrous bubbler. Roger is unsure why but together, the two friends smoke three fat bowls, the Jihnn is nowhere to be found.
"How many bowls does it take?" Roger wonders, slightly irritated.
"Maybe I'm not packing them fat enough."
It takes several more bowls to trigger the summoning of the mystical Jihnn. An experience as spectacular as ever. But after his last revelation, Homer wonders if any of this is real at all.
"What in the hell is going on?"
"~θ Whatever do you mean, Homer? θ~"
"Am I losing my mind? Ever since my wish, things seem different. Small things. Unimportant things. What happened? Has my wish warped the entire world or something? Some time travel, butterfly effect, bullshit? What are you, really?"
"~θ You've got this situation fearfully wrong, I'm certain. Your dimension has been left unaltered. Presently, you and I are experiencing a whole new world entirely. θ~”
Chapter 4: The Sound Of A Thousand And One Cashed Bowls {Prelude To The War Of The Gods Part 1}
"Why do you think you're only allowed three?"