Nothing beats good god sex. Hundreds of years of cosmic foreplay, the seismic clashing of titans and the beginnings and endings of civilizations. Because of the strength of the eternals’ Union, the gods, who insisted on reasonable working millennia and a great benefit package, don’t take such events lightly – even if the apathy was there. Besides, the divine workload rarely permits the time to do it right.
Thoth, the god of writing, healing, learning and wisdom, had been trying to snogitty-snog his beloved Hathor, goddess of love, dance and alcohol, for a long long time. After the courtship ritual dance of wining and dining at the trendy Libations & Offerings Osteria located in the heavenly-paradise of Sekhet-Aaru, the seeds and the eggs of the divine were well nourished, and the eternally lovely Ms. Hathor was ready to be wooed. Thoth escorted his venerated to his favorite spot – a quiet, secluded silk-lined Ibis nest in Duat, a secluded valley on the dark side of Earth’s Moon. There the immortal couple were just barely three hundred years into some serious heavy petting, when they both started to receive non-stop calls.
“May Larry Page’s and Sergey Brin’s hemorrhoids itch them all the way to the underworld! And when they get there may they find Anubis in a snarly and unforgiving mood.” Cursed Thoth with his infamous baboon-cum-ibis like snarl, which Hathor, that curvaceous bovine, goddess of all things pleasurable, always found so masculine.
Every time someone reads or says an immortal’s name, the response to at least listen is a biological imperative, even when they are off duty. It is sort of like the incessant buzzing of a teenager’s cellphone. Given global demographics, increasing literacy, technology, time zones and the dreaded Egyptotrash movies and books, the number of calls in a day was rising rapidly ever since Howard Carter’s find in the Valley of the Kings. And thanks to Page’s and Brin’s Google, the gods’ metaphorical phones were now ringing off the hook. It was worse than during the Middle Kingdom in Hermopolis!
Old deities never die – they can’t, they are immortal (duh). Normally they just get called on less and less. So they have more time to play and enjoy themselves between episodes of religion building; sort of like summer vacation. But now the natural rhythm of the cycles of faith and hedonism had been disrupted. The impact on the response systems of Thoth and his beloved made them look like they were experiencing extreme episodes of Tourrette’s Syndrome. Always twitching … but not in a good way.
Responding to a particular call, Hathor visibly blanched, which is very hard to do when you are the colour of polished ebony.
“Thoth my love, Ma’at, all that is truth, balance, order, law, morality and justice, has been disturbed. We are needed to set things right” sighed Hathor with a slight moo in the back of her throat.
“So much for this century’s plans!” snarled Thoth, his celestial member loosing steam.
[Continue reading: Chapter 8]