Muddle

Night sinks down upon them in a viscidly sweet haze. Both immortal beings sit outside on a mangy old couch away from the party inside the house that dies down like graying lumps of a campfire’s coal. Normally their kind is not seen hanging out in such a lowly scene, but earlier tonight they both descended to earth to reveal to the earthlings delightful new music. Apollo directed his muses in a symphony as Dionysus’ procession provided dance and other exotic entertainment. Their laurels sloppily hang about their curly hair, golden (Apollo) and dark brown (Dionysus), and their goblets are just about drained of the vintage wine Dionysus brought from his favorite harvest-year. The air smells of wine and the drunken perspiration that naturally follows reveling of beings of their gargantuan size.

Apollo sits directly underneath the porch light so his sweat can glisten. He always needs to shine, for he is associated with the sun. Even as he sits amongst unsavory cigarette butts and bottle caps he can manage an unparalleled regality. Dionysus sits next to him and he shines with his youthfully clean shaven face and vibrant tiger furs, but no matter what his efforts, he cannot shine as brilliantly as his friend. This is not to say he isn’t beautiful. Zeus, almighty, is he beautiful! But how can anyone really amount to anything next to the rippling golden muscle that moves under such ethereally sun kissed skin? Besides, Dionysus’ garb is sprinkled with embarrassing stains from clumsy handling of his drink. Both of them sit outside on the couch with their eyes fixed on the same cigarette Dionysus just flicked down onto the pavement. It burns on in front of their bodies as a pathetic epic poem, with more diminuendo directed for each passing stanza. They do not look at each other.

Dionysus wants to speak, but in his stupor can only fill up the space with silly bantering:

--Where are all of your bitches and hoes, Apollo?

While Apollo almost always reproaches his friend for his use of vulgarisms, he secretly enjoys his company for its entertaining qualities. Apollo smiles at his friend:

--You’re bad. Stop, just stop. My muses are taking a break. I’m too drunk as it is to have need for any inspiration now. Can I just sit here for a minute?

Dionysus:

--I saw one of them passed out on Ares’ lap.

Apollo laughs at his friend:

--Oh, yes, she sure is a handful.

Dionysus:

--I totally had her earlier.

Apollo:

--Oh, yeah?

Dionysus:

--I sure did. She sure can sing, to say the least.

Apollo:

--STOP IT. Enough, already. Anyways, where are your…bitches and hoes?

Dionysus:

--I’m absolutely bored of the lot. I’ve let my procession go to bed.

There is light chuckling. Then there is silence. Dionysus looks over to his friend, thinking again something needs to be said. The other, who still keeps his eyes on the same cigarette butt, must anticipate some sort of sloppy, poetic exposé or revelation of feeling that would be uncomfortable for him to carry. They both let out a sigh, but Dionysus sighs too heavily, and the motion of his stomach expanding up toward his thoracic cavity makes him ill. He hurls down a thunderstorm of vomit right in front of their sandals. He apologizes several times. Apollo backs up as far as he can into the corner of the couch.

Apollo looks directly at his friend for the first time in hours:

--That’s disgusting.

Dionysus:

--Don’t look at me, Apollo. Please ju-blearaaaarrghh!-st look the over way. I’m sorry. Bleaarrrrrghhh!… I’m sorry.

Apollo:

--Stop Apologizing.

Dionysus:

--I didn’t want it to be like this.

Apollo:

--Are you crying?

Dionysus:

--I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying so hard-

Apollo:

--I do. It’s because you’re trashed. Please, keep it down. People are going to wake up.

Dionysus is done vomiting and he now hangs over the side of the couch with his hand over his face. If he is not careful he might become mad with dejection. He might turn this moment into a Dionysian tragedy, which would be most annoying to his friend.

Dionysus:

--I’m crying because…

Apollo:

--You know I can’t be what you want me to be.

Dionysus:

--What? But I thought… I just had a feeling that…

Apollo detests muddy situations above all things. He cannot bear to sit here with what he believes is about to be revealed to him. He associates himself with the sun, after all. He must go on shining. He interrupts Dionysus:

--What! Do you need a release? There’s a bathroom inside down the hall inside to the left of Ares’s room. Close your mouth, you stinking cave. I see your dread. You know that you really stink? Father Zeus, almighty, I can’t even sit next to you without wanting to scratch my own skin off.

Dionysus starts hiccupping uncontrollably.

Apollo:

--I can’t wash off your stench…

Dionysus scoops up a handful of the filth that lies stinking on the ground below and slings it into his friend’s face. His friend sits for a second in the mess Dionysus caused. He wipes off his face with such poise that Dionysus shudders and feels the downward pull of gravity as he has never felt it before.

Apollo:

--You always know how to put on a show.

Dionysus:

--This is what we do.

It is almost morning and they will both have to get back to their respective homes. Apollo has the sunrise to worry about. Dionysus will go back and help his histrionic cult members communicate with the dead. Maybe he will check up on Apollo the next day to see how he’s feeling. Dionysus lifts up his empty goblet to toast his friend.