"So, I'd like to stress this is not, in any way, personal. Not that you are, in any way, a person. But Olympus has limited space, and Zeus has really become taken with..." The officiary stopped and checked his clipboard. "Ah yes, racquetball. And given your most recent popularity numbers, well, we didn't actually have much choice in the matter."
The functionary looked over the rims of glasses that were, by definition, cosmetic.
"Honesty, it was just a matter of time. Racquetball, squash, bonsai galaxies, you were going to go sometime. Now is just that time. Anywho, send us a forwarding address and we'll get your things there."
Bureacrasis, god of delays and inconvenient documents, dragged a pencil across a box. When it completed its circuit from one corner to the other there was a slight popping noise, as if a vaguely human shaped vacuum had replaced where a god once stood.
With this tiny flick of a pencil, Flatulus, god of the inconveniently timed fart, was now homeless.
He shook his head. Bureacrasis was right. It wasn't like this was a surprise. He'd been a minor deity three thousand years ago. How he'd hung on at Olympus was a mystery even to him. The heyday of his worship had begun and ended with an Athenian cholera epidemic. He'd mostly just sat on the fringes, picking up the occasional prayer to keep a toga clean. It wasn't a bad existence, as things go. Nectar was abundant, as was manna and hummus. Dionysous hogged all the pitas, but that was just his nature.
Well, time to figure out where he was sent. He was, like all gods, a polyglot. This was useful ninety nine percent of the time, but when your brain automatically translates everything it is a bit tricky to recognize context clues. There were people. They were walking. There were roads with cars. Everyone looked cold. And cheerful. And curious.
Why were they curious?
Because there was snow on the ground and he was wearing sandals and a toga, holding an amphora of wine. He stuck out.
A young man walked up to him. Or at least Flatulus assumed it was a man. There were many layers covering him up.
"You're a bit far from Greek row. You need some help?"
Flatulus smiled.
"I do! I seem to be lost."
"Then follow me," said the voice in a parka."
Flatulus enjoyed the sensation of slush between his toes. It was not one he had ever sought out previously, but it was extremely unique.
"So which house are you at?" The parka asked.
"I was part of Alpha, but I fear I am not welcome there."
"They let you out like that and cut you? Those are some serious douche bags."
Flatulus, who was as well versed in the classics as one could possibly be by virtue of having lived them, said simply: " Agreed."
The parka voice led him to a largish building, dark and foreboding. On the front of it was three giant omicrons.
The parka voice fiddled with the door, then opened it. They walked into a warm well kept living room.
The hood came off first, then the scarf. A beanie came next, letting out a truly prodigious amount of auburn hair. Then the parka.
And now in front of Flatulus was a red cheeked young woman in a green
sweatshirt.. She stuck out her hand.
"I'm Allison."
Flatulus, who had heard of keeping a low profile but never quite understood it, said
"I am Flatulus."
The girl wrinkled her nose, as one does when meeting the god of inconveniently timed farts.
"So that is your Greek name. They really are douchebags. What is your actual name?"
Flatulus considered this. It was, in fact, his Greek name. It was also his actual name.
But, if the name was causing her difficulty it was probably best to obliged. He tried to think of the most modern name he could. He caught a flash of a TV show once.
"Elmer." he said. It was the best he could come up with.
"Elmer? So they were sort of doing you a favor with the whole Flatulus thing."
Allison said. Then she started. "Wait, sit on the couch, let me get you a blanket, you
must be freezing."
Flatulus sat on the couch. He was, of course, not cold. But he was deeply confused. As a God you got a great deal of deference, even as a relative lightweight. But you very rarely got consideration. There was a general understanding that, as a God, you really did not need the help.
Allison came back with a knit blanket, like something an uncaring grandchild would sell at a yard sale. She carefully arrayed on Flatulus, then put a hand to his head.
"You must have not been out there that long. You are still pretty warm."
"I was really only out for a minute. Though I currently have nowhere to go."
"Well, I am not promising anything, and I have to check with my sister, but we might be able to let you crash on the couch for a night, until you can get ahold of your parents."
Flatulus, who was a child of Hephaestus and the North Wind, was reasonably certain that his parents would not take his call. They were really very busy. He suspected the snow outside was his mother's fault. She had always been icy and distant and a little too in love with metaphors.
"I would very much appreciate that," he said.
And it was true. He had not had to worry about where to lay his head for thousands of years. It was a new worry to him, and here it was already well on its way to being allayed. It is important to note that Gods don't need sleep. Human's hadn't either, but when Morpheus came around he was so annoying that the Gods found a job for him that meant he'd only be in town for a couple minutes a night.
When Susan walked in and saw that Allison had brought a man home she was shocked. When she saw the man she went straight past shocked and into stunned.
This was because Flautus, despite his deeply unfortunate name and job, was a Greek God. And he was not one of the ugly ones. In general the gods default to handsome. Flatulus had gone a bit past handsome and ended up perfect. It was probably a cosmic balancing of the books(well, threads) for the fates, who had made his father so ugly. He did not know for sure, as after four thousand years their relationship had never really progressed past small talk.
It is also important to note that, depending on what exactly your domain is, a god may very well end up with one of a thousand body types. Fertility gods tend towards the round. Famine gods tend towards the gaunt. And, given the lack of established precedent, flatulence gods are generally shredded. The kind of shredded half a soggy toga and a carefully knit blanket can't really hide.
So poor Allison, liver of a blameless life that mostly centered on rowing practice and veterinary medicine, was not prepared for this. Flatulus lit up a room like a roman candle (the Greek firework industry having been shamelessly rebranded by their conquerors)
"Who is...this? That? You?" Allison said.
"Who is you?" Susan said. "Are you having a stroke?"
"Not ye-- No." said Allison. "Who is this person you have brought in to our sacred domicile of sisterhood."
"Is this a holy place?" asked Flatulus. "If so I must apologize for not paying appropriate respects."
Flatulus looked around nervously, as if expecting a bolt of lightning unsatisfied with his apologies.
"It is not. She's just talking Greek." Susan turned to Allison. "Our guest is Elmer. The Alphas were hazing him and threw him outside like that. Since I didn't want him to die of hypothermia I invited him in here to warm up."
"If it is any inconvenience, I could leave," said Flatulus, not entirely convinced he wasn't on someone's sacred turf.
Then Flatulus stood up. It is at this point a couple things should be understood. Winter is a dry season, which means there is a lot of static electricity. Togas are made of wool. Cut rate couches, of the type that are used in frat and sorority houses are synthetic, staticy, and naturally sticky. And, of course, gods do not wear anything under their togas.
So when Flatulus rose, a great deal of his outfit remained behind. And, cresting the folds of the toga, much like a ship breaking through ice, came one of the great gifts of godhood.
Both girls were very quiet. Their eyes were doing all the talking. After a moment passed Susan cleared her throat.
"Umm, Elmer. Your...glory is showing."
Flatulus, not one terribly comfortable with idioms, looked at his arms to check if light was emanating from within him.
"No. Your giant dick. It's dangling around in front of us." said Allison.
Flatulus quickly turned around, exposing his equally impressive but slightly less titillating ass. He pulled at the wool and tried to ignore the tiny lightning bolts his actions caused. When all was free he let it drape around him, then turned around.
Gods don't blush very often. It is not generally required. It is hard to be embarrassed when every being you meet is in awe of you.
Flatulus blushed quite a bit for a god, and saw no reason to stop now.
"I should go!" he said, and hurried to the door.
"You will not." said Susan. Allison chimed in with her agreement.
"Stay the night," said Allison. "You'll catch your death out there."
Flatulus relented, and sat back down.
"Will you check with your sisters?" he said, "I would very much like everyone to be sure it is acceptable."
Allison walked to the stairs and shouted, "Girls, quick house meeting."
One by one girls stumbled down the stairs, took a look at Flatulus, and then straightened up and wished they had worn makeup and good underwear. When all twelve had gathered in the living room Susan made her plea.
"This is Elmer. He was getting hazed by the Alphas. They sent him out in the snow wearing this!" she said, waving her hand at him for emphasis. "They didn't even let him wear underwear."
At this every girl tilted their head sideways, trying to make out what might be happening in the shadows of Flatulus' toga.
"So, quick vote. Who is OK with him staying the night? He'll be on the couch, and on his best behavior."
One hand went up. Then another, and another, until shortly all arms were raised.
"Great!" said Susan. "Elmer, you can officially crash on the couch."
"Do you know what this calls for?" said Susan.
The girls, with a single voice, screamed "Movie Night!".
There was a buzz of activity, with Flatulus at the center. In short order he had a second blanket, a pair of pink slippers donated by a very tall girl, and a bowl of white crunchiness that left one almost, but not quite, sated. And quite thirsty.
The girls materialized on the floor, and couch, some with blankets, some with bean bag chairs. On the screen was someone named Gosling, whom all the women seemed quite interested in. Flatulus, who had the ultimate classical education, kept waiting for Gosling to actually turn into a goose and ravish someone. But this was, apparently, not that kind of movie.
About halfway into the movie he noticed that everyone was holding some sort of mirror in their hands. Susan, who was sitting next to him, had pictures of young men on hers. She'd look for a second or so, then push them to the side. Another young man would appear in his place. Occasionally, if one struck her fancy (or the opposite), she would show it to another girl and giggle. Then she would push him and the process would continue.
"What is that?" Flaulus asked.
"This is tinder." Susan said. She saw Flatulus blank look. "It's a dating app."
There were a lot of questions Flatulus wanted to ask, but he suspected that if he asked too many they would figure out that he was not a lost college student. He was not sure that they would get terribly close to the truth, but losing their trust was not something he particularly wanted to do.
