Mounting Olympus
an excerpt

Hera kicked open the door of Aphrodite’s Salon with her pointy stiletto. “Someone get my bags from the peacock,” she demanded. In the fraction of a second it took for the order to register, she began shrieking again. “I said now, people!” Aphrodite’s nymphs scurried for the door.

Hera raised her bony hands up to her face for inspection, green eyes narrowing to slits. “I told that insipid girl pearl. Does this polish look like pearl to you, Aphrodite?”

Aphrodite peeled her ample breasts off the shoulders of her client. She raised her eyebrows and she popped a pink bubble on her ridiculously glossy lips. “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her blond spirals from side to side.

“Use you words, Aphrodite,” said Hera.

“Oh. Okay. Lemme see.” Hera thrust her jewel-encrusted fingers under her nose. “It’s totally not pearl. It’s kinda beige.” She resumed her smacking and wheeled the salon chair around to face Hera.

“Move, Mother. You’re blocking the TV.” The massive, russet haired man had deeply grooved scowl lines in his otherwise handsome face.

“That’s not very nice, my angel. Give Mummy a kiss”. She extended her wet nails to the side of her body like an exquisite, expensively feathered bird and leaned forward for a peck on the cheek. Ares brushed his lips brusquely against her prominent cheekbone and craned his neck to see the football game on the screen above.

“Get that fucker!” he bellowed. “Chase that sorry sack of shit and put his ass on the ground!”

Aphrodite gasped and snipped a piece of hair too close to the scalp. “Baby! Not in front of Eros.” Her son scurried behind the next swiveling chair, eyes large as he stared at the god of war. The veins in Ares’s neck bulged as he turned his attention to the boy. “Might do Tiny Turd some good. Looks like a little girl to me, anyway.” He turned his hostile hazel eyes back to the game, pounding the chair with his fist. “Run, run you good-for-nothing shitnick!”

Aphrodite looked at Eros, opened her mouth in an idiotic grin, and swooped her hands up over her ears. He followed her direction and nodded, long curls flopping. He did look a bit like Shirley Temple, thought Aphrodite proudly.

Hera cleared her throat impatiently. “Get Ares out of that seat this instant and get to work on my updo.”
“Okey-dokey,” said Aphrodite, leaning her curvaceous hip into Ares rock hard shoulder. He slid a hand out to cup her butt cheek. Hera looked away, inspecting her nails again. Aphrodite giggled and smacked away Ares’s hand. “I’m almost finished.”

“He doesn’t care what he looks like,” explained Hera. “Just hurry up.”

Aphrodite hacked and snipped with her scissors in record time. Ares now looked quite similar to a huge, steroid-bloated mongrel with mange. Which, in all actuality, suited his personality quite well.

“Ares, sweetie, why don’t you go sit in another chair so you can finish watching your game,” suggested Hera with a fawning touch on his shoulder.

“Whatever.” He shook himself as Aphrodite removed the plastic cape, sending a shower of spiky reddish brown hairs. He plopped into the nearby seat, and settled into a sports-glazed trance, making guttural mumbles to soothe himself.

The nymphs returned with Argus, Hera’s beloved peacock. The girls placed Hera’shopping bags neatly in the corner, then scattered. The elegant bird made a whining plea for Hera’s attention, and she clucked at him sympathetically. “You poor, regal, baby bird. Are his feathers itchy?” She scratched his brilliant blue chest with the sharp toe of her leather stilettos. “Is he mummy’s itchy chicken?”

Argus cooed in response, wriggling his long neck with pleasure. “Get him a deep conditioning pack,” Hera snapped to the closest nymph. “And schedule him for a massage this afternoon.”

Eros reached through the legs of the salon chair and yanked one of Argus’s turquoise plumes. The bird snaked its head around the chair’s leg rest to hiss viciously at the boy. Eros pulled back under the chair and wrapped his arms around his knees. He was always waiting for a chance to pester Argus. Maybe he could pull out some feathers if the bird got sleepy enough during its massage. Eros was making an Indian headdress, and had already collected sixteen of the peacock’s glorious feathers.