Hades-in-Hose is a recurring character of mine who refuses to stick to any coherent or concurrent plotline, but often makes cameo-appearances (that is to say, appearances wearing cameos, often with camisoles) in my writing diary, the great What, and in The Tower. Regarde-la.
Hades in Hose gamboles
Towards Heaven and Aye, to pay Baby Brother a visit
(By invitation only, of course.)
It is an Event, and we cannot be late.
Of course, he has dressed for the occasion, pas the climb. Dressed in hir best black leather
The madness of mini-skirts over pre-requisite fishnets and thigh-high glittery goodness, laughing shoulder-length feathered earrings and black-bodice halter in eyelets and vinyl, mucho mascara, and the black lace pumps we have mentioned before:
High-Heeled Sass and Never you mind.
Not exactly the Thing for skittering up the side of Olympus, cracking and cackling over wicked rocks, snapping the stillettos off of his heels and beating the beads of his egyptian braids.
His Highness of Hell curses and keens all the way up the Muhammad-Damned mountain, but he comes, he comes, with kicks and caresses, to do his best
To be the Black Sheep and
To Fuck up the Family Occasion,
Wouldn't miss it for the world, Brother Dear.
Baby Brother Pie-In-The-Sky is holding a Virgin Sacrifice on the heights of his old mountain home, and Abolutely Everyone's invited. He couldn't exclude the Awful Oldest without committing a Most Unforgivable Social Faux Pas, comprable to leaving out Maleficent from the Baptism of the Baby Princess. Bring on the Furies, bring on the pain, no thank you, no way. Baby Lightning-God's a Cock-up, but he'd not do it again.
So here comes Hades
With Bells on in every concievable way
Sex spangled Social Embarrasment.
And they can't let him lurk at the back either, oh no, he's got a seat up front, next to Sister-Matron Hera with her Bee-hive High-and-Mighty-Hair and her fabulous frock of peacock feather and Eva inspired dash. Severe, but he likes it, and they faire-la-bis like old biddies and aye. And on the other side Fish-Brother Pond-Hopper, That Old Puddle-Jumper Posiedon, picking sea-weed out of his green teeth like shreds of damp tobacco and asking after Hades's horse, the Rosy-Cross: Oh yes, she's very well, and thank you.
And everyone else is all around, including the white-lovely, dark-dreamy wife, tucked safely behind her mother's skirts in a place where His Heathenhood can't see her in all of this mass,
And of course, in the center, the bonny bloh black virgin, auto-sodomized by her own chastity-- that is to say:
Fucked in the ass by her very own No.
Thank you, come again.
Do I buy that?
So he wonders what the wench did (or didn't do) to deserve this, and of course, it's terribly obvious, implicit, even, in that ass-raping, back-breaking word Virgin, in the legs bound together and to the olivewood post, she in her filmy best before the fires are lit, or she is tossed into the volcano, or what not.
He feels pity, pique, angst, irritation: but it isn't his party, after all.
"Must it all end in violence?" He sidles up to baby brother while the cocktails are being served, between the Opening Ceremonies and the Big Event.
"Yes." Says The Lord of the Lightning with a Fearsome frown, a 'why-are-you-talking-to-me' frown, a back-of-the-bus frown. "You, of all people, should be hep to that jive."
Hades in Hose hiccups over his champagne cocktail and lowers his lover-eyes at Kore across the room, who is whispering sweet nothings in the Sacrificial Ear, while Mother Corn Crone is busy being Hekate at somebody.
"I have a better solution." Says the Dead Lord suggestively.
"I sincerely doubt it." Says the Living Flash, "Besides, I promised Pélé." He smiles tight lipped and cuts his eyes at Hera in Garters, holding court on high.
"Merciful Moses," Says Hades Semetically, "You're a randy little rake, aren't you? Nevertheless, there are some options that I would show you, that would really blow that red-broad's skirt up, you may see what I mean."
Kid King-of-the-Gods can't abide being cajoled over much, especially by over eager dead gods who embarrass and scare him. Hades grins are deamon-calls, and everyone knows it. They've been whispering since that poisoned doxy arrived, muttering lewd rumors and cutting their eyes at Kore and snickering about his satin and suggesting Satanic sorts of things, Not His Pantheon baby, not his aisle. Little brother would deny his brother's Dead Reckoning if he could, but death's one of pernicious scraps of toilet paper that clings all the faster to your best bootheels, the more one tries to shake it off.
"So tell me what you mean," blusters Zeus gruffly, and so Hades does, and, by Bacchus, it isn't a half-bad gala at that, and it makes baby brother giggle.
"And it'll make the wife happy." Hades in Hose murmurs in conclusion, and cloud-gathering Zeus couldn't argue, couldn't complain.
So swiftly he called up Wingfoot-Hermes of the Splendid Sandals (overwhich Hades cooed and cossetted), and Apollo Shootafar, the Golden Boy of Hoary Heaven, and sent them far and wide to find him
His trollops and tricks and doxies and dames
His pretty boys and party friends
His left-over, layabout odds-and-ends,
Not so noble or known as Leto or Leda or Alchmene or Europa or aye.
And they brought them up to the mountain, to the God-Party, and they were plied with food and drink and games and pleasures,
While the little-one bound looked on in wonder, locked-quim twitching with the effort of not asking what was going on,
And Kore looking over at her Winter Prince while he smiled secritively and raised a finger to his lips. She managed to pass him on the way to the punchbowl and quirked an eyebrow as inquisitively as she dared.
"A man's blood is his own," Hades-in-Hose whispered, by way of reply, "But his meat belongs to the Maiden."
And he winked at her as her mouth formed an 'O,' then an 'O mi God,' then a galloping grin as she wandered, woman-wise, to refreshment and back.
So when the night began to close and moon-mad Diana (who had NOT been invited and wouldn't have appreciated and had to work anyway) started her silvery descent, the well-seasoned revelers were brought forward to the center, close to the mouth of the ailen-occupied volcano, where the red-faced woman, passionate Pélé winked out from under the lip,
And were Sacrificed, Roasted, Sauced and fed strip by strip to the Virgin.