This is a place of darkness. Obscurity. But most certainly of all, peace. With no known beginning and no tangible end in sight, here you'll find time to be quite irrelevant. Gravity rather optional. In here, the nonsensical is what's come to be expected. The strong come to nourish their vitality. The battle worn search for relief. Poets surface their deepest inspirations. In here, it may be dark but this is not a place to fear... In here, you can let the light paint the way.
BZZZZZZT.
Odd. A disturbance echoes from the darkness. It sounds as if it's coming from another world entirely. The most irritating noise to ever violate this realm.
BZZZZZZT.
Steven shoots out from his slumber, he shields his eyes from the bright morning sun. He blindly reaches across his bed. Searching for his cell phone to see who dares interrupt his thirteenth hour of sleep. Six missed calls from Roger and a text message that reads,
["Sorry I couldn’t stop by this morning. Last minute change of plans. Arrived at school early in preparation for our extra credit report. I hope this wake up call will suffice. ^_^'"]
'Oh shit. School.' The shroud of sleep fades away. Steven remembers his wish to become permanently stoned, which is clearly in full swing. More of yesterday's recycled memories upload to his brain at the efficiency of a cracked floppy disc running on Windows 10. But worst of all, an overwhelming feeling creeps in. A buttery sensation that causes Steven to melt into his bed like baked brioche.
He sluggishly growls at the clock radio screaming at him. A hunk of plastic that barely hangs on the edge of his nightstand controlling his entire life in this moment. There’s eight minutes until the bus arrives. Which means there's a chance. Never in the history of mortal man has anyone this belligerent made it to school on time by their own accord. If anyone can take this small step for successful stoners everywhere, it's Steven. But the question remains, is getting out of bed even worth it?
A wake and bake with a smooth joint should provide him the answer. If Steven wants to stay out of summer school for one last no-bummer summer before graduation, he absolutely cannot afford another tardy. He knows partnering with Roger on any school assignment is a guaranteed A plus. Most teachers end up taking notes during one of Roger's renowned presentations. The principal, Dr. Bann, would often record his speeches as a contingency plan for ill-prepared substitute teachers. Gauging from Roger's excitement in the various voicemails and text messages, this sounds like a lucrative project to bank them extra credit beyond what is already being offered on this assignment. Which in turn would level Steven's grade to a well deserved D minus.
No time for a shower. The notoriously punctual I.M. High School bus refuses to wait a single second for any man, woman, or creature of myth. So, with the swagger of a drunken action hero, Steven slumps out of bed.
Seven minutes until the bus arrives.
A quick rinse of mouth wash, a dollop of water to straighten his hair, and a spray of cheap mystery Christmas cologne. Now he's Johnny Bravo fresh. There’s no amount of eye drops that can aid his radioactive bloodshot eyes. It doesn't matter though, Steven claims to act convincingly sober at the drop of a dime. He shuffles down into the kitchen and snatches the last two granola bars before darting out of the back door.
Six and a half minutes remain.
This is the last leg of the journey. All he has to do now is go up the driveway and walk two houses over to the stop sign on the street corner. Until, a familiar bellow from the other side of the fence stops him in his tracks.
"Hey! Erhrrreh, neighbor!" Mr. Steinberg shouts in his chowdery jewish-boston accent that's so deep it sounds like a straight up parody. "May I borrow one, er, spare moment of your time?"
Steven examines his wrist to find he isn't wearing a watch. Heavy eyed, he trudges over to the fence that divides their yards.
"Steven, you look like a walking comatosed patient." Steinberg puts bluntly. "Listen. Last night during the sunset hours, I was preparing my Wednesday evenings stove-top popcorn. Irp. I realize this was at a later hour than usual but I'm a, eh, firm believer that stove top snacking can be enjoyed outside of, er, regular dining hours..."
Steinberg is an excitable man. Sporadically adjusting his newsboy gentleman's cap while he speaks, allowing his gray hair to occasionally poke out. The nippy morning wind has already turned his buck nose flush red. Steven is trying to process the man's ghost tracing hand gestures as his colorful bowling shirt dances in the wind to the rhythm of mother nature's beat.
"... To my surprise, upon the unpackaging process, I found that the Mrs. had accidentally purchased an off-brand stove top, eh, popcorn- - As I heated said popcorn product, the first kernel had popped with such a velocity that it shook my entire property..."
Steven is clearly having a difficult time focusing on Steinberg's wild story. He attempts to maintain an interest but instead appears totally fried out of his mind.
"... I must apologize if my pop-quake disturbed you or your mother. I have already taken the liberty of withdrawering the required money from one of my offshore hedge fund accounts in order to repay you and, ehrrr, your mother for the damages done to your garage, there. As well as to, ehh, purchase the proper stove-top seedlings to prevent any such future occurrences... Oh. One more thing before you go, a concern in regards to yesterday's news broadcast-"
Less than one minute until the bus arrives. Steven cannot wait any longer. Amidst the wavering ramblings of Steinberg, he breaks free from the conversation. He strides up the driveway in the same fashion as a chimp walking through jello. A man on a singular mission. Instead of taking a left on the sidewalk towards the bus stop, he takes an aloof right turn in the opposite direction. Venturing into his garage attic, dead set on summoning the Jihnn to wish for some delicious name-brand stove-top popcorn. His pant pocket vibrates at the exact moment the school bus squeals off. Steven is now too distracted by the phone juggling in his loose grip as he undertakes the Herculean task of rationally replying to Roger's text message…
[ROGER- 7:15 AM : "Sorry I couldn't stop by this morning. Last minute change of plans. Arrived early in preparation for the extra credit report. I hope this morning wake up call will suffice. ^_^"
{Read}
ROGER- 7:22 AM: Meet me by my locker before 4th period so I can debrief you on the changes to the report.
STEVEN- 7:26 AM: Woh shut mah. school is afoot. Jihnny smoithin the cluB, my man. no worries though. Well be poppin' off now, man. I didjt forget or did I?"
ROGER- 7:26 AM: what?
STEVEN- 7:29 AM: = 🐼 +🍿=🎉
ROGER- 7:29 AM: Just message me when you get here.]
Roger slides his cellphone into his pocket, collects his visual aids, then slams his locker shut. He's off to first period history. A specialty of his. In all honesty though, every subject is his specialty. He settles into his desk, calculating the success ratio of 4th period's extra credit report. He runs evaluations in his head to gauge the variables. Not worried about maintaining his own perfect grade of course, Roger is more concerned about having a relaxing summer with the Chill Crew. He remembers all too well how annoying it is to make plans while a friend is stuck in summer school for five days a week on top of all the random super villain interferences.
"Roger!" Mr. Shaffer shouts. "Can you start us on page three-seventy-six? It appears we've reached the term that focuses on the more theoretical side of history. Sure, there's been sightings and supposed artifacts of supposed gods. Heh. I might as well teach you about the supposed bigfoot-... And yes, class, I'm well aware of what is written inside of the supposed chapter thirty-six. That subject will be removed from the curriculum for as long as I teach this course."
Roger digs through his backpack to find an ancient history book. The title has been crossed out in sharpie marker with a giant "X" and "Pseudohistory (Morally Irreprehensible Reading)" has been written in its place.
Roger clears his throat, skimming to page three-seventy-six. He reads aloud...
"On the ridge of the Eastern Pacific Ocean, where the chasmic water canyon meets the Pziat Plateau, is where the earth's tallest mountain once stood. That is, before the summit was stolen by the gods. Who used the earthly mountain to craft their new home. Ancient humans who have glimpsed this mountain have described it as a paradise. The king of the gods, Zeus, however, described it as the home the gods deserved. Nothing more. Nothing less.
When the mountain was uprooted from the earth, they discovered a second peak attached to its underside. An upside down mountain buried deep into the earth that is said to have the appearance of an Egyptian pyramid built entirely of emerald and gold. The upside down portion dug so far into the earth's crust that the emerald tip penetrated the earth's core. The magma morphed the summit into a unique sculpture that is difficult to describe other than an abstract piece of art. This massive structure was once dubbed, the mountain with a peak at both ends, now more often referred to as, Mt. Olympus.
Using the strength of Zeus' mighty chariot and his four horsemen to pilot it, Mt. Olympus was carried deep into intergalactic space. Leaving nothing behind other an unnatural shattered cliff side. After decades of being left un-whole, a monstrous beauty would eventually grow in it's place. A colossal sequoia tree with branches that reach far above the ocean caverns. A tree so massive that it blocks the sunlight for miles.
Translated texts suggest that the double peaked mountain was expanded upon in a galaxy far beyond our own. Taken to a pocket tucked somewhere near the whirlpool galaxy. Where multiple solar systems orbit Mt. Olympus, every one of them under Zeus' rule. Of course, as mortals, we can only theorize..."
Apollo rubs his eyes. It worked. The Jihnn's magic actually altered Zeus' banishing magic. Ah. The nostalgic feeling of the soft Olympian surface squishes beneath his sandals. The texture of a cloud, something he thought he’d never feel again. For the first time in over two thousand years, Apollo has made it home.
You'd never find this view on earth, every star is visible in the night sky. Dazzling grass glistens under the starlight, a ripe summer garden is in bloom. The sound of Hephaestus’ sentient harp radiates for miles, the rich purity of the air, it's all just as he remembered. Everything else, however? Looks completely new to him. Of course it does. How could Apollo expect everything to stay the same? Even with Zeus' desire to keep all affairs on Olympus “in order,” a lot can change in over two thousand years. Especially in recent years with new cultures proving their worthiness in Zeus' trials to earn godhood. The most recent of which being the so-called, 'galactic gods.' Being rewarded permission to step into this new home with all the power and status that comes with it.
Each unique light strung along the lantern lit road has a different papier-mâché appearance, illuminated by the stardust floating inside. Apollo can only guess he's heading in the right direction at this point. He hopes to find a familiar face, preferably a friendly one. His banishment may have been forgotten but past foes will no doubt remember their grievances.
The road ahead seems to lead into a nearby town. Even at night, Zeus' palace is always visible, just off in the far horizon. It's overwhelming beauty is by design. Without fail, it attracts gods to behold it's brilliance while peasants can only view it's gaze from galaxies away. Apollo scoffs.
"What a shit hole… I need a drink."
Dionysus winery and ecstasy pub. An old style tavern that specializes in exotic beverages and home brewed wines. Apollo enters. He makes his way past the booze drenched oak wood that gives off a smell that only Ariadne’s gin can provide. The cardinal red fireplace is ablaze, smoke dances up to the mounted head of a dragon. The back wall is decorated with the rarest bottles of liquor in all of Olympus. Apollo squeezes past two gods playing a round of indoor beer discus and continues past a sign that reads, 'Angels night. Angelic Karaoke Every Wednesday.’
"That'll be twelve, Morrigan." The jolly Bartender reminds one of the three goddesses chatting among each other on the other end of the bar.
Heavy coins clang together as the barkeep accepts a payment from a black-haired woman with a blue streak running through her hair. The bartender wipes his forehead, an ivy wreaths maintain his un-groomed white hair. Before he closes the register, his sage green eyes go wide. He grasps his mighty beard with a puzzled expression painted across his face.
"If this not be a dream, then I've surely been placed under a spell... Apollo, you cannot stand before me."
"Oh Dionysus, it doesn't matter how long it's been. No god who's puffed on Plato's pipe could mistake this existence for any sub reality again."
Dionysus releases his thick beard.
"Hmph." He says, pouring a glass. "Plato's pipe was destroyed, you know."
"I remember." Apollo replies.
"That must've been right before-"
Dionysus slides the mug over to Apollo.
"How is this possible?" He asks.
"How's this possible?" Steven grumbles, standing in front of an empty classroom.
He used his final wish to get a ride to school, with a pit stop for a snack. He shovels a handful of main brand popcorn into his mouth, contemplating his situation... 'I've never been this early before.' He concludes, then slumps into a desk.
'Has it been five minutes or thirty? This damn desk is twisting my back out of whack. Where in the hell is everyone? They couldn't have gone on another field trip? Am I learning yet?' Steven's train of thought is interrupted by a knock at the opened door. An Office Administrator pokes her head in.
"Steven? What in the world are you still doing here?"
"Uh. Waiting for first period."
"School hours have been over for quite some time."
"Yeah, but it's Wednesday now."
"..."
"..."
"I think you should step inside the principal's office."
Dr. Bann's office is clean and organized with subtle 70's memorabilia scattered throughout. Today there is a cinnamon apple fragrance that will soon be replaced by the smell of skunk thanks to the joint Steven forgot to smoke at the bus stop this morning. He’s about to put his old philosophy of what he calls, "incogblazedo," to the test. The act of being superbly stoned around authority figures without raising any suspicion whatsoever.
"Evening, Steven." Principal Bann says somberly, extending out his hand.
'Yes. This is normal.' Steven thinks to himself. He accepts the handshake.
"My assistant informs me that if it wasn't for a trail of littered popcorn throughout the hallways, you might've been sitting at that desk all night."
'Are my hands too sweaty? Is my grip too loose? Too tight? Is there peanut butter under my skin!? WHAT ABOUT NOW!?!’
"What about what? Have there been troubles at home, son?"
Worried that his buttery popcorn fingers might cause the handshake to become sloppy, Steven subtly increases the speed of the up and down movements so he can slide into a more solid grip.
"And Miss Cramptry has mentioned you've been having trouble keeping your attendance up. Even disappearing during yesterday's field trip?"
'Up and down. Straight and clean. Like you're taking a sobriety test.'
"These are serious offenses, I'm afraid."
Principal Bann looks up at the clock which becomes louder with every passing second. A desperate principal and a stoned student stand silently in the center of the room like they're in the middle of a western shakeoff. A moment in time that won't seem to end.
Shaking hands.
"I'm afraid I have no choice but to expel you, son."
The Principal's voice is heavy as he breaks off the handshake. Steven's face animates to life, he looks down at his empty hand.
‘Does Dr. Bann know I'm baked!?’
"I know you're upset. I'm upset as well. You see, there's been concern about Friday's Titillation of Talent. Creating unfounded pressure on myself. This is perhaps where you and I can help each other. It is my understanding that you and Mr. C have been preparing some special act for this year's improv show, yes?"
'What's the sober thing to do? Grab his hand and force the handshake to continue? Would that be classy?'
"I need to justify my expenses as of late. The board doesn't share my philosophy of creating happy students to pave a happier future. And as a result, all eyes are on this Friday's talent show. I skyrocketed well above the budget to ensure this really makes a splash to student morale. But, I still have yet to find the surefire act that I need. I hate to ask you this, but it's for the children, damn it!- Would you be willing to debut your new material at the Titillation instead of the improv show? You'll get more stage time, a headlining spot, and let's just say it'll be easier for janitorial to sweep away any, erm, said tardy's, during the post show clean up. We’ll have to give you a few in school detentions to keep up appearances- So, do we have a deal?"
'One special edition, director's cut, comedy special for Tuesday night's titillation coming right up, sir.'
Principal Bann's right arm twitches as he instinctively reaches for a handshake. Panic sweeps his face, he thinks maybe a fist bump, but instead retracts his hand into his pocket. Rather accepting Steven's incomprehensible ape-like grunt as a verbal agreement. Which makes this Friday officially set for titillation!
Titillated and bubbly, Apollo glances down at his chalice half full of wine. Appreciating the tastes that brought him to this half empty glass. Dionysus' two pet cheetahs sit across the bar, they lick their chops at the grape scent. But they aren't enticed for long, their focus stolen by two mugs presented by their master. Customers need to be served. If you were to blink, you'd miss it. The bartending cheetahs serve beverages at the speed of sound then return to their master's side before the foam on the customer's beers have a chance to settle. Apollo clears his throat, he holds up his drink.
"Starting off easy, are we?" He asks.
"You recall puffing on Plato's pipe, but the potency of my wine is what slips your mind? I'm insulted." Dionysus says.
"I'm lucky to remember how to use the toilet after a night of drinking with you." Apollo replies.
"Ha. Already stiff drunk. Before finishing your glass, too."
"This buzz is great but y'know what'd really hit the spot? Some Olympian kind bud." A smile sweeps Apollo's face. "It's been so long. The mortal stuff has gotten a little better over the years but it just doesn't hit the same."
"Sorry to say, Apollo. After your banishment not one soul dares grow on this cloud. I've heard the occasional word of those desperate enough to visit earth or even the Dovetrian galaxy to get a cheap fix. Very few view the journey as worthwhile though. Which hasn't been bad for business to be honest."
"In that case, ya know anyone looking to score some ganj? It's mortal grown but hot damn is it fire- Wait. You remember my banishment?"
"It may've been a long while now but to forget the banishment of my own blood? Are you okay?.. Apollo?"
"Yeah. Sorry, just thinking out loud." Apollo apologizes. "Has anyone ever found out why we're allowed to grow everything under the moons except cannabis? Have you heard anything?"
"No." Dionysus replies.
"I have one of my crazy tinfoil hat theories to lay on ya."
"Yeah?- What's tin foil?"
"Doesn't matter. Listen up. A few years ago, on earth, I smoked the last of my Olympian stash with a mortal. But the batshit part is, the weed didn't kill him, it like mutated his genes or some shit. Now when he smokes mortal bud he gets abilities like ours... And right now he has enough weed to make us rich."
"Are we talking demigod? Or?"
"Demigod, fosho. But the higher he gets the more powerful he becomes. I'm not sure if there's a limit to his power."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You're the only guy worth trusting on this side of the mountain."
"Yeah, well-"
"What are you doing here?" A fiery voice shouts from the pub's entrance.
Apollo downs the remainder of his drink and asks Dionysus to top it off. The conversation between two friends has fallen silent, overtaken by drunken chatter and the loud purring of the two cheetahs, who both excitedly wag their tails. Apollo doesn't bother to look away from his mug, he already knows who approaches the bar besides him. His sister, Artemis, goddess of the hunt.
She wears furs and leathers crafted from animals hunted by her bow and quiver. Her valiant moon colored eyes filled with rage and confusion, but Apollo instead notices the new purple streaks flowing through her modern style mullet, accentuated by a black rose dressed above her ear.
Not willing to repeat herself, she makes direct eye contact with Apollo to force a response.
"Y’know, just stopping by to be rightfully appointed the god of chess." He says.
"No. You tell me now."
Artemis' leering expression remains unchanged. There's no point in keeping quiet any longer. The jig is up. Apollo spills the beans about ditching the field trip, the mysterious Jihnn, and his wish. Artemis is left shaken, with only one proper way to respond.
"Wishing magic?" she says. "I shouldn't have asked."
"Yeah. I thought you guys would be in on it though. Like the banishment never happened at all. Guess the wish only got me back through the gates."
"Which is unfathomable regardless. And without alerting the twins?" Artemis utters in a dire tone. "It'd be best for everyone if I didn't remember any of this. Dionysus, a double shot of your strongest honey nectar."
The cheetah sitting closest to Artemis chomps onto a mug handle and slides it across the counter-top. The glass coasts into her hand, she doesn't hesitate to guzzle it down. The second cheetah refills her drink the moment she sets it on the counter. Artemis scratches the black spot behind the large cat's ear as a thank you.
A group of gods burst into the bar.
"Not tonight." Dionysus says under his breath.
The loudmouth gods line up beside the entryway, preparing for the arrival of their champion. A red rug is rolled out. An aggravated sigh escapes from Dionysus as he reluctantly picks up a microphone from behind the bar. Nervously, he glances at Apollo’s reaction.
"And now, our longest reigning angelic karaoke champion. You know him as the many skilled god. Earning such titles as, the god of craftsmanship, storms, and sorcery. A god of oath and overall nobility. Not to mention a well documented historian, blacksmith, and accomplished playwright. Beloved by all. He is the shining one. Your god of the sun!.. Lugh!!"
A youthful, well proportioned, shining god enters alongside a group of demigods wearing skimpy clothes otherwise known as his "angels." He wears an elegant Celtic crown above his bright blonde hair, battle armor covers everything below his neck tattoo, all the way down to the boots of Hermes.
"So the idea of me becoming a god of chess is laughable but this douche wipes his ass and gets appointed the god of shit?" Apollo asks.
"You know dad won't anoint a god for a specific game." Artemis replies.
"Dad can suck a fat one."
"What did you say?" A bitter old voice calls out.
It seems that Lugh didn't come to karaoke night alone and this certainly isn't one of his backup angels...
Apollo sighs.
"Hey pops." He answers.
To Roger's surprise, he again finds himself stepping off of the I.M. High school bus alone. He dumps the extra credit report into Steven's garbage bin before making his way into the garage attic. Where he finds Homer smoking by himself. Roger hears quiet dissonant sounds, noticing that Homer is wearing headphones. He speaks up above the music.
"What's up, man?"
Startled, Homer removes an earbud, pockets his gaming/musical device, and responds in a groggy manner.
"Oh, hey."
"Is everything okay?" Roger asks.
"Guess you haven't been online."
"No. I've been attempting to contact Steven all day. Speaking of which, have you seen him?"
"Nah. Not since last night." Homer replies with a sigh.
"What happened? New super villain activity?"
"No. It's the Ackmed situation"
"Thought it went without a hitch? You saved the day. Put the bad guy behind bars. Business as usual." Roger says.
Homer lets out a deep breath.
"Everyone is pissed at me for taking the hostage situation off the air. They're saying stuff like, I ruined the only watchable thing on television and how everything I do sucks ass."
"But that Pinchman had a gun to Ackmed's head! He was going to pull the trigger if he didn't get his fix!"
"I know. But now Stonerman LLC. is being sued by the network for ruining their highest rated news program in years."
Homer hands his cellphone to Roger. The headline reads, 'Stonerman once again refuses to share the spotlight. Lawsuit pending.'
"At least there isn't a body they can physically sue thanks to Mr. P... So long as your identity remains hidden." Roger replies.
"True. It just sucks."
"By my estimation, you did the right thing. Doesn't matter what they write in the headlines."
"How am I supposed to add positivity to the world when all of my efforts are twisted into something negative? Sometimes I feel like I'm doing more harm than good. Everyone talks shit until things get worse. Nothing changes. Maybe I should hang up the cape and disappear for a while."
"We both know that isn't true."
The conversation has reached a stalemate. Roger grabs a king sized joint from the joint-Jenga pile stacked on the table with the hopes to cheer up his friend. Homer silently scrolls through his news feed as he tries his damndest to find a credible or at the very least, coherent, news article written by the mainstream media. Not one is to be found. They’ve all been bought out by LegitGoodGood Inc. Just when Homer is about to give up his search completely, something catches his attention.
"Hmph." he says. "These targeted ads are getting lazier and lazier. They're trying to advertise the German version of the Berenstein Bears? Did they run out of things to advertise and expect me to think this was some kind of new product just because it isn't in English?"
"Who?" Roger replies, peeking at Homer's phone. "Oh. They're Canadian, not German."
"The Bearenstrüsin Bears?"
"Homer, are you sure you're okay? Bearenstrüsin Bears was a favorite of yours as a kid."
"No. Bearenstein. I used to read the Bearenstein Bears."
"I'm calling the ROACH unit to initiate a brain scan."
"No!" Homer shouts.
Homer spills a pile of weed on the floor, he bolts out of his chair at lightning speed. He must've been smoking for longer than Roger had originally anticipated to achieve super-speed so effortlessly. Roger is left alone with endless piles of weed and several king sized joints to contemplate this concerning situation.
Homer is so baked that the twenty-two mile trip which took the school bus over an hour feels almost instantaneous. He moves at speeds impossible to register on any surveillance technology available in the Midwest and zooms into the old antique shop on Sunken Shores Ave. The enchanted store bell, a sound Homer wasn't expecting to hear again so soon. There's no time to think. He scurries over to the same bookshelf he was infatuated with yesterday. Everything looks the same. Alex Rider, Goosebumps... No. It can't be.
"Bearenstrüsin!?" Homer is out of his mind at this point. Is he losing it? "The damned Bearenstrüsin Bears!?"
The elderly Shopkeep is not shocked to see Homer's return nor by his breakdown. She stomps her staff on the floor, with only one thing to say...
"Has reality lost hold of another one?" She howls like a hyena.
Homer tries to cope with the gravity of his situation as her laughter echoes into his thoughts.
He bursts out of the shop, speeds back to the fort. Roger is still sits in the same position as before, exhaling his first hit.
"Back so soon?" He wonders.
Homer nods, already punching a code into the fort's safe. Bits of weed fall from his trembling hand as he packs the wondrous bubbler. Together, the two friends smoke three fat bowls but still, the Jihnn is nowhere to be found.
"How many bowls does it take?" Roger wonders, slightly irritated.
"Maybe I'm not packing them fat enough."
It takes several more bowls to trigger the mystical summoning of the Jihnn. An experience as spectacular as ever. But after his last revelation, Homer wonders if any of this is real at all.
"What in the hell is going on?" He questions.
"~θ Whatever do you mean, Homer? θ~"
"Am I losing my mind? Ever since my wish, things seem different. Small things. Unimportant things. Has my wish warped the entire world or something? What are you, really?"
"~θ You've got the situation fearfully wrong, I'm certain. Your dimension has been left unaltered. Presently, you and I occupy a new world entirely. θ~”
Chapter 4: The Sound Of A Thousand And One Cashed Bowls {Prelude To The War Of The Gods Part 1}
"Why do you think you're only allowed three?"
