Extra Bonus Chapter

Hep, Ares, and Scroat Go to The DMV!

Or!

Ares Wigs Out and Kills A Lot of People One More Time!

Or! Dear god, the story is over and I still have to write 1300 some words!!!


One fine Saturday morning, Hep, Ares and Scroat woke up unusually early. They had to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles to renew the tabs on Scroat’s motorcycle. This was because Scroat is a total slacker, and didn’t renew his tabs on the internet before the deadline.

You might be surprised to learn that gods would have an internet connection, but they do. Where else would they find the information they want about motorcycles and pictures of boobs for free?

After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, waffles, orange juice and chorizo breakfast burritos, they went out to Ares car. It was a 1965 Ford Falcon station wagon, painted matte black, dropped two inches with red rims and white walled tires. He called it the Battle Wagon, and it was as apt a name as any.

The 302 V8 roared to life, and Ares tore out of the driveway as though the Furies were after him (the ones from Hades, not the fine American Made Plymouth automobiles). They reached the stop sign at the end of the street in record time.

Turning right, Ares narrowly avoided rear ending a slow ass cell phone talking jerk in an ugly SUV. Ares roared around him, which was illegal because it was a no passing zone. He gave the sports utility vehicle pilot a bird flipping the likes of which had never been seen in this part of the world. Ares stomped the gas pedal to the floor, and the Ford Falcon station wagon named the Battle Wagon charged forward with all the might of a 1960’s vintage station wagon. Which is a lot, if you did not know.

They quickly approached a stoplight, which had just turned yellow. Ares continued even though safety and legality required him to stop. The light turned red seconds before Ares entered the intersection, and had there been a red light camera, his ass would have been ticketed.

Not that Ares worried about tickets. As a god of war, he had a particularly effective method of getting out of tickets. The method was going to court and appealing them, if you must know. It never failed.

The Ford Falcon station wagon nearly caught air as Ares piloted it into the parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles. They were half an hour early, and the line was already eight hundred people deep.

A curious fact about lines at the DMV that you might be interested to know: no where else in the world is the line guaranteed to grow exponentially in length between the time you pull into the parking lot and the time you actually get into line.

They got in line behind two thousand six hundred and four people, who had all waited until the last minute to get their tabs renewed, except for the one shit headed little weasel who was there to get his driver’s permit and was too dumb to clearly state what he was there for to the receptionist, thus guaranteeing everyone else an even longer wait. Man, everybody hates that kid, and I don’t know why they don’t just shoot them on sight. I mean, if you can’t tell the receptionist why you’re there, then you shouldn’t be driving a damn car anyway.

Thirty minutes late, the staff opened the front door, and immediately put on their “I don’t really care what you need because I’m just counting seconds here, and you’re going to hang out until I’m good and ready to let you go” faces.

Somehow, the clock slowed down. Ares was certain that Chaos was lurking somewhere, but no, that’s just how it goes at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Nearby, some dipshit who brought their kid with wasn’t quick enough with the pacifier and their bratty kid started shrieking and didn’t let up for the next hour and a half.

Which is how long it took for Ares, Hep and Scroat to reach the front desk at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

“Yes?” the entirely disinterested and unusually hostile woman behind the counter asked.

“I need to renew my tabs,” Scroat said politely. Note that he didn’t even use the word “Fuck” once, when it would be expected of him to say something like “I need some fucking tabs for my fucking motorcycles so I can go out and get some sweet young ass on my bike in order to fuck!”

“Your number is three H two B thirty nine. Please have a seat and someone will be with you shortly,” the Department of Motor Vehicles receptionist said to Scroat.

The number currently on display on the board was one A one A eleven.

The three gods sat down, and waited with the force and intensity that only three gods named Ares, Hep and Scroat can display when waiting in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for Scroat to get tabs because the stupid shit was too lazy to get on the internet and renew his tabs that way.

As the stupidity of the conversations occurring around them increased, along with the number of smelly people who probably shouldn’t be allowed within three hundred feet of a new or used car of any marque and of course the waves of crying babies, Ares began to twitch and shift around in his seat.

The number on the board had increased by one. The clock said only five minutes had passed, but Ares knew that in the real world, it had been fourteen hours since they sat in the uncomfortable molded plastic chairs that are only ever seen at a Department of Motor Vehicles on a Saturday.

Somebody bumped the back of Ares head, which annoyed him quite a bit. He remembered to keep his cool, and that they were in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, where the basic rules of not being nasty or stupid no longer apply.

And this would have all been well and good if a dumb ass wearing sweatpants hadn’t spilled his coffee all over Ares new leather pants and started laughing. That might have even been ok if the kid next to Ares hadn’t picked that moment to blow chunks on Ares freshly shined boots.

But now, alas, now people had to die.

“GRAAAAAH!!” Ares bellowed and leapt out of his chair. He grabbed the guy who’d spilled coffee on him and ran with him, directing the sweatpants wearing mouth breather’s head directly into the cinder block walls of the sturdily built Department of Motor Vehicles. His head made a huge gooshy mess, kind of reminiscient of grey pudding with hunks of white chocolate and horse hair in it.

Not satisfied, Ares ran at the stupid kid who couldn’t simply communicate that he was there for a driver’s permit test, picked him up, and threw the kid with all of his godly might at the fricking number sign that didn’t ever change. It exploded it a great, sparky shower of glass and electronic bit. Oh, and lots of blood and gore. Yep, that was one dead kid who should have been on the road anyway.

Then Ares leapt over the counter, and grabbed the surly employees. He did them all a favor by injuring them severely enough that they got to stay home on disability for the rest of their natural, flavored gelatin dessert eating lives. He then plucked a single tab for the new year from one of the surly former Department of Motor Vehicles employee’s desks and returned to where Hep and Scroat were sitting, staring at him in shock.

“Let’s go,” Ares said, and stomped towards the door. Even the dumbest of the smelly mouth breathing people was smart enough to get the hell out of Ares’ way. Ares stuck his arm out and walked directly through the door, ripping it from its frame.

“Fucking people just fucking piss me off,” Ares said when Hep and Scroat caught up to him.

“Fuck!” Scroat said in agreement.

And everyone who Ares hadn’t killed lived more or less happily ever after.