by M J Marstens
Danger is my middle name.
Just kidding—it’s Bergljot.
Sigrdrifa Bergljot Jones.
But don’t call me that—I go by Val. My dad is Thor and my dear mother was human ... which makes me a demi, or half-goddess and half-human.
Of course, I got the shaft on the half-goddess part. I’ve got no powers and work in the human world—Home Depot, to be exact.
But, I’m needed back in the godly realms—to break into a supernatural prison to save my best friend. I never thought I’d put ‘get arrested’ on my to-do list … but some dickhead gods need to be dealt with.
And how do you deal with dickhead gods?
By stealing Thor’s hammer and magical goats, making a special Visine drink, and getting the God of Shit on your side … as well as a demi, a concussed guard, and an amazing human.
These dickhead gods won’t know what hit them.
Everyone can just stop—it’s HAMMER TIME.
WARNING: This is a reverse harem romantic prison comedy intended for ages 18+. If you are easily offended by the mockery of ancient deities or potty humor, get off the pot—this one’s not for you.
Table of Contents
Signup for Our Newsletters
Prelude
1. Val
2. Dev
3. Val
4. Raiden
5. Val
6. Khepri
7. Val
8. The Original Tupac
9. Val
10. Raiden
11. Val
12. Dev
13. Val
14. Khepri
15. Val
16. Tupac
17. Val
18. Raiden
19. Val
20. Devin
21. Val
22. Khepri
23. Val
24. Tupac
25. Val
Epilogue
Signup for Our Newsletters
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Also by Ann Denton
Also by MJ Marstens
Notes
Copyright © 2020 Ann Denton & MJ Marstens
1st Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below. Cover art by KDS Cover Concepts.
Le Rue Publishing
320 South Boston Avenue, Suite 1030
Tulsa, OK 74103
www.LeRuePublishing.com
ISBN: 978-1-951714-07-9
To All the Girls Who Wanna Get Hammered…
Signup for Ann Denton’s Newsletter
Join Ann Denton’s Facebook Readers Group
Signup for MJ Marstens Newsletter
Join MJ Marstens’ Facebook Reader’s Group
Prelude
Khepri
In the Earthly realm, there’s a saying—it’s nothing personal, but in the godly world, there’s no such thing.
Everything is personal, and everything is done with an intent.
Take, for example, my job at the Black Hole Prison, or the Back Hole as the prisoners call it. Those prisoners specifically being demigods who have committed “godly crimes.”
Nothing could have been more calculated than me taking one of the coveted positions as a prison guard.
Or, me currently undercover in scarab-form, buzzing through the trees outside the prison walls at the Back Hole, approaching a pile of shit.
Scarab is just a fancier name for dung beetle, but if the humans want to worship a shit-eater, who am I to stop them? I’m not just a crap god, either, I swear. I was one of the three most important solar deities in the Egyptian pantheon—not that anyone recalls this.
Forgive me if I sound bitter, not better, but fuck if it doesn’t chap my ass that my duties were constantly overlooked for those of the almighty and popular Ra’s. That fuckstick never even did half the work I did! As the god of the midday sun, Ra merely used to take the brilliant ball of fire from my hands and roll it leisurely to Atum, who was in charge of the evening, or setting sun.
But because Ra’s sun shone the brightest and was at the zenith in the sky when humans were awake, they worshipped his golden ass most. Atum got a little more glory than me. His sunsets made him legendary.
But me?
I was the forgotten former sun god. When the sun set in the West, Atum handed it to me to roll through Duat, the Egyptian underworld.
Do humans think that shit is easy?! Of the three of us sun gods, I had the ball the most, all night and into the morning. But I got the least appreciation. My wings flutter extra fast in irritation as I approach the huge mound of shit, a bouquet of scents wafting from it and hitting my antennae. But even the scent doesn’t distract me from the memories of my former life.
My old job as sun roller didn’t even end there in the underworld. In the morning, when I shoved the burning hot sun onto the horizon in the East, did Ra move his lazy ass to meet me?
Nope.
The fucker slept in—till like ten a.m.! Only then did he take over, when everyone revered the intense heat and light of his sun.
Why don’t humans appreciate subtlety? Where was the adoration for my sunrises? Why did humans always bemoan getting up at the crack of dawn? Didn’t they notice the gorgeous streaks I tried to lace through the sky? Their eyes were supposed to be programmed to see more colors at dawn than dusk, because I helped them slowly adjust from dark to light. Didn’t they realize what an asshole I could have been, just shoving that bright yellow light at them all at once?
I give an annoyed squeak as I fly through Duat; that sound is the best I can do to express my frustration while I’m in my insect form.
I might be angry at the humans, but Ra’s egotistical ass went above and beyond to gain their attention. He wined and dined them, essentially, until Atum and I were forgotten.
We finally gave up and just let Ra have all the glory.
And all the work.
If Ra wanted to be the main Egyptian solar deity, then he sure as Duat could have all the trappings that came with it. Atum and I said fuck it and let Ra have the fire ball full time.
Like I said, I’m bitter, not better, about it, but I’m not fucking enraged about him taking over. Certainly, not enough to want to exact revenge on Ra’s narcissistic ass.
No, it was only when Ra started doing something even worse than stealing all my glory and worship that I was spurred into my current personal vendetta against the man.
Not only worse, but evil. The asshole’s created a prison to lock up demigods. And he’s throwing them in right and left.
Hence why I am in my scarab-form and flying straight into a fetid pile of shit. Said shit pile is none other than Nut, goddess of the cosmos, in disguise. Clever goddess. Who would suspect a mound of crap? And what better thing to attract a dung beetle, right? I land right on top of her, trying not to laugh.
“Wow. You went all out. You’re still steaming.”
“It’s cow manure,” she comments, unfazed. Two eyes pop open in the shit and I’m caught staring at something that looks like a cross between the poop emoji on my phone and a hieroglyphic cartoon face.
The cow manure bit makes sense since Nut is also the goddess of cows. The question is—did she literally shit herself out of her cow form for this? The bigger question is—do I want to really know?
Not really.
“Impressive,” I tease instead of asking my questions. “I guess I should have said something like ‘holy cow’ or ‘holy shit.’”
“Always the joker, aren’t you, my Khepri? I don’t relish being fecal matter, but for my son, I am happy to be dung all my life. How is he?”
“He is well. Hopeful and strong. He knows that we will free him. He sends his love.” The Demigodling always asks me to tell his mother this, whether Ra has tortured him or not, which happens more often than not. He doesn’t want her to worry. But Nut is very familiar with Ra’s tactics, since the dickwad tried to prevent her from ever having children.
Nut doesn’t say anything, but her cartoon eyes fill with tears. It’s strange to talk to bodily waste. It’s even stranger to see it cry.
“There, there, mother,” I soothe. “You’re turning into diarrhea. Pull yourself together.”
Nut really isn’t my mother. I’m a special deity in that I don’t come from a parental meeting of a dick in a vag, (I created myself out of the fabric of the universe) but Nut is one of the few gods to acknowledge, and even care for me. Being even older than me, she’s become a mother figure of sorts over the centuries. I love her dearly and would do anything for her—even take on Ra.
See, before I willed myself into existence—that’s right, I’m also the god of reincarnation—I was born a scarab beetle from nothing but another glorious pile of poop.
But enough about me. Nut and I are on a mission to destroy the sun fuck and his awful unjust prison. I’m not the only one who hates Ra.
Nut and Ra have been at one another’s throats for millennia—ever since she ticked him off and turned him down to marry Geb, the Earth god.1 Ra was so jealous that he tried to prevent Nut from having children. When she outwitted him with Thoth’s help, Ra tried to kill her offspring. He even went so far as to permanently separate Nut from Geb. So, Nut stooped—per Ra’s godist, biased opinion—to sleeping with a human man and having a demigodling.2
If that wasn’t offensive enough—the Egyptian people ignored Ra’s wish to be their King Maker. The humans declared Nut’s child god their pharaoh. The demigodling’s worship stats soon surpassed Ra; enraging the sun god even further because he was left in the shadow of this spawn of fucking.
Except—gods don’t believe anything’s an accident, right?
Everything’s personal to them and Ra took every move that Nut made as an audacious slight.
So, Ra, the deviant fuck, had to be crafty. He devised a way to frame the Demigodling. Ra made it appear as if the Demigodling attempted to kill his half-siblings for their power. As god of justice—anyone else see the irony here—Ra sentenced the Demigodling to jail, a.k.a: a lifetime in a piece-of-crap holding in the depths of Duat, the Egyptian Underworld, called the Black Hole.
Of course, the accusation was a pile of crap lies, and I know a thing or two about piles of shit.
Nut also knew it was bullshit, but her other children were not so sure. Ra, the fucker, offered irrefutable evidence of the Demigodling’s guilt. Only Thoth supported the goddess of the Cosmos and her half-breed’s innocence. Oh, and me. Having had a taste of Ra’s ability to twist people’s minds for his personal benefit (i.e. becoming the major sun god), shall we say, I already knew what the jerk was capable of.
So, I promised Nut that I would free her son.
I gave Ra all my solar power and have pretended to be his admiring lackey in exchange for a spot as head guard at the Back Hole—I mean Black Hole—though the prisoners inside are getting a dry-assed fucking.
Initially, the plan was to understand the layout and the holding of the jail and for Thoth to think of a plan to spring the Demigodling. Rules are different in Duat—even for gods, and Anubis, the god of the underworld, is buddy-buddy with Ra-Fuck, giving the sun god an advantage.
But, over time, Ra has been adding to his prison, adding extensive booby traps that constantly change, and adding prisoners faster than a seven-year-old girl adds sequins with a bedazzling gun.
And all of the prisoners are demigods.
Over time, I realized that Ra’s true anger stems from her son being half-human, the breedist bastard.
“Ra’s adding another demigod tonight. Dionysus’ son,” I tell Nut.
“Oh? And what has he supposedly done?”
“I think his crime is getting humans too drunk to properly worship their gods.” I roll my eyes at the trumped up charges that gods come up with to eliminate their unwanted family members.
Nut snorts and bits of fecal matter splatter my face, which I happily lick up.
Don’t you fucking judge me.I’m a dung beetle. I survive off of this shit. Literally.
“Ra’s systematically adding all the half-breeds,” Nut breathes in horror.
“Yes, and he’s almost done. I … I worry about what will happen when he has the last demigod secured.”
“I must tell Thoth this. Maybe he can help hide those who are left. We need to get my son out of there before it is too late.”
“I agree, Mother. I will work on finding the elemental weaknesses of the holding and meet you again in a week.”
“Go in shit, my Khepri,” she says in parting.
I laugh.
“I’m knee-deep in it every day where I work,” I tell her before flying off.
1
Val
“Dad, I can’t come out—I have Coronavirus!” I prevaricate through the thick wooden doors of my bedroom.
It’s sad, so sad, that I’m a twenty-seven year old woman lying to her father, but here we are—a step in the wrong direction of maturity. But if it means getting out of dinner with my hateful stepmothers and condescending siblings, then, so be it. Stupid family traditions. Why do I torture myself with them?
Oh right. Because I actually love my dad.
I blow a raspberry as I stare at the wooden beams of my bedroom ceiling, which span thirty feet overhead.
I can literally hear my father facepalm in frustration through the door. How can I hear it? Because the god of storms is never quiet.
I roll sideways on my pure-white down comforter and stare at the door, wondering if he’ll barge in.
“Sigrdrifa, gods can’t become sick,” my father, the almighty Thor, reminds me dryly.
“Val, Dad. I want to be called Val, remember? And I’m only half-god. The human part of me is sick.” I fake cough loudly at the door. I catch myself doing so in the mirror and waggle my tongue at my reflection.
My blue eyes peer back at me and I try to wink one, then the other. My mirror looks tiny in this room. All of my furniture does, because even though it was built for a goddess, I’m pretty sure my dad assumed I’d grow wings one day like my sisters and want to fly around in my room.
Nope.
Wingless here.
Wingless and a shameless liar.
I’m being so immature. But I can’t help it. Even though I love Dad, I also love to remind him what an utter sacrifice it is to attend these drawn out, Spanish Inquisition style meals.
Asgard dinners should come with a warning: Guard your ass in Asgard. Or you’ll get fucked raw.
Now, my father groans in exasperation and there’s a thump, like his forehead has just hit the door. “Daughter,” he warns.
I clutch my stomach and give my mirror an Oscar-worthy performance as I croak, “I’m serious. It’s bad, and until the godly CDC makes an announcement, I don’t think we should risk it. I need to self-quarantine.”
“Sigrdrifa!” my father booms, refusing to use my chosen name. The plaster walls around me shake from the roar of his voice. “You will come to dinner or you will be on goat duty for a month!”
I make a face.
A month of cleaning goat shit?!
Well, I’m a grown woman. If I don’t want to come to dinner, then I won’t. I cross my arms and tell myself that.
Unfortunately, my father doesn’t see twenty-seven as grown. In fact, compared to him, I’m still an infant—which would ex
plain why he treats me like one. There’s no point in telling him that in the human world, I’m an adult.
“My house, my rules,” he thunders.
Literally.
My bedroom door starts to shake and a bit of cloud drifts under the door.
“Dad, you’re clouding again,” I tell him. I sigh. He used to make his clouds only as needed, but now that he’s older, sometimes they pop out like unwanted ear hair.
“I’m only clouding because my youngest child is refusing to come to family dinner!” he yells.
His hand touches the doorknob and I can tell the second it happens because a lightning bolt shoots through the keyhole and zings across the room. If my peach curtains weren’t fireproof, they’d be ablaze.
“Dad!” I scold as I slide off the bed and stand with my arms crossed when he slams my door open.
I see my father, red hair billowing in a wind of his own making1 while his bearskin cape trails along the floor. He’s shirtless. Ever since the Marvel movies came out, my father’s gone shirtless, as if there’s some kind of competition between him and Chris Hemsworth.2 It’s a little embarrassing, to be honest, but his worship rates have shot through the roof since then. Housewives everywhere chant his name as they come … and since my father is a god of fertility in addition to thunder, he’s pretty damn smug about that shit.
