| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Rebecca Nazar / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
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| Nemesis' Pep Talk |
Tsk, tsk, tsk, such sad puppy-dog faces. Yes pups,
it's hard to be dumped by a lover, as your flayed
emotions attest. Trust me; the healing balm for your
malady is for each of you to get even. So gather
around my darlings for I, Nemesis, Goddess of
Divine Retribution, will coach you in my stratagem
for poetic justice.
Settled in? Comfy? Good.
Now, are you familiar with the saying revenge is a
dish best served cold? Well, its origins were derived
from an act of retribution I dealt out centuries ago.
There once was a young man named Narcissus. He
was very handsome - quite the dish. When anyone
gazed upon his face, they would instantly fall in love
with him. I saw most of the males rolling your eyes.
Believe me, he could turn hard-line heterosexuals,
boys. Anyway, Narcissus, no surprise, was incredibly
vain and callous: the sultan of selfishness, the archetype
of assholes, a titan in the pantheon of jerks. For sport,
he punted hearts.
His last victim was Ameinias. Imagine this scene. The
hapless young man rapped on Narcissus' door to
deliver a basket of olives. Narcissus answered, flirted,
smirked, all while flexing his oiled pecs. Within minutes,
Ameinias worshipped at Narcissus’ feet. Narcissus
casually rebuffed the lovesick admirer by telling him to
kill himself - right there, right now - as a sign of
devotion. The poor soul complied whole heartily; he
sliced open his chest.
Pups, as you just did, I too gasped in horror upon hearing
Ameinias' fate. With his last breath, he prayed to me,
pleading that I open a can of whoop-ass on Narcissus. Well, he didn't put it quite that way, exactly.
I found the task delicious, my retribution ingenious. When Narcissus took a drink from a pool deep in the forest, I made
him fall madly in love with his reflection. I abandoned him there to fawn over himself. So fixated was he, I reasoned he’d
forget to eat and slowly starve.
It seemed a clever revenge, at first. Alas, I had been too cocky. Shocking, I know. Days later I returned to discover
Narcissus had not died, but thrived! Now, I'm no prude; sex has its time and place, especially around noon in the treetops.
And at first, I will confess, I was curious to see if a human male could die from excessive, ahem, self-love - as centaurs
are prone to do. But Narcissus was not a candidate deserving of such an experiment. Obviously, I had dropped the ball.
Oh stop snickering and settle down, pups.
I paced for hours, trying to devise a better retribution. The feckless Muses failed to assist me. I swear, sometimes they are
tone deaf to pleas for inspiration. I shuddered uncontrollably, chilled to my very core, afraid that rat-bastard Zeus would
strip me of my power and position because of this embarrassment. But I contained myself, focused my fear, and froze
everything that surrounded me, covering the reflective pool with an opaque layer of ice. Narcissus could no longer see his
lover.
He sobbed like a petulant child: “Have I become fat, old, un-hot?"
"Obviously, you’ve been stood up. Maybe he’s being coy and hides. Nuzzle the ice, he’ll come,” I suggested.
The temperature was brutally cold. When Narcissus nuzzled and kissed the ice, his pucker stuck. I cheered him on: "Don’t
let that cock tease get the best of you. Turn up the heat, more passion, more passion!”
Fueled by his boundless vanity and libido, Narcissus writhed on the ice for hours. His tender flesh and beautiful features
turned to a blackened, frostbitten pulp.
Finally, he broke through the ice to the reflective pool underneath. When he saw his lover's mutilated face, Narcissus
shrieked like a harpy - a premenstrual harpy. He placed his hands on his hips. With a dismissive toss of his blond mane, he
snubbed himself: “Oh my Gods! We are sooooooooooo over, ugo!”
I asked him: “My, my, my, Narcissus, what a fickle, fussy lover you are, to dump even yourself. Can’t you appreciate
how beautiful you are on the inside, despite your face and body?”
He inspected himself. He pointed at the pool and cracked like the ice under his feet: “That monster is me? He, he, is me?
How can I live like this?”
I blithely suggested he drown himself as an option.
Narcissus plunged his fat head into the frigid water, inhaled deeply, and rid the world of his vacuous self: his first decent,
altruistic act.
How's that for a yummy dish of revenge best served cold? Oh, a standing ovation is not necessary. But go ahead, yes, yes.
Now my darlings, I want you to follow my example and dish out heaping helpings of retribution, too. My plate is plum
full. Please realize you don’t need supernatural powers like mine, but only lots of creativity and ample freezer space. Just
remember, the next time you fall head-over-heels flat on your face for someone who plays tether ball with your affections,
apply my three "Cs" to turn your ex-lover into a cadaver: be cool, cruel, and clever, as I was to Narcissus.
Huddle up, Team Retribution. All together - payback, payback, payback! Clap.
it's hard to be dumped by a lover, as your flayed
emotions attest. Trust me; the healing balm for your
malady is for each of you to get even. So gather
around my darlings for I, Nemesis, Goddess of
Divine Retribution, will coach you in my stratagem
for poetic justice.
Settled in? Comfy? Good.
Now, are you familiar with the saying revenge is a
dish best served cold? Well, its origins were derived
from an act of retribution I dealt out centuries ago.
There once was a young man named Narcissus. He
was very handsome - quite the dish. When anyone
gazed upon his face, they would instantly fall in love
with him. I saw most of the males rolling your eyes.
Believe me, he could turn hard-line heterosexuals,
boys. Anyway, Narcissus, no surprise, was incredibly
vain and callous: the sultan of selfishness, the archetype
of assholes, a titan in the pantheon of jerks. For sport,
he punted hearts.
His last victim was Ameinias. Imagine this scene. The
hapless young man rapped on Narcissus' door to
deliver a basket of olives. Narcissus answered, flirted,
smirked, all while flexing his oiled pecs. Within minutes,
Ameinias worshipped at Narcissus’ feet. Narcissus
casually rebuffed the lovesick admirer by telling him to
kill himself - right there, right now - as a sign of
devotion. The poor soul complied whole heartily; he
sliced open his chest.
Pups, as you just did, I too gasped in horror upon hearing
Ameinias' fate. With his last breath, he prayed to me,
pleading that I open a can of whoop-ass on Narcissus. Well, he didn't put it quite that way, exactly.
I found the task delicious, my retribution ingenious. When Narcissus took a drink from a pool deep in the forest, I made
him fall madly in love with his reflection. I abandoned him there to fawn over himself. So fixated was he, I reasoned he’d
forget to eat and slowly starve.
It seemed a clever revenge, at first. Alas, I had been too cocky. Shocking, I know. Days later I returned to discover
Narcissus had not died, but thrived! Now, I'm no prude; sex has its time and place, especially around noon in the treetops.
And at first, I will confess, I was curious to see if a human male could die from excessive, ahem, self-love - as centaurs
are prone to do. But Narcissus was not a candidate deserving of such an experiment. Obviously, I had dropped the ball.
Oh stop snickering and settle down, pups.
I paced for hours, trying to devise a better retribution. The feckless Muses failed to assist me. I swear, sometimes they are
tone deaf to pleas for inspiration. I shuddered uncontrollably, chilled to my very core, afraid that rat-bastard Zeus would
strip me of my power and position because of this embarrassment. But I contained myself, focused my fear, and froze
everything that surrounded me, covering the reflective pool with an opaque layer of ice. Narcissus could no longer see his
lover.
He sobbed like a petulant child: “Have I become fat, old, un-hot?"
"Obviously, you’ve been stood up. Maybe he’s being coy and hides. Nuzzle the ice, he’ll come,” I suggested.
The temperature was brutally cold. When Narcissus nuzzled and kissed the ice, his pucker stuck. I cheered him on: "Don’t
let that cock tease get the best of you. Turn up the heat, more passion, more passion!”
Fueled by his boundless vanity and libido, Narcissus writhed on the ice for hours. His tender flesh and beautiful features
turned to a blackened, frostbitten pulp.
Finally, he broke through the ice to the reflective pool underneath. When he saw his lover's mutilated face, Narcissus
shrieked like a harpy - a premenstrual harpy. He placed his hands on his hips. With a dismissive toss of his blond mane, he
snubbed himself: “Oh my Gods! We are sooooooooooo over, ugo!”
I asked him: “My, my, my, Narcissus, what a fickle, fussy lover you are, to dump even yourself. Can’t you appreciate
how beautiful you are on the inside, despite your face and body?”
He inspected himself. He pointed at the pool and cracked like the ice under his feet: “That monster is me? He, he, is me?
How can I live like this?”
I blithely suggested he drown himself as an option.
Narcissus plunged his fat head into the frigid water, inhaled deeply, and rid the world of his vacuous self: his first decent,
altruistic act.
How's that for a yummy dish of revenge best served cold? Oh, a standing ovation is not necessary. But go ahead, yes, yes.
Now my darlings, I want you to follow my example and dish out heaping helpings of retribution, too. My plate is plum
full. Please realize you don’t need supernatural powers like mine, but only lots of creativity and ample freezer space. Just
remember, the next time you fall head-over-heels flat on your face for someone who plays tether ball with your affections,
apply my three "Cs" to turn your ex-lover into a cadaver: be cool, cruel, and clever, as I was to Narcissus.
Huddle up, Team Retribution. All together - payback, payback, payback! Clap.
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