Iolaus applied a final dab of paint to Ares' statue and bowed with a flourish, almost keeling over in drunken exuberance.
"Ta daaaaaaa!" he announced, a little louder than was necessary. He'd lost the ability to moderate his voice after the fourth bottle of wine. He'd lost the ability to moderate a lot of things, as the abysmally tangled ties on his pants showed. He jumped down from the altar unsteadily, almost knocking Hercules over in the process.
Hercules righted him as best he could in his own advanced state of pickledom. "Oh, man!" Hercules slurred. "Ares is gonna shit when he sees this!"
The two of them, on vacation from Cheiron's academy, had stopped for a drink in a nearby town. "A drink" had turned into "several drinks" had turned into "several bottles of drinks", and that's when Hercules had remembered that Ares had a temple in this town. It was all downhill from there, especially for the poor, innocent statue, which had done nothing to deserve this treatment unless you counted being molded after a real asshole, but you could hardly hold that against the statue, could you?
It had once been a proud statue depicting the War God in all his bellicose glory: tall, proud, scowling, sword held in one big hand, handsome face oozing masculinity and menace. But two drunken teens and a few gallons of paint later, the emblem of Ares' sovereignty was no more. Was no more in a big way.
The obsidian curls topping the large body had been painted yellow and extended down the back in lush waves. The leather vest and pants had been painted bright pink and altered into a lovely spring dress the neckline of which plummeted to reveal the outline of Ares' pecs, which now looked suspiciously like huge, melon-like boobs thanks to Hercules' unsteady brush. The "good-lord-I'm-butch" combat boots were now matching pastel slippers with a trendy (but sensible) heel. The giant bulge of the crotch was now a large, concave flower that gave the dress that Paris-in-the-springtime feel. Best of all, the huge sword was now a massive, peach-colored penis. Clutched proudly in Ares' hand, it made quite a statement.
"It still needs something," Iolaus said, frowning at the statue through crossed eyes.
"A garter belt?" Hercules suggested, blowing a lock of caramel-colored hair out of his face.
"No..." Iolaus thought for a moment. Suddenly an idea forced itself through the sea of fermented grapes.
Iolaus swiped a piece of parchment from the altar and painted laboriously. He slapped the finished product onto the statue's paint-sticky hand that was not clutching the giant dick.
Ares was now holding a sign that proclaimed, "WELKOM TO AFRODITE'S TEMPEL".
Iolaus' spelling was atrocious even while sober, but this was good enough for Hercules. The two friends clutched each other and howled.
"I love you, Iolaus," Hercules gushed, patting the blonde head clumsily, almost denting his skull.
"Yeah?" Iolaus smirked. "Come back to camp and show me how much."
They staggered out into the hot, buggy night, arms thrown around each others' waists.
Ares stepped out from behind a pillar where he'd been watching the defilement of his favorite statue serenely.
He stretched and smiled. "Oh, boys," he purred, watching his brother and his lover depart, "I don't think there'll be any of *that* tonight." He fingered the huge whanger that had once been a sword. "Not without what I removed, or should I say altered? Maybe I'll send you both a copy of the Lesbian Kama Sutra."
Ares regarded his ruined statue with a grin.
"And they say I have no sense of humor."