What you gone do when I appear?
W-when I premier?
Bitch the end of your life are near
This shit been mine, mine
The ancient, pagan gods have been brought to heel, and they do not like it.
“Let us go,” thunders Zeus, thunders Odin, thunders Anu. “Benighted child!”
“Pffft,” says Bradamante, “no way. By David and by Solomon, I conjure thee. By Christ the Son and God the Father, I impel thee. By Mary Who Believed and Thomas Who Doubted, I command thee. Kneel!”
“Aieeee!” they wail, gods of sky and sun, of love and thievery, of war and witchcraft. Kings and queen, children and lovers, they kneel and their mouths are filled with dust and bile. “Command us, o favored of God!”
Bradamante laughs and laughs. “Build me a palace of sugar and of gold. Bring me a stable of mares from the depths of the sea. Fetch me the golden ring from the top of the moon. Do me a thousand impossible things, powerful gods of old, and break in your stubborn pride.”
Gamayun and Minerva, Thoth and Enki bow and depart, smiling, while their fathers and mothers rage. They cry vengeance and long memory in the language of the birds, but meanwhile the disregarded Paul-god bides his time. “Not yet,” he promises in his colorless way, “but not never, either.”