Sing, O’ Muse, of passion and fiery lusts.

A horny man, there is my story. And the bitter rancor of the sharp tongued Shebrew, Anna of the Red Scare podcast. And so were brought forth countless ills upon Frog Twitter and the Skidmarxists. Which brought down a thousand troubles on the dissidents. Many a strong soul it sent ‘neath the banhammer. And many heroes themselves became prey to doxers and political vultures.

It began, first of all, with a quarrel between my lord, a lover’s spat, Bronze Age Pervert of the discipline of sun and steel, and great-mouthed Anna.

Betwixt the steel and glass canyons of Manhattan and the cerulean dome, the Mighty Thunderer Lord Zeus’ domain, we come to our tale.

Fighting Falcons were called forth by the DHS and the governor of New York. Furious, the twin warbird F-16s alighted to strike. For upon Flight 602 from that city of the emerald green land of beaches, Rio de Janeiro, there was a disturbance!

Major Mulvaney and his wingman, Captain Paisano, fast climbed to meet the distressed aircraft.

Major Mulvaney radioed to ground control, “Air Guard station, we have eyes on Flight 602, can we get an updated SITREP?”

There was the crackle of static over the UHF. “Empire Eagle, we have reports that a large man is creating a disturbance and has taken another passenger hostage.”

“Alright, you hear that, Wild Pepe?” Mulvaney said to Paisano.

“Got it in one, Major.”

“I’ve got point. Follow me in.”

The Fighting Falcons leveled off at 35,000 feet and flew in a standard encirclement formation. The Captain followed the Major’s lead in flashing their undercarriages, loaded with mighty weapons of war. Of armaments there were many; the much-famed AIM-9 Sidewinders displayed a threat, a warning.

“We mean business, motherfucker!”

A silent command.

Mulvaney spoke over the airwaves, “Hailing Flight 602 out of Rio de Janeiro, en route to Boston. This is Major Mulvaney of the New York Air National Guard providing escort. What is your situation?”

A nervous, melodious voice responded, “Yes, Major Mulvaney. This is Captain Guzman. Ten minutes ago, as we approached New York airspace, the cabin crew reported a passenger—manifest has him listed as Arnold Mishima—stripped off his clothes in the middle of the aisle while shouting, ‘You must submit, Clothomos!’ Cabin crew report he is a very large man and has seized another passenger.”

“Any demands?” Mulvaney asked.

“As of yet, no. We’ve locked the cockpit and await instructions.”

“Major! The starboard overwing exit just opened!” Captain Paisano cried over the radio.

Captain Guzman reported, “Major! Major! Mishima kicked open the emergency exit and is taking the hostage with him.”

Major Mulvaney pulled alongside starboard and observed a large, powerfully built man in posing trunks. He glistened and shimmered like Apollo in the mid-morning light striding onto the aircraft’s wing.

He dragged a Michelin man out with him. Torn seatbelts restrained the soy boy around the arms and ankles.

Somehow, the muscled Adonis, in 430 MPH winds, saw Major Mulvaney’s F-16 and struck a double biceps pose.

Then he alighted with his hostage into the azure firmament, sailing into Zeus Cloudgatherer’s gulf.

Off into the air, he sky-surfed the fat man.

“Ground control! Ground control! This is Empire Eagle. Hostile has just jumped out over Manhattan. Beginning pursuit. Notify ESU. Wild Pepe, maintain escort.”

The major dropped into a high-G spiral, maintaining visual contact.

Mighty BAP took the seatbelts in his strong, thewed hands and rode the screaming lardass. With great nimbleness, BAP surfed the air currents swiftly like Hermes.

“Ground control, hostile is sky-surfing. Requesting clearance to open fire,” the major inquired.

The major watched my lord BAP sail to earth astride the land whale, Helios-like in his chariot. Chest out, standing erect, splendid BAP directed his mount towards Central Park.

“Permission to go weapons-hot granted, Empire Eagle.”

Major Mulvaney lined up his holographic sight upon the noble-souled BAP.

The M61 Vulcan shouted its warlike sound. It fired a string of killer 20mm API rounds.

The rounds whistled past great-hearted BAP’s ass.

“Wat mean!” he roared into the wind.

Warrior that he was, BAP vaulted underneath the obese man, and with a powerful thrust, kicked him into the pursuing jet.

The soyboy screamed; the major could but only register the soy grimace of fear. 320 pounds of guts flew up the jet intake; the tub of lard slammed into the Fighting Falcon’s turbofan.

As the magnificent warbird shuddered, the major radioed a last message, “Ground control, hostile has taken out my engine. Punching out.”

He seized the black and yellow handles, jerked, and escaped as his aircraft exploded.

Sailing to earth, parachute deployed, the major watched princely BAP maneuver like a cliff diver towards Central Park.

To no one, the dolorous major said, “I will never live this down.”

***

Mighty-souled Pervert hit the glide path over the Central Park Reservoir. He pulled his sinewy legs into a straight-legged tuck, dropping straight down to the wine-dark waters. Ten feet from the surface, he formed into a swallow dive and plummeted beneath.

A geyser erupted a hundred feet into the air; waves exploded, then stilled.

The swimmer broke through the white-tossed waves. He prowed over Poseidon’s domain.

At the shore was a flock of swans.

Kingly BAP addressed them, “Frends! Birds of Apollo. I seek Anna of the dark eyes! You find her?”

The white sky-kings circled about his feet and conversed thus, “A mighty warrior, a disciple of sun and iron who has come from the sky like our lord, seeks out our help. Do we help him?”

“Of course! We can see by his bearing this is a most noble demigod.” They agreed.

As they held court, BAP posted to Twitter, “@annakhachiyan I come!”

“@bronzeagemantis Sure dude.”

The swans spoke, “We know this dark-eyed Anna follows us.”

Into Zeus’ kingdom they took off.

Fleet-footed BAP followed in flight across the green expanse, over the rivers of yellow cabs. Like a mighty rush of wind, he tore through the streets of Manhattan, overturning food carts and knocking over meter maids’ smart cars.

Windows shattered.

Foundations shook.

Anna of the nimble fingers retweeted fast-footed BAP’s Tweet; many were the @s and replies. Mocking and derisive. It was an ugly thing.

The ESU in their armored chariots were summoned by dolesome tones over the police band to seize my lord in this Twitter quarrel.

BAP slapped his two thighs to drive the masses of Manhattanites from his path, shouting, “Clothomos MOVE!”

Like Sisyphus’ boulder, he rolled through them, following Apollo’s swans until they cried forth, “Here, Lord BAP! Here we have found polysyllable gatherer Anna of the dark eyes’ abode.”

“Thank you, frands! I shall not forget!”

He then tweeted, “@annakhachiyan I HERE! SEE!”

And Anna looked out the window to see a tall, ripped, muscular demi-god on the street.

“@bronzeagemantis Well I just smoked a blunt. Come up.”

BAP marched into the lobby; a dork with glasses asked, “Are you taking the elevator?”

“NO! I take stairs.”

And with that he took the stairs, five at a time, shaking the building until he reached the tenth floor.

He kicked the door off its hinges.

Nursing her blighted anger, Anna tore off the banana hammock, beholding a phallus that ancient man raised menhir, obelisk, and Hermes to.

With furious burning angry thighs, Anna embraced BAP.

They fucked!

She screeched like a Yiddish Armenioid maenad. Many were the “Oyfs!” and “Ohs!”

Dasha of the hot chip and lie came through the door to visit. “Hey, Anna, what happened to your—”

What she saw turned her hair white, and with a plaintive wailing, she ran away, clawing at her eyes.

The building rocked side to side.

Old Jewish ladies crossed themselves at the racket, Italian dames prayed the Kaddish, Mahometans collectively prayed rosaries, Hindoos ate Quarter Pounders.

All was Chaos in the City and Boroughs.

Anna called out, “Eli! Eli! Eli!”

BAP, confused, said, “Wat mean! You call another man’s name while we in bed!?”

“Oh no, Bappy. It’s just Hebrew for ‘my God.’”

At the final climax of the pelvic gyrations and crotch-slamming, my lord BAP cried, “SPERMIES!” And let out a massive rumbling roar.

Anna’s swelling passion abated, BAP rolled over the gefilte fish jelly smear on the mattress.

And she of the many words began to kvetch, and kvetch, and kvetch, and kvetch.

At last, my lord looked over at the Siamese cat, and the cat spoke in the secret silent language of the felines, “Hey dude, can you get me the fuck out of here?”

Faster than the eye could see, BAP snatched up his banana hammock, grabbed the pussy.

Now, with his balls empty, BAP jumped out the window.

As in the ancient legends, BAP, as is the way of all shamans, returned to the sky.