Happy hour in a tatty bar at the edge of Small Gods, which is the poorest area of Olympus. Seven very minor gods sit at a smeared table drowning their sorrows in the local hooch, which somewhat resembles whisky, somewhat battery acid.
The tooth fairy narrows her eyes at the God of Unconsidered Trifles.
“I dunno what you’re moaning about. You get more followers every day.”
“Yeah. But. Geeks.”
Lycra Cycling Shorts nods wisely before slipping off his chair facedown in spilt beer and crushed scratchings.
Muse shows a petulant face.
“Whaddabout me? Only wankers believe in me.”