The sun beat down mercilessly on the sprawling fairgrounds outside Dallas, where thousands had gathered for the annual Churning Point USSR Fest. Giant flags snapped in the dry Texas wind. Vendors sold gold sneakers, plastic eagle statues, “Real Men Eat Freedom” beef jerky, and shirts declaring “I’D RATHER BE RUSSIAN THAN WOKE.”
Country music blasted from enormous speakers while influencers wandered through the crowd livestreaming themselves eating deep-fried butter.
Near the center stage, a giant banner hung between two cranes:
TRADITION. PATRIOTISM. MANLINESS.
Below it stood Eryka Chirkonov, smiling confidently beneath layers of hairspray and television makeup. She adjusted the microphone while the crowd cheered wildly.
“My friends,” Eryka declared dramatically, “society has forgotten the proper role of women!”
The audience roared approval.
“A woman’s greatest strength,” she continued, “is supporting strong men. A woman does not need power. A woman uplifts power!”
More cheering.
Somewhere in the middle of the crowd, a tall woman in white linen slowly lowered her sunglasses.
Her name was Hera.
At the moment she appeared to be an elegant woman in her fifties with silver-threaded black hair and gold bracelets wrapped around both wrists. To the mortals around her she looked like an extremely wealthy European art collector who had accidentally wandered into a tractor pull.
Hera stared at Eryka in absolute disbelief.
“Astonishing,” she muttered.
Nearby, two men wearing matching Grump cowboy hats glanced at her nervously.
On stage, Eryka continued.
“A nation becomes weak when women seek authority over men. Feminism has poisoned society!”
Hera blinked once.
The air around her became strangely still.
Several flags stopped moving entirely.
A nearby bald eagle mascot suddenly looked uncomfortable and quietly walked away.
Then Hera began pushing through the crowd.
At first nobody noticed her. They were too busy cheering and filming themselves. But slowly people began stepping aside without understanding why. Her presence carried a pressure older than civilization itself.
Eryka pointed dramatically toward the audience.
“A strong woman serves greatness!”
Hera’s voice cut across the fairgrounds like a bronze blade.
“Strong women ARE greatness.”
Silence.
Every camera turned.
Eryka froze.
The crowd stared as Hera calmly walked toward the stage.
One reporter whispered, “Who is that?”
Another replied, “I think she owns a vineyard.”
Hera climbed the stage stairs slowly.
“You speak,” Hera said coldly, “as if women were ornaments placed beside men rather than builders of kingdoms.”
Eryka recovered enough to smile nervously.
“Well, I simply believe traditional values—”
“Traditional?” Hera interrupted.
The stage lights flickered.
“I ruled empires before your nation discovered indoor plumbing.”
A murmur spread through the audience.
One influencer quietly lowered his phone.
Eryka forced a laugh.
“Ladies and gentlemen, clearly we have a very passionate feminist here today—”
Hera stepped closer.
“I am Hera, Queen of Olympus, goddess of marriage, sovereignty, and civilization itself.”
The sky darkened slightly.
Not everywhere.
Only above the stage.
A few in the audience chuckled awkwardly.
Then somebody shouted:
“SHE’S WOKE!”
The tension shattered instantly.
The crowd erupted.
“GO BACK TO CALIFORNIA!”
“TRUMP WON!”
“DEPORT THE GODDESS!”
A red MAGA hat flew through the air and bounced off Hera’s shoulder.
She stared at it.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
A second hat hit her arm.
Then came foam fingers.
Plastic eagle keychains.
One man hurled a golden sneaker that struck the podium with a loud thunk.
The wind began to rise.
Hard.
Flags snapped violently.
Dust swirled across the fairgrounds.
Above the stage, black thunderclouds formed with impossible speed.
Eryka’s smile vanished completely.
Hera’s eyes glowed faintly gold.
For one terrifying second, every person present felt something ancient looking directly at them.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
Deep, exhausted disappointment.
Then Hera spoke quietly. “You were given philosophy, mathematics, democracy, art, astronomy, medicine, poetry… and THIS is what you became.”
Thunder rolled across the sky.
Several attendees screamed and ran for cover.
One man dropped his turkey leg and fell to his knees begging for forgiveness despite not being entirely sure from whom.
Hera closed her eyes.
“No,” she muttered. “Athena must see this herself.”
Then she vanished in a burst of golden light.
The storm disappeared instantly.
The crowd stood frozen.
After several seconds, Eryka slowly leaned toward the microphone.
“Well…” she said shakily, “that happened.”
Hard cut.
Mount Olympus.
Zeus reclined upon an enormous marble throne while storm clouds drifted lazily around the palace ceiling. Beside him sat Athena reading scrolls while Apollo lazily strummed a golden lyre.
Dionysus was asleep beneath the table holding a wine goblet.
Hera stormed into the chamber.
“YOUR CHILDREN HAVE BECOME MORONS.”
Zeus looked up calmly.
“Oh dear,” he sighed. “America again?”
Hera pointed furiously toward Earth below.
“They throw shoes at queens now!”
Athena did not look up from her scroll.
“I warned everyone about social media.”
Apollo winced.
“I leave humanity alone for two centuries and they invent podcasts.”
Dionysus lifted his head slightly.
“Did somebody say podcasts?”
“No,” Athena said immediately.
Hera paced furiously across the marble floor.
“They worship loudness! They celebrate ignorance! They cheer for fools while mocking wisdom!”
Zeus slowly stood.
Thunder rumbled outside Olympus.
“That bad?”
Hera stared directly at him.
“They gave a man gold sneakers and called it leadership.”
Zeus blinked.
“By the Fates…”
Athena finally looked up from her scroll.
“We should intervene carefully.”
Zeus nodded.
“Agreed.”
A lightning bolt exploded somewhere over Nebraska.
Apollo looked toward the window.
“A little carefully?”
Zeus sat back down.
“Yes. Fine. Mostly carefully.”