The transition from Wyoming’s Middle School of Gifted and Talented Youth to Stonewall Jackson High proved especially strenuous for one grossly effeminate, albeit melodious, Greek god.

“Look fellows,” Orpheus leaned back against his locker nonchalantly, trying to reason with his new schoolmates. “There beith no use in denying that when it comes to playing the lyre, I’m da bomb. Now, you can either continue beating me mercilessly in the school yard, or you can benefit from the musical services that I so humbly offer you now. At your assistance, my peers. Take it or leave it.”

The members of the four-man, battle-of-the-bands-winning rock group—”Not-So-Immaculate Conception”—exchanged glances. “Alright, douche bag,” Lead singer/guitarist Sean Francis (AKA Jesus Sliced) said threateningly. “I’d buy back my soul just to play at Homecoming this year. You’re in the band. But, if you sell out, so help me Lucifer, you’re totally gonna get it at the semi-formal dance next Friday.”

Young, half-naked Orpheus could hardly contain his glee. “I swear by Hades that I will not disappoint!” he exclaimed, attempting the native jargon of his age-mates.

“Lame, dude,” bassist Ben Starton (AKA Son of Fraud) chided. “Hades is totally textbook. We’re looking to broadcast an image of bona fide evil here, so leave your diet scare-tactics at the door.” The original members of the quartet giggled feverishly. “That’s enough,” Starton continued. “I’ll see you at Sean’s parents’ garage tonight. They’re parking the Camry on the street for two hours only, so don’t be late. My mom’s dropping me off at 7:00. Oh, and no babes allowed in the house, not that you could find any, anyway. And try to look a little more un-neutered for once.”

“Right-o, comrades!” Orpheus chimed. The sprightly immortal greek skipped right out of the school building and right into the gates of Aveda Salon. “Give me your finest body oils and mineral salts, post haste!” he pounded on the cashier’s desk. “I’ve got a group of contemporaries to impress and failure is not an option!”

“We need some Sensual Red Sea Pebbles and Herbal Oils for Him here, pronto!” ordered the bleach-blonde cashier, immediately sensing the urgency of the young god’s situation.

“It’s not the Greco-Lubricant of the gods, but it’ll do.” Orpheus chuckled with a nudge as he accepted his bag of goods. “Good eve, kind mortal!”

Orpheus wasted no time upon his arrival home. He lathered himself in newly purchased greases, slipped into his finest loin cloth, drank a little nectar to loosen up and tied his lucky WWZD bracelet around his wrist. “What would Zeus do?” Orpheus asked himself, looking in his full-length mirror/oracle of doom one last time. “He’d totally rock out with the fellas, you sexy son-of-a-pollo!” And with lyre in hand, fist pumping, he charged out the door.

The nectar-induced confidence high began to wear off, however, as Orpheus neared the house of Francis. Tentatively, he walked up the pavement. “In here, metro-wad!” Sean called from the three-car garage. “We just finished Walking on ‘Water . . . of Blood’ and we’re learning the chords to ‘Noah’s Carc(ous).’ You down for some jammin’ while our ’rents aren’t watching over our backs?”

“Well, technically, friends, my ’rents are always watching over our backs. You know, the whole omnipresence thing. Totally lame, I know.” Orpheus tried to laugh it off.

“You’re such a goody goody, Orpheus! God!” the Francis boy shouted.

“Lay off me! I’ve literally been to hell and back!” the young Greek god shouted defensively.

“And you think I haven’t?” Sean Francis snapped—tears in his eyes. “If only somebody would actually listen to the dismal lyrics of my tormented songs . . .”