“You,” says Paris, “you’re the most beautiful.”
Aphrodite beams. “Set sail for Troy,” she says, “and she will be yours,” and vanishes.
The other two remain, glowering.
“My apologies, great Hera, mighty Athena!” says Paris. “But the three of you did ask me to choose, and it isn’t as if I could pick more than–”
Flames lick up around him. Aphrodite reappears, frantic, but Hera holds her back. Athena is growing taller, and the sky is growing dark.
“Perhaps you have misunderstood,” she booms, enormous, “what it means to be a fucking god,” and reaches down with her smiting hand.