εὐαἵ, εὐοἱ

IO !   IO !

The god of wine and mystic forest-mountain trances slides off his donkey with a thud, narrowly missing a holy pard, who growls when Dionysos grabs its tail.

His maenads begin to cry, casting their thyrsi in a despondent heap, rending their leopard skins amidst wails and sobbing as angels collect the pinecone tips and burn them. The angels now gather the dismembered wildcats and forest creature limbs, along with the bloody deerskins, into a separate pile.

Tambourines are confiscated next, numbered and assigned the initials of their respective Bacchante owner before being bagged as evidence.

The leaf-crowned god writhes in convulsions before the Pantokrator, babbling, begging for a bottle of Mad Dog and moaning piteously as he rips the grape-vines and ivy from his brow.

It’s all over, forget it, Dionysus sobs.
My maenads are murderous bitches anyway. . . 

Don’t take it too hard, buddy says Pantokrator Christos.
Court will probably send you to a 16-week outpatient program, maybe prescribe some meds till you can get on your feet again. Would you like some support from a counselor, O Dithyrambos, white bull roarer of forest shadow, leaf-crowned youth of Nysa, great Bakcheios, panther-faced fawn-render—

But Bacchus cuts Him off:

Come ON man, don’t rub it in. Forget all those bullshit divine titles.
It’s over. I don’t even care any more…

His weary eyelids close and he grimaces. But suddenly a new and desperate hope surges in his wine-soaked brain as his eyes flash open:

Wait—if I do the program will they reduce my charges?