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Underworld Uber by Lucy Thompson

“There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast—
A sordid god: down from his hairy chin
A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;
His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;
A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire.




— Virgil, Monday, 1st century BC 


Sordid!? Unkept I am, but I draw the line at sordid.

I can only assume this reviewer entered Tartarus.


My third no star review this eternity. Curse these rotten rating robotics!

What is Underworld Uber even good for?

Moronic mortals and their destinations concern me not for I am simply the Katabasis conductor.

I begged Hades he need not listen to that Zuckerberg fellow—my boss must stop visiting the overworld so frequently, he gifts me not any silicon from this supposed valley.


Hitherto the deplorable decision of data tracking the underworld’s service (another Greek tragedy to add to the list, in my account), my ferrying was fabulous.

Charon knows no judgement: evil, good or the equilibrium—

three strands to the braid of Acheron, her meanders untamed as Medusa’s serpents.

A fork in her waters presents as the fight of favourites between obols or danakes—copper metallic orange casts warmth on an otherwise “dreary coast,” yet the latter’s pewtered bulk grounds me in my vessel.


Alas, the good days are surrendered—I am now asked if I take PayPal.

Long ago, I boasted a one-hand grip on my pole, with the other reached out for my travellers. Appearance was above me, care less I could not about my corneal perforations, blindness cannot hinder the guiding motions of Styx.


Such tribulations hardly compare to the coup de grâce:

a ghastly parasite latched to my boat, otherwise known as Google Maps.

Supposedly attempting to navigate the treacherous ways of the underworld’s paths? Better than my own talents? Preposterous!


Perhaps I should check with the universe for any new psychopomp vacancies. 

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