When Simon woke up that morning, he had no idea of the strange events poised to occur in the mortal plane. In fact, he was satisfied to note that school holidays were upon him, and instead of studying trigonometry as the school expected, he was looking to recline, relax, and of course, have sex. The god watching over him that particular moment was frowning, not because of the teenager's elicit thoughts, but rather because he was drunk. For Loki had earlier pilfered a large crate with radioactive markings from America, but instead of finding nuclear devices with which to distract Zeus, leaving him free to steal the boss' kitchen utensils, he discovered with alarm that the seemingly innocent box was filled with wheat and bottles of vodka. The god of tricks had frowned slightly, not comprehending what the latter substance was, but decided that the logical continuation to pursue would be to drink the proffered liquids. After all, he was a god, and that, he concluded, meant he couldn't die. Much partying ensued in the heavenly realm, and although the gods were immortal, they reached a drunken stupor within an hour. And along with the sobriety of the deities, so disappeared the logical controls of Earth.
Simon trudged from the gym wearing an exhausted expression, cursing his friend rather nastily for pushing him so extensively. Arriving at the milk bar, he marched straight to the refrigerator and peered through the glass, contemplating his future purchase.
"Coke... Vanilla Coke... Pepsi Max?" he asked no-one in particular. The glass door shrugged indifferently, narrowing its eyes.
"I know! Water!" he exclaimed, excited by his brilliant calculations. The door disagreed with a shake of its head while sending him a shrewd glare clearly inquiring somewhat condescendingly, especially for a door, as to the limits of his stupidity. Simon however was oblivious, rather surprising considering the extensive warnings from the glass door, which, considering its usual lack of action, was passing for a human quite well.
Although unable to catch the not-so-subtle clues of the door, something apparently registered in his mind reminding him that water is a plentiful substance and is generally cheaper from a tap. Except in Adelaide of course, where health is an issue.
"Fanta... ?" he asked weakly, to which the door dispassionately groaned.
The girl behind the counter was eying him curiously, as she had never before seen such time spent on a choice of beverage. Simon was now tapping the window at different points, for a reason not even he could explain. Perhaps he believed this would aid him in his quest for the right drink, or that it would simply summon a genie from which he could request the correct liquid. Whatever the reason, the glass door was no longer observing passively. It was now glaring at the impetuous child with a harsh and unforgiving glare, crossing its arms indignantly.
Now, any slightly sentient being would have realised that this was not the most profitable time to further enrage the door. Even the shopkeeper was creeping slowly away from the counter. In fact, even the less-than-sentient beings were retreating from the door; the chandelier was making every effort to scamper, and the ice-cream compartment had its wheels pointed undoubtedly towards the door, before realising its inability to move. It then settled for quietly cursing. So it was a true indication of the boy's stupidity when he, not only unaware of the exponentially increasing ire of his stealthy companion, decided to punch the glass in frustration.
The ice-cream compartment gasped, and internally, the Heavens were climbing over the briefly immobile Magnums in their scrambled attempt the reach the high ground at the opposite end, when one straggler was brutally stabbed through the middle by the point of a Drumstick. The Drumstick in question was being glared upon by his fellow comrades, who were annoyed at his disregard for their faction's neutrality in the Great War of Cream. He snapped to attention in the way only a conically shaped ice cream could do, and employed his most convincing innocent look. The High Council frowned, apparently able to be disgusted by his 'lost puppy' eyes despite him being a mere ice-cream. Meanwhile the Milo tubs were sleeping.
To say that the glass door wasn't pleased with this latest development would be the equivalent of pointing out that light is fast. Simon found himself on the receiving end of a glare from two very thin slits that were in fact eyes, narrowed to an extent that would have impressed most Asians. Not that he noticed of course, for he was quite stupid. Even a stupid person, however, would notice if a door decided to open itself and smack quite forcefully into his nose. This was the situation that faced Simon. Not expecting such an attack from the door, he was quite naturally defenceless against the blow, and was sent flying into the counter. Having composed himself, the boy was eying the glass door as though he had lost his best friend, silently asking what he had ever done to insult the offender. The door stared back defiantly.
Up till now, you may agree with me when I say that the story has been progressing rather normally, that is to say, that nothing completely out of the ordinary has transpired. But it was at this point in time that Zeus, controller of Earth, passed out from a combination of alcohol and the realisation that his silverware had been stolen.
Many miles and borders away, Harry Potter entered the Gryffindor common room and wasn't too surprised to see Hermione and Ron engaged in a passionate petting session on the couch. He was just about to turn and leave the room, when he heard a grunt from the direction of the occupied couch. He would have ignored the noise, preferring to pass it off as a product of his friends' 'recreation', but instinct told him that something was wrong. Well, more wrong than a potential accident on the couch. His first reaction after turning around was to blink, something which he rarely ever did. Failing to find anything more intelligent, he shook his head, blinked again, and when the situation had not righted itself, simply stared with a dropped jaw, his body shaking in disgust. For in place of his two best friends, were two overweight naked men that could have passed for Santa Claus if they had been wearing red, rather than their birthday suits. After closing his eyes and counting to ten failed to produce a satisfying change, Harry sighed and mumbled to himself, "Send a letter to Voldemort, tell him I give up." He pointed his wand to his forehead, and, after a hurried "Obliviate", walked out of the common room with no memories of his trying endeavour.