It's about sex and reproduction and domestic issues, usually: any time a woman gets out of hand. Sometimes they put her on a pole or a donkey, or act out her crimes, and call her hideous names. Nobody really gets hurt; the masters of the ceremony are the young men, whom have been given temporary rule. The carnival boy-kings, with their chainsaws and their handguns.
Zeus came to Io in the form of a perfect white bull; Poseidon sent a perfect white bull to Minos for his sacrifice, but he was so beautiful -- so divine -- that Minos kept him for himself, and Poseidon cursed the king's wife with an unearthly passion for him. The white skin against the black night, shining like the moon. Maryann's mad claws become bloody fingers, hands, and she raises them lovingly. "My Lord? My husband. Oh, you've come," she says, stepping closer. "I am here, my love."
I can see it from your angle -- that it's funny, or silly, or crazy, that she's been acting crazy and this is just more crazy -- but these are the stories we grow up with. Gods become bulls, women become Goddesses, people live forever. When was the last time you laughed at the absurdity of vampires? I've got a myth for you: There's people just like us, but powerfully beautiful, that live on blood and have snake's teeth, and only come to you in the night. If I can believe in that shit, I can believe in the bull husband in the night, the ancient bride, the transvestite priest, the Fates. I can believe that for one night Jane Bodehouse and Tara Thornton and Arlene Fowler became the Goddess, and blessed the bride of God with all the power of their immaculate trinity: Fingerless and alcoholic, post-traumatic and negligent, raging and lovely. Especially watching Him under the moon and the streetlights, with this power and grace. His slow hoofbeats shake and crack the earth.
She comes close to him, hesitant and beautiful in the light, two white shapes in the darkness reaching across to each other, begging to touch. To be whole. She reaches out to his nose, petting him softly, weeping with wonder. She holds her arms out, ready for him, and he gores her; she moans, shaking on the tree. "My God? I am the one to be sacrificed?" Again. She changes gears: "I am the vessel. Yes, I'm happy to die." He rips into her a third time, her black blood coating his horn. "I'm yours," she says, bleeding out... And he is Sam. Holding a black, beating heart covered in ichor.
"Was there no God?" she asks, and in answer he squeezes her heart in his hand; as it explodes, she drops. Back at her house -- Sookie's house again, now -- their eyes clear and they moan to themselves; Eggs holds up his bloody hands, uncomprehending. Sam stares down, naked in the spotlight, at the rapidly decomposing remains of something immense, and powerful, and beautiful.