Het doosje met alles

It is three o’clock at night in a Wendy’s parking lot and God has just died.

Like all Gods that die, its bleeding corpse is preparing to put on one final show. A mass of colors is pushing underneath the skin, bulging the fatty tissue, the body becoming more like a hot pink neon sign than the steer it once should have represented before it became slow. Before it discovered drink, smoking, whoring. Late night takeout. The expression on the heavily cut up face is one of unearned peace. The rage and anger It displayed so adversely earlier seeped out of Its gashes along with the blood which now pools a little further beneath a lantern’s light draining into a sewer.

Its killer sits on a 1995 Ford with a broken headlamp. She lights a new cigarette with the old one, the rest of the now empty package on the pavement between her open-toed sandals. She inhales. Savors the hot air, its dirtiness, her inexplicable thirst for death and her drive to live. The cancer in her lungs recedes for another month or two. She’s lucky. She thinks so.

At least there are more Gods these days.