As it is with the other posts in my A Neopoleon Creation series, you're going to have to read the first one (and the ones that follow) for this to make any sense.

Also, given the increasing length of these suckers, I don't expect that many of you are reading them. To those of you who are, thanks - I know it takes a bit of patience. Hope it's worth it :)

I awoke in the early morning to the crowing of the cock on day four of creation.

A bit odd, as I had no recollection of having created the rooster. I wondered what other things I had created during the previous night's bender.

I walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I still had vomit caked on the side of my head. My eyes were drooping, my skin was ruddy, and, for some reason, I was wearing lipstick. That was surprising and troublesome. I would have been upset by it for a while longer, but my mind was taken off of it when I realized I was wearing a dress.

"sandwich?"

No response.

"SANDWIIIIIICH?!"

No response. I was hoping sandwich would glide into the room and sandwich at me, but I didn't expect it to happen.

sandwich didn't come home the previous night. I wanted to know why he hadn't come home, but, even more than that, I was hoping sandwich was passed out somewhere else in Home and that sandwich was also dressed up in drag. That way I wouldn't have been the only male in the house dressed as a woman.

That hope didn't even make sense. I remembered that sandwich had never given the impression of having a gender, taking cross-dressing of the list of sandwich's recreational activities.

I was alone.

Obviously, had I left Home like that, I never would have heard the end of it. The migrant workers were probably already prepping their shovels for throwing at my head. I didn't want to give them any further reason to aggress me.

I grabbed some toilet paper, wadded it up, and scrubbed at my eyes. It didn't help much. Makeup cakes up and cements to your skin, and that's especially true if you sleep in it. I made a mental note to have some makeup remover handy for next time.

While scrubbing, I caught a glimpse of something in the mirror that I didn't recall having seen before.

I turned around and stopped scrubbing for a moment. I hunched over, toilet paper still in hand, and slowly approached the new thing. I thought it might have been a bomb. Since I didn't know what bombs looked like, not having created them yet, I thought it prudent to expect the worst of this thing.

I got right up to it and gave it a good thinking. It looked like a small toilet, which I thought would be a good design for a bomb. Nobody would ever suspect the small toilet thing as being a bomb. Before you know it, a few people would congregate around it - maybe during a coffee break - and then the bomb would go off, blasting everybody to Kingdom Come, which is something that belongs to a different religion.

Sinister.

The bomb disguised as a little toilet had a handle on it. I guessed that the handle was the trigger, and that I'd have to disarm the bomb by manipulating it ever so delicately. Since I didn't know what I was doing, I was fearful, but I found the hero in me and took on the bomb disguised as a little toilet.

I twisted the handle a little, and a stream of water shot straight up out of the bomb disguised as a little toilet and into my face. I staggered back.

"I'M BLINDED! EVERYBODY RUN! THE BOMB WENT OFF IN MY FACE AND NOW I'M BLINDED!"

The warning was noble, but there wasn't anybody there to hear it. I'd forgotten that detail in the heat of battle with the bomb disguised as a little toilet.

I flailed about, ran into walls, broke the mirror, and then, finally, tripped, caught myself on a lighting fixture, broke a bulb, and accidentally probed the bulb socket with my finger. A whip of electricity shot through my body and ignited the toilet paper I was still holding. The makeup I was removing with the toilet paper must have been highly flammable because the toilet paper went up in a huge ball of fire.

The ball of fire grazed the spool of toilet paper next to the toilet, lit it on fire, sent the towels up in flames, hit my alcohol-based toiletries, and pretty soon the entire bathroom was ablaze.

I made for the door of Home, ran outside, turned around, and watched as Home burned. I fell to my knees, I pulled at my hair, I sobbed, and my mascara ran until I could barely see.

"Home!" I cried.

"Home!" I cried again.

I didn't know what else to say. I had never experienced a tragedy like this before.

"Let there be love!" I shouted.

Nothing.

"Let there be shade under this red rock!" I hooted.

Nothing.

"At least give me an effing fire department!"

Nothing.

I was powerless. The universe was no longer bending to my whimsy.

I sat, cupped my face in my hands, and wept in the early morning warmth of the inferno.

    --------

Home lay in ruin. Ash and carbon.

I walked through the destruction. The ground beneath me was still smoldering. It looked dangerous, but my feet weren't so much as singed. I was lucky to have been wearing heels that morning.

When I finished my survey, I found only one thing that survived. It was the Glop sandwich had made me the morning of the previous day, and that I didn't have time to eat. The bowl around it had burned away, but the Glop itself stood.

There, in the center of the black, the only thing that wasn't torched was a breakfast food.

The best part of it all is that, looking back, the bomb that looked like a little toilet was actually something called a "bidet".

My world came crashing down because of a device French people clean their bottoms with.

I picked up the Glop. It was a symbol to me of tenacity; holding on when nothing else could.

I tucked Glop under my arm, walked out of the nothing, and went off to gather grass, reeds, and other similar foliage.

When I had enough, I wove a papoose for Glop, tucked Glop in, slung the papoose over my shoulder, and marched on. I was beginning to think that the whole event had been a sign from me. The message was that, even if sandwich doesn't come home, and even if you burn Home to the ground because of a bomb/bidet mix-up, that from the smoking cinders and obsidiate slag, one can find hope in an obstinate, indestructible, and totally inedible breakfast food.

I may have lost my ability to conjure the whole of existence into being, but I had me, I had Glop, and I still had my personal bear/bamboo cage/dead tortoise/giraffe based vehicle.

Speaking of which, it was gone. I usually parked it in a spot I call "right over there," but there it certainly wasn't.

My heart fell. Home was coal, sandwich was gone, I apparently had a thing for dressing in drag, and my only friend in the world was Glop.

"Why me, me?! WHY!" I shook my fist at myself. I moved in such mysterious ways that even I was confused.

"Why have I forsaken me?! Am I listening? WAS NIETZSCHE RI-... oh, hey - wait. The car's right over there."

The giraffe must have been startled by the fire, because it was booking it over hill and dell. In the hours during which Home was burning, I calculated that giraffe had dragged the procession at least twenty feet. I managed to catch up by walking at a normal pace. It was intense. I almost didn't make it.

The bear waved at me and growled something that sounded like an attempt at "Hello." It was kind of a "REHRO AAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGG BLAH ROAR BARK BARK!"

That must have been an extra little sum-sum sandwich added while training the bear.

sandwich... sigh.

I fastened myself into the cage and made sure Glop wasn't being poked by any of the spikes, not that it would have mattered since Glop is the hardest substance in the universe, but it seemed like the nice thing to do.

"Let's really hoof it today, boys! We have business in town!"

Giraffe, in a rare show of passion for his work, doubled our speed to two miles per hour. The pauses between Giraffe's steps had been reduced to mere seconds. Something was in the air. Even the dead tortoises seemed excited.

Speaking of air and dead tortoises, I made a mental note to, once I  found out what happened to my powers of creation, invent a little tree that one places inside a vehicle, and that emits a pleasant odor to counter the smell of decaying tortoise flesh, or whatever is offending the olfactory bulbs.

"Tally ho!"

    --------

Something seemed different about work. I looked at it from a few angles.

I looked for the lake we were building the previous day... check. Lake present and accounted for.

I searched the horizon for the mountain. Ah - check. (It was the big pointy thing for anybody who wants to know how I found it.)

But what was the other stuff? It extended down from the mountain, was enormous, tall, and looked very clean.

It would have to wait.

"Oh, hallo!" I said.

A muscular gent on a flying unicorn brought his beast down and hovered at me.

"Are you Rory?"

Oh, we're on a first name basis?

"Yeah. That's me. Rory, God of Gods."

"Uh-huh. Right. It was hard to recognize you. Did you know you look like a profoundly ugly woman right now?"

"Well, I wouldn't have thought to use the word 'profoundly'... nor 'ugly' for that matter. You see, this French toiletry apparatus exploded in my face this morning, and-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... look, Rory, I'm going to need you to move your vehicle. This is parking for Gods only."

"So... what's the problem? Where would you expect Rory, the God of Gods to park?"

"You haven't noticed, have you?"

"Noticed what?"

"None of your pronouns are capitalized."

"Ah. Oh. Ah. I see..."

"Move your vehicle. I'll meet you at The For Things That Aren't Gods Parking Garage."

    --------

A couple hours later, my chariot was parked in The For Things That Aren't Gods Parking Garage. Giraffe had to bend his neck where it meets his torso, and then twist it around like a corkscrew so that he could both fit in the building and still be able to see where we were going.

Because my animal-parade-car took up nineteen parking spots, I was given nineteen tickets to pay for when it was time to go. I made a mental note to destroy the parking garage if I ever got my god powers back.

I walked outside to meet up with the burly man and his flying unicorn. He offered his hand. I took it, and He flung me up onto the back of His strange creature.

"HYAH!" He bellowed while working the reins.

As we ascended, I got a good view of all the new creation. Yesterday's lake was finished. It was surrounded by trees, grass, flowers, and a city. I guess the city was the big thing I saw extending all the way to, and even up, the mountain. There were buildings everywhere. Some were crystalline, while others were immaculate, white stone and marble. There were columns, colossal statues, fountains, and even more parking garages. I didn't recognize any of the people after whom the statues were fashioned.

This wasn't my world.

"So who are You?" I asked my driver.

"I am Massif, God of Security."

"Wait... you're a god?"

"No - I'm a God. Capital 'G'."

"Sorry."

Awkward silence.

"I really like Your flying unicorn."

"He's not a possession."

"What?"

"He's not My unicorn. He has a name."

"I don't want to complain, but if You could give me information without talking around the subject in an authoritative and condescending way, I'd be all kinds of grateful."

Awkward silence.

"What's Your unicorn's name?"

"He's not My unicorn."

"Oh, bloody he-... Sorry. What is his name?"

"His name is Serge. He's My guardian angel."

"I though You said he's not Yours."

Awkward silence.

"Where are we going?"

"I am taking you to Pantheon Tower."

"You say that like I should know what it is."

"You're an irritating little transvestite of a former god. Do you know that? If you don't shut up, I'm going to pull this guardian angel over and stomp you."

"Right. Understood. Carry on."

"I said shut up."

I shut up.

    --------

 Massif had flown Glop and me to a tower that shot straight up out of the center of the city into the sky. It was thousands of feet high.

There were no stairs or elevators or escalators to carry people from the bottom of the tower to the top. There weren't even cracks in the construction an ambitious commoner could use to scale the tower. There was no way up without airborne transportation.

"Do you like our little tower?"

I turned around to see a wrinkled little sprout of a very old and very gray man.

"Yeah. It's Ok. I guess," I said, and then, not wanting to appear too impressed, added, "For a tower."

"We're quite fond of it ourselves. It was carved from one enormous piece of ivory. The elephant from which we took the tusk was so large that it had to be created in Earth orbit. We created engineers who designed the process for harvesting the tusk. When the tusk was ripe, we used one of our orbital laser defense satellites to sever it from its owner. The timing had to be perfect; cut at the right time and in the right way, the tusk tumbled to Earth, and, after a series of aerial somersaults that scared the stuffing out of everybody, it landed just where it is now, just as it is. We did that this morning."

Showoff.

"After that, we transported a few slaves up to carve the halls and corridors and pools and all the other features of Pantheon Tower. They finished only a short while before we saw you arrive in your... thing."

"Well... that's the best story about tower erection I've ever heard. This is all new to me. When I went home last night, there was a lake here and some angry protesters, and, oh yeah, I was still a god. So, forgive me if I'm a little overwhelmed. Out of curiosity, where are the slaves? Along with most everything else I've seen, they didn't exist yesterday."

"You mean the slaves who shaped this beautiful tower?"

"Yeah. Any of them around?"

"No. We pushed all of them off one of the lower decks during lunch for light entertainment."

"Um. Wow. I'm ill."

"And I'm Onions, The God of Justice. Come with Me..."

     --------

Onions, The God of Justice, led me into a chamber deep within Pantheon Tower. Massif, The God of Security, and Serge, the flying unicorn guardian angel, followed behind.

The room was circular. Three benches stretched around the perimeter of the room, with three gaps at equal intervals to provide unobstructed access to three doors. The benches were laid out concentrically and in the style of stadium seating. In the center was empty marble floor, large enough to accommodate, perhaps, three or four standing men comfortably. Light entered the room through a circular window above.

Onions walked over to one of the benches and sat down. I headed in His direction, thinking I'd sit next to Him during this whatever-it-was, but Massif wrapped His burly hand around my throat, lifted me up, and plunked me down in the center of the room. He then backed off to hang out by one of the doors with that unicorn friend of His.

Before I had a chance to ask Onions what was going on, the room filled with a procession of Gods from all three doors. They came in all shapes and sizes. Light, dark, tannish, muscular, frail, young, old, clean, greasy... it was all there. All the colors of the godbow.

They seated themselves, and then... nothing. They just sat there.

"Hi," I said, "How are you guys?"

The sound of bugles and trumpets filled the room. I turned around and saw the reason the others were waiting.

It was sandwich. Perched on a little golden throne, sandwich was being carried into the room by what I guessed were a couple slaves. They were migrant workers from the day before.

I was a little miffed that, from what I had pieced together, sandwich had converted our workforce into slaves, built a city, somehow robbed me of my god powers, deposed me, somehow acquired god powers, created a civilization, created polytheism, created flying unicorns, and probably did it all before I had even set off the bidet bomb back at Home.

Still, I wanted to be friendly about it. No need for any hard feelings, as long as somebody could provide a satisfactory explanation for this clusterfuck nightmare of a how-do-you-do perpetrated by an opportunistic backstabbing duplicitous sandwich.

"Hey, there, sandwich! You didn't come home last night."

sandwich's slaves were carrying the throne in my direction while the royal entourage moved up to flank the little tyrant. None of them showed any sign of stopping, which is probably why one of sandwich's goons shoved me out of the way.

It was all rather messy. The parade came to a halt and occupied about two-thirds of the floor where I was standing. I was pushed back until my buttocks were about two inches in front of one of the nose of one of the Gods sitting on the innermost bench. That was my only victory of the day.

One of the slaves carrying sandwich's throne lay down at my feet, lengthwise. The day had been strange already, but having a migrant worker turned slave lay down so that his body was perpendicular to my feet made me wonder if I had invented peyote the night before. It would have explained everything.

The slave who was still standing placed a purple velvet pillow on the tummy of the slave on the ground, and then brought sandwich's throne down to rest on the pillow. Next, he placed a little crown on sandwich and handed sandwich a little golden scepter. There was something so cute about it all that you could almost forget that sandwich was such a bastard.

The rest of the attendants arranged themselves around sandwich in a way that seemed one part protocol and one part compromise for lack of space. They looked like the messy jam of hammers caused by slamming down on a dozen typewriter keys simultaneously. It was terrifying. These people were nuts and they were in control. I thought, God help us, but then I remembered that God was a very bad sandwich, and I knew... I knew that the only hope this world had was a deposed god dressed in drag with vomit on his face, a hangover, Glop in a papoose on his back, and his vehicle, a chariot that was literally fueled by adrenaline.

Ok. That was terrifying, too.

"Aright, sandwich. You got my attention with Your little tower and Your little army and Your little scepter. Now tell me what's-"

I was interrupted by a soft spoken bespectacled man dressed business-casual.

"Uh, yeah. Hi. Look, I know you have a lot of questions, but please don't speak directly to sandwich. God of Gods and all that. I'm sure you understand, being an overthrown former God of Gods yourself."

I blinked. There was no other suitable response.

"So, we're going to get started here, then. Whatever you'd like to say to sandwich, you can just say to Me. My name is Rug, and I'm The God of PR."

"That's fantastic. It's really nice to meet You, Rug. It just so happens that I do have some questions-"

"Wait... uh... hang on a sec. I wrote it down... here. Ok, yeah. I put together a schedule - a last minute sort of thing - for this meeting, and I'm afraid there just isn't any time set aside for you to ask questions. I'm really sorry about that. However, I have something similar lined up here that should be right up your alley. The whole rest of the day has been marked 'Interrogation and Trial of Prisoner'. There should be some question asking in there, although I can't promise you'll get to ask any of them."

"Prisoner?!"

"See, now, that's an example of the kind of behavior that's only going to hold things up. I said there was no time for your questions, and I meant it. I don't mean to be rude, but I did explain everything clearly. Now, let's move on to the first order of business for the day. God of Justice?"

Onions, The God of Justice stepped forward.

"Hello, again. I want you to know that we all understand that you're anxious to move through this as quickly as possible, hopefully ending soon enough that we won't have to push back tomorrow's execution. To expedite the process, we've already determined you're guilty, but there's some paperwork to do and some formalities that must be observed. The pomp and ritual might seem unnecessary to someone like you, but it is things like this that make us civilized."

Execution?

"We're still going to give you a trial, but it's mainly for show. We just need some record of proceedings. And, hey - we might even uncover something along the way to prove your innocence!"

The entire chamber erupted in laughter.

"But enough from me. I'm going to turn this over to our interrogator. He's a good, honest God."

The room went up in laughter again. Onions wiped tears of mirth from his cheek.

"Oh... oh... hoo-boy. Oh, that's good. Whoah - I almost forgot. You don't even know what you're being charged with. I'm sorry - that's totally my fault. So... you ready?"

I wasn't sure what I was at this point.

"You, Rory, sometime God of Gods, are being charged with... CORRUPTION!"

Hoots and hollers filled the room. Fists pumped the air, fingers pointed at me, and a few of the Gods held their index fingers and thumbs up to their foreheads to form a sort of "L" thing. I didn't know what that meant, but It probably wasn't "L" for "Awesome!"

The room went quiet; reverent.

Off to the side, the crowd parted to let someone through. He was tall, had a full head of hair, was wearing a sharp suit, and carried what looked like a few printed pages in his right hand.

He approached me on the floor. His eyes turned down to meet mine. His gaze was powerful, and there was something about it that even had me thinking there might be something to the claim against me - that I might actually be guilty.

The sun was beginning to set outside, and it painted the white marble room that shade of orange that only comes with sunsets, reminding you that something is coming to an end.

Every eye in the chamber was directed at this man. Every ear waited. The Gods and attendants attached to these eyes and ears were still.

This was it. I felt it.

He would speak.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

I couldn't even respond. I managed to shake my head a little.

"No? Well, then I have something to tell you."

I tried to stop my heart so I could just drop dead.

"My name is Chris Hansen, from Dateline NBC. I'm The God of Interrogation, and I'm specializing right now in catching gods who have tried to use their powers for evil."

I thought the chamber was full, but four cameramen managed to squeeze into the room, training their sights on me.

My mind was chasing its own tail. I didn't know how to respond. Something about Chris Hansen weakened my whole being. I sounded like an idiot out there:

"Oh, no... oh, no... please don't record this. Oh, this is horrible... don't record this, Ok?"

"I'm sorry, Rory, but these cameras have to be here for the court record. I can't do anything about that."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Well, that's not up to me, Rory. Onions is going to have the final say about that. I'm just here to ask you a few questions."

"I didn't do anything. I swear."

"Well, that's not what it says here. I have a printout of all the supporting details of the accusation made against you."

How did He do this? It's like He gave off a mind-control pheromone.

"Tell me, Rory - where were you last night?"

"Um. I don't know. Uh. At Home?"

"Are you asking Me where you were last night, Rory? Because that's not going to look too good."

"No. I mean... yes. Wait - er. No. I was at Home."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you lying to me, Rory?"

"No, sir. It's the honest truth. I was at Home."

Chris Hansen, The God of Interrogation, squinted at the printout He was holding, and then furrowed His brow to show that He was about to do something that would hurt Him terribly, but that he did because it was His moral duty.

"Did you have anything to drink last night, Rory?"

"A little brandy. Maybe. Yes, sir. I did."

"Uh-huh. And do you remember what you did afterward?"

"Sir, yes. I threw up on my rug and then slept in it."

"Uh-huh. You didn't do anything else?"

"No, sir. I'm telling You the truth. Am I going to be in trouble?"

"So, you say you didn't do anything else. Tell me this, Rory - do you remember dressing up as a woman and going out last night?"

"No, sir. I would have known if I had did that. I promise."

"I want to believe you, Rory, but have you looked in a mirror today? Did you know you're dressed like a whore who takes coupons?"

My heart was pounding like the downstairs neighbor of a family of tap dancers. Amid the confusion, I had forgotten about my appearance, so I didn't think to mention it. There was no way to answer this question without incriminating myself. If I said that, yes, I knew I was dressed like a whore who takes coupons, it would imply that I had lied. If I said no, then it would imply that I had gone out and done a few things here and there that I didn't remember.

I took a third option that He wouldn't expect.

"Thank you." 

Chris Hansen, The God of Interrogation, looked at me as though I was a degenerate pig, which, I must admit, was probably appropriate, as my lipstick was smeared something awful.

"Rory, among your activities on the evening of the third day of creation, do you remember leaving Home at all?"

"No, sir. I do not."

Again, Chris Hansen, The God of Interrogation, look pained. Just or not, you had to admire is self-righteousness.

Chris Hansen walked to a window and waved me over.

"Rory, come over here."

"Can I just stay here? I don't feel good."

"Come here, Rory. Come right over here."

"Sir... I'm feeling sick to my stomach."

"Right over here, Rory. Come right over here. Take a spot next to me here at the window."

I was going to protest again, but, without even realizing it, I had already walked to the spot Chris Hansen was pointing at.

I'm telling you - mind control.

"Take a look out this window, Rory, and tell me what you see."

"Look out of this window?"

"Yeah, this window right here. Tell me what you see."

I looked.

"Um... a big thing."

"Look closer."

"Ok... it's a big huge thing, and it's a rectangle. It's a big, huge rectangle."

"Yeah, Rory, now, I know the sun's setting out there and it's going to be hard to see, but what can you make out on the surface of that big, huge rectangle?"

"Well... it's a picture, I think. There's a guy, and there's something coming out of his pants. Next to the guy, kind of on the ground, is a little square. Oh, I see - the guy's peeing on something."

"Uh-huh. On what, Rory? On what?"

"It's really hard to see. Is that... Is that sandwich? Is this a drawing of some guy peeing on sandwich?"

"You tell me."

"Wha...?"

"You tell me, Rory. Is that a drawing of a man peeing on sandwich? And who is that man, Rory? You want to tell me who that man is?"

"How should I know? It could be anybody. Look, I think it's terrible what happened, but I can't he-"

"Take a closer look, Rory. Along the bottom. There's something written in addition to the drawing. Would you read that to me, please? Out loud?"

"I'll try, but it's pretty far away. Um... I see an 'R'... uh, ha ha, that's a funny coincidence... ok, and I see... uh-oh."

"'Uh-oh', Rory? What does that mean? What is 'Uh-oh'?"

"I must've squinted better or something, sir, because, sir, I saw the writing, but I don't see how it could be me, sir, because-"

"Just read it to me, Rory."

Sigh.

"Sir, I believe it says, 'YOU DIDN'T COME HOME SCREW YOU SANDWICH THIS PAINTING WAS MADE AT 11:45 PM ON THE EVENING OF THE THIRD DAY OF CREATION AND IT WAS DRAWN BY ME, RORY, YOUR GOD I HOPE YOU DIE ENJOY THIS PICTURE OF ME URINATING ON YOU I BET YOUR BREAD WILL STINK FOR A LONG TIME AFTER BYE I HATE YOU.'"

"Yes. That's what our analysts found as well."

"Sir..."

"I'm going to be honest with you, Rory. This doesn't look good."

"Is there any way I can get a second chance, sir?"

"Just like I've been telling you, that's not up to Me. Now, walk on back to Onions, The God of Justice to hear the verdict."

"Can't I just stay here, sir? I don't want to go..."

"No, Rory. Onions is waiting for you."

I broke eye-contact with Chris Hansen and looked back toward the center of the room. Onions was looking at me, but it was a sorrowful gaze. He knew I would eventually come to him. I had nowhere to run. There was no escape.

He could be patient.

I didn't know what to do. Chris Hansen was staring at me. Onions was waiting for me. The sun was going down, bringing my execution that much closer. sandwich was sandwiching at me. Attendants were tired and slouching, giving me the get-it-over-with-so-we-can-go-home look.

I had been found guilty of something I didn't even know was a crime by a corrupt pantheon of scumbag Gods.

All I wanted to do was make a few lakes and paint a few trees.

Everything suddenly seemed distant. The room was warped, my ears were ringing, and with all of that going on, I hadn't noticed that my legs had given out, and that I'd fallen down, landing right on my chin.

Before the world shrank to a pinhole and vanished, I was just able to make out a look of disappointment on Chris Hansen's face.

I made a mental note to have the bastard tarred and feathered if I ever got my god powers back.

Then everything was gone.

    --------

Waking up was tremendously disorienting. Every part of me was in pain. I could feel where blood was caked on the side of my face opposite the side covered in vomit. Moving was punishment, though I inched my way toward a hazy light.

My vision began to sharpen, and that's when the city below resolved itself. While I couldn't be certain, it looked like I had been placed inside a small cage lined with iron bars that was suspended over the city from one of the tower's observation decks. It was one of those probably-not-going-to-be-able-to-escape situations.

I was ready to give up. Maybe there would be a fun party before the execution.

Things could be worse.

It was quite the day. I woke up in vomit, found myself in drag, burned down Home, saved Glop, found a city where there hadn't been one the day before, got roughed up by Massif and His flying unicorn, was captured, humiliated, admitted, processed, tried, judged, and imprisoned awaiting execution.

I also had nineteen parking tickets that needed to be validated.

I searched my mind for one good thing to have happened that day.

Nothing.

Then I felt something... a little thing in the palm of my left hand. I had no idea how long it had been there, or how it got to be there at all.

Given how things had been going, I expected to find Chris Hansen ready to pop out of my hand, but it wasn't Chris Hansen.

It was a miniscule bit of paper with a few words written across.

All it said was:

    Help is on the way.

That, I decided, was how I wanted to end the fourth day of creation.

I laid back and enjoyed the breeze until, for the first time in forty-eight hours, I fell asleep naturally.