So I killed God the other day. I stepped out the door, and wham, next thing I know, God's dead. Blood is oozing down the trees, statues of Christ are crying, the world just seems to be going to shit faster than usual. So I get in my car, the '95 Ninety-Eight, car of confused time, and race back down to 2000 Street and ask the man in charge why the world didn't go thermonuclear then. He just gave one of those smiles that tells me maybe he knows, or maybe he just wants to die smiling. Or maybe, being of no help, perhaps he'd just like to smile in the face of death.
So I'm racing back up to Zero Four, the year of the whore, and get nailed doing 669,600,000 MPH in a 25 MPH Zone, instantly earning me more points on my license than you'd need in an arcade to buy a home theater system with 9.2 surround sound and a 41' plasma screen. Interrupted by a 711 call, the writing of my summons was cut short and reduced to a mere week's worth of driving mentally handicapped children around Orlando. Unintimidated by the giant wank that is Florida, yet in no rush to arrive (or earn another ticket), I flew down on a nice Learjet piloted by a French man with a Norwegian accent. The in flight movie was "The Matrix: Reloaded", an inadequate sequel trapped and lost between beginning and conclusion, lost somewhere in the same liminality as the airplane - which is the perfect metaphor for the situation.
And as I fly overhead, over my town, over my house, over my car, I see myself walking out the door, and see the confusion in my face as no blood oozes down from above. And God, hurtling around the Earth, more confused than ever, contemplates how he had not quite yet, died, because it was the past, and the certainty of his own death, that had brought him there to live.