“God Meets a Junkie in a Manhattan Holding Cell” by Evan Retzer, page 2
After some time in the holding cell at the 5th Precinct, his hands had begun to shake subtly. This belied an acute anxiety that had sprung up in the amygdalae and now rocked full force through his cerebellum. He had sat in the same place for the greater portion of the night, shifting positions uncomfortably; he hadn't slept.
"Fuck, I need some crystal," God mumbled awkwardly.
I never know what to say to someone when they're like this.
"I wish I could help you," I admitted. "I have my own problems—shit—another couple of hours in this pen, and the dope comedown will start setting up for a fiendish circus in my head. My back is going to hurt like hell. It's going to be a rough morning."
"Sometimes," conceded God through gritted teeth, "I don't know what I was thinking, creating all this. I mean, when it all began, I was aware of all the possible iterations, the potential compositions of reality allowed by the butterfly effect of free will—when I allowed free will to come into being, I was aware of its implications—I foresaw this possibly reality, and still I did nothing to stop it. How could I, really? The beauty of a spider's web is in its ability to weave itself into any pattern given to the spider's subconscious by the free, unrestricted firing of its neurons."
I opened my mouth involuntarily. "Are you referring to the collective processes of human consciousness as—"
"A s-spider's web, yes," God stuttered, with a glare that asked Really—Is the metaphor too much for you?
A schizophrenic meth head with a deity complex. I hope someone remembers me and posts my bail before he ends up trying to plague me with locusts or something.
"Give human compassion a chance, I thought. I suppose I was blinded by admiration for my own creation. It takes an impartial critic, sometimes, to tell you when your creation stinks. I'll have to go back to the beginning and rework it."
"You're just bitter because they've got you locked up in the drunk tank and probably took your stash," I told him.
"They're going to miss me over at the meat market. My shift was noon to seven today—with this luck I'll probably lose my fucking job. You people don't deserve the reality I've given you. Flawed as it is. Ye have kindled a fire in my anger, which shall burn forever. You're in my head, you know. I could blink my eyes and you'd all disappear."
"Why don't you then?" I asked him sardonically.
"It would throw off the balance of things," God replied, rubbing his forehead. "It takes some amount of work to reorder the cosmos after randomly removing integral pieces of it. Could take, maybe, a week. You think I have the free time for an endeavor like that? I have to cut and bag meat."
I told him that he didn't have to be so angry about it. But he was angry anyway, and this moment of clearheadedness lapsed as the effects of meth withdrawal hit him again in full force. He began another of his rants on the sinful and confused nature of American society—unfortunately, this time his speech dissolved into a mumbling glossolalia. He quieted down, awkwardly.
God and I were the only two awake in the holding cell. And I couldn't understand a damn word he was saying.