In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
The earth was without form and void,
and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And that darkness resurrected when a dense and static ball of organs
Began to roll like tumble weed down the curvature
and left behind it a moist trail of mucus-like excretion,
which smelled horrifically and sheened obscenely.
And God saw that this order was nauseating.
And God felt pity at the hand of his flawed formula.
And God defied its unnameability
to denounce this horror he now called Charles.
And God said, "Let there be sanctity," as he hammered
his fists and let Charles be gnawed by the rodents that followed
her sticky trail. And God sent down lightning
to strike the 1000-year-old oaks that surrounded this
disgusting thing he called Charles, and prayed to
his own portly hands that one branch may flatten her
and send her tainted components in every direction.
And God called this "justice." And God called this "right."
And then there was evening and there was morning,
a second day.
And God said, "Let her become square so that her
mobility may be no longer. Let her station for the span of time,
and let my will decompose her rigid corners, revolting
edges and sickening flats." God called this, "Something
went very wrong," for instead, Charles grew arms and legs
and only received very easily treatable appendicitis,
which God decreed, "Enough for now,"
and then there was evening and there was morning,
a third day.
And God said, "Enough is never enough!" as he peered from the
cloud tops into the crown of her skull. His paranoia was increasing.
He had installed a series of industrial surveillance equipment. He turned over
onto his pillow under which lay a dagger, so that even during
the most surprising of attacks, he might chance to slay the creature
he so regretfully devised. His gut grumbled. His palms excreted.
He fell asleep. And then there was evening and there was morning, eternity.
"I used to be so good," God said.
"It happens," Angel #7638921872 said.