Good enough, I suppose. Size D, roughly. But a lot of it is fat, deceptive. Okay, it’s okay, this is okay. God didn’t say anything. How do you wanna do this, I ask her. You come over, I blow you, you leave, she says. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, I say. I close the computer and head out. My car is cold and I need gas. Fuck, I’m not really doing this. It’s three A.M. I’ll just drive to the burger joint instead. I don’t.
I pull right into the gas station and start filling up. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not really doing this. Look at that guy smoking a cigarette over there by the big rig. He has a job. How the fuck could anyone do this in a world where people have jobs? He does things, not this. He moves the world, what do I do? He belongs to me.
No one does this. No one but politicians and priests. Maybe they’ll put me on the news. Maybe I’ll be disowned by my family. Maybe I’ll kill her. I’m god. My car fills and I leave. What’s the coolest way to die? Starting a fight with more crocodiles than you know you can defeat. That’s a good one. Driving a 64 mustang into the grand canyon, pounding back bourbon and firing off a six-shooter. Not bad, not bad.
The directions she gave me navigate me through the woods off the main road. Through it, a beacon of Rome; a shit-brick colored apartment complex. I beam blankly at the window as the light flicks on and off. She had told me to come to the back. I reach to knock, the main door opens before I can. A garbage bag covers the entry.
It breathes heavily. God, does it breathe heavily. Like it’s angry, like it’s gonna eat me. It must have heard me thinking. It pops its finger through a hole around the waist and wiggles it around. I reach out to wrap my finger around it. I embrace it and stroke it with my thumb like it’s my own daughter’s. It withdraws, frustrated. It returns and authoritatively points then retreats. No way, it’s probably waiting with a nail gun. I’m just a number to it.
“You want me to slide it in there?”
It smashes something and breathes heavier. Grunting. The finger reappears, grabs me, leaves. I’ll die. Someday. I’ll do it, fuck it.
“No.”
The door slams shut. I smoke a cigarette beside my car before I get back in. I gaze at the window, I know it’s staring back at me. Maybe it’s Grendel. I don’t know a lot. That finger, Christ of all fucks, that finger. Like the scaly nape of a python. But chunkier. I get into my car and start driving west.
-Graham Cohen
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