Adam stared blankly at the computer screen. It was nearly noon and he hadn’t made it through even half of the morning spreadsheet. Thursdays were the worst.

  Mondays, everyone was resigned to their fate. Tuesdays, well you were just happy it wasn’t Monday. Wednesday was halfway through. But Thursday… Thursday was Friday's bastard little brother, teasing you while keeping the weekend just out of reach.

  Fuck Thursdays, Adam thought, standing to stretch.

  His cubicle sat right near the exterior wall. A set of large-paned windows let in just enough light to offset the recessed fluorescents in the ceiling. Beyond the glass stretched the parking lot and a single manicured tree. Even that depressing view was enticing compared to the sterile office.

  From the next row over, he could hear a coworker explaining some process for what sounded like the millionth time. “No, we have not received the documentation as of yet, sir. We cannot look into the problem further until we have the documentation in hand for review.”

  The disembodied voice continued to drone on in a bored monotone.

  Ahh yes, bureaucracy, Adam thought.

  He stretched right, then left, his spine popping with a satisfying crunch. A few more hours and he'd be at the batting cages, blowing off some much-needed steam.

  As a kid Adam had loved baseball. He loved the field, the sun, the smell of the grass, and most of all, swinging the bat as hard as he could. Unfortunately, you weren't always supposed to swing. But Adam couldn't help it. He imagined every pitch looked like a monster charging at him and he had to cut it down.

  Chop. Chop. Chop. Then back to the dugout to wait for another monster. He rarely hit anything, but that wasn't the point. It just felt good to swing.

  Stephen, from the cubicle next to his, stood up and pantomimed a yapping motion with his hands, aimed in the direction of the bored voice. Adam cracked a grin and rolled his eyes.

  Stephen popped a finger gun into his mouth and mimed painting the off-white ceiling with his imaginary brains.

  “If I have to explain why they need to submit paperwork one more time, I swear to God, Adam, I’m going to kill myself,” Stephen said flatly.

  Adam laughed in spite of himself. If HR heard the comment or his laughter, he'd be facing a stern email, a visit from the dreaded Cassandra, or mandatory sensitivity training. If they were really bored, it'd be all three.

  “It’s not that bad. Just think, only thirty more years of this and then we can retire.”

  “I won't live that long if I have to listen to this shit for another three decades,” Stephen said before flopping back into his chair.

  Adam liked Stephen. He was a few years older than him at thirty-five, but still just a big kid. He knew his stuff and actually cared about his clients, no matter how much he complained or joked.

  Good dude. Adam was glad they worked together.

  He leaned over the cubicle wall.

  “You want to hit the batting cages tonight? We can grab a few beers, and you can pretend the ball is your phone if that helps.”

  Stephen chuckled but shook his head. “I can’t tonight. Jessica's mom is coming over. Probably going to be another 'why don't I have grandchildren yet?' dinner. I’m planning on waiting until she has her mouth full before hitting her with the news.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Adam frowned for half a second before the realization dawned. “Is she?”

  Stephen nodded, breaking into an ear-to-ear grin. “Yep. Three months! We were waiting to be sure before we said anything."

  Adam knew they had been trying for the last two years without success. He wasn’t much for children himself, but he was happy for them. He and Stephen weren’t the best of friends, just work buddies mostly, with the occasional dinner or drinks, but he genuinely liked the guy. He thought he'd make a great dad.

  “That’s awesome! I’m happy for you both,” Adam said smiling.

  “Oh, it was a real pleasure,” Stephen said lewdly, thrusting his hips.

  “And, you ruined it," Adam laughed. He locked his computer and started for the breakroom. "I'm going to grab some caffeine. Want anything?"

  “Sure. Grab me a soda. Something with enough sugar to put me in a diabetic coma.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. Stephen was naturally wiry and well over six foot while Adam was just shy of six feet and carried a bit of extra weight, seemingly no matter how much he exercised or how he ate.

  At the vending machine, he stared listlessly at the choices. Nothing looked good. He knew he wasn't hungry, just bored, and that's how office weight happened. You sit, you get bored, you snack, repeat.

  He punched in his usual chocolate and soda combo, then a second set of numbers for Stephen's drink.

  As the soda began descending on the mechanical arm, everything stopped.

  Or, more accurately, everything stopped. Adam froze in place, one hand outstretched toward the vending door, and his back slightly bent.

  He tried to blink. Breathe. Move. Straighten. Anything.

  Nothing responded. Not his limbs. Not his lungs. Not his eyes.

  Then he realized something else. He couldn't feel his heartbeat.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Am I having a heart attack?

  He started counting. When he reached 100 he dismissed the thought. If his heart had stopped, and he went that long without breathing, he'd be dead.

  Hello Humanity.

  Adam didn't so much hear the words as feel them, like a vibration deep in his bones, and buzzing through his nerves. He could taste them too. Taste them. That was new.

  On second thought, am I having a stroke? he wondered. That would explain a lot. Dying in front of the vending machine at work, mid-snack run. That would be a really lame way to go.

  I am The Creator. Or God. Or… whatever.

  Yep. Definitely a stroke, his inner voice added.

  I created the universe you inhabit, and after watching your species for the last million or so years, I’m bored. You’re boring me.

  You had some interesting things going on right around the time you split the atom, but now? Reality TV? The Kardashians? Pop Music? ANYTHING AFTER 2020? Really?

  Adam stared at the vending machine since his eyes wouldn't move. He hoped that if he ignored the voice long enough, it would stop.

  So, I have in my infinite and omnipotent wisdom, decided to make things more interesting! At the conclusion of this message, I’m making some Changes. All of the safety measures are being turned off. I’m blurring the dimensional barrier that segregates your reality from all of the other realities, and your natural limiters are being removed. Your potential will now be essentially limitless.

  I'm also doing that thing that all of your faith healers claim to be able to do. I'm healing the sick. All of you, all at once, everywhere. Cancer? Gone. Blindness, let there be light! Missing an arm? Well, let me give you a hand! Baldness? Well, you’re on your own for that one.

  You’re all as healthy as can be for what’s coming. [And, oh boy, is it going to be fun. Well, probably not for you, but it’s going to be hilarious for me.]

  Hmm, what else? OH. I removed some things around the end of the 13th century, but they're back on the table, because without them you’ll be fucked. And no one wants to be fucked. Well, no one wants to be THAT kind of fucked.

  You get it.

  And the goal of all this is… drumroll please.

  Adam smelled a drumroll. He wasn't sure how, but somehow his entire body agreed he was smelling a drumroll.

  You have to kill me to regain control of your reality! Is that possible? Yes! Is it likely? Hell no. There’s no way a single one of you shaved apes will ever manage it, but hey at least this way you have a chance.

  Good luck.

  Message concludes in 10… 9… 8…

  DISCLAIMER: Message has been translated 379,031,847,446 times locally.

  7… 6… 5…

  The Creator is every way responsible for this message and the content therein.

  4… 3… 2…

  Get fucked.

  1.