On that chair that felt of mahogany and smelled of pine, Ives drooled as he gazed into the open world. He approached the number ten thousand in his mental counting game and wondered how much more he could take. Fortunately, he was very skilled at being very unproductive.

The first day passed. As the moonless night approached (how he knew it was night, he could not explain), a mighty God crept up on him.

“Human,” the God roared.

“—Blyat!” Ives startled.

“Hmm? What…” the God paused with emphasis, “… did you just say?”

“Ah… Erm… Nothing. It means ‘welcome’ in my hometown,” Ives laughed nervously.

“Well…” the God scowled. “… I’m the one to say that.”

The mighty God—whose presence flowed like water and whose form phased between beautiful Biblical abomination and classic mythic caricature—commanded that Ives leave—now.

Of course, in doing so, Ives would have to leave the chair.

“No,” Ives said. He held firmly onto the edges of his chair, and his stomach protested his act of heavenly rebellion. Ives stayed put.

Zues—spelled intentionally wrong—threatened to smite him to the finest dust imaginable, blow out the candles of his life, blot out all memory of his existence from the film of reality. Ives escaped to the confines of his mind and continued his counting game, doing his best to ignore the noise.

Then, Ives resumed his mental flow. Threat after threat seemed to distract Ives momentarily. Zues gave up and exited.

It was only Ives. Alone. Again.