Death of the Reprobate

Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested.

“Did you have a nice week?” asked Mrs God.

“No.” Replied God. “I have birthed another pitifully substandard world. Destined, no doubt, to spiral over millennia into a violent capitalist nightmare, just like all the rest of them.”

“Never mind,” said Mrs God. “Chicken pie for dinner!” ...