'The heavens and Earth are mingling
God oh God, what have we done?
Even the forest beasts cry out
Under the forgotten sun.'
Walter Tinsdale gazed across the gray expanse of land. Upstate New York was not the green pastures of Mars or the tropical beaches of Venus. Only squirrels lived in this desolate wasteland and they scurried about searching for food nowhere to be found in this parched place. He smiled at one as it timidly approached hoping that he had brought something to eat.
'Squirrel' was Walter's word for cockroach. Of course he had never seen a real life squirrel and only knew of them from 300-year-old nature films. None the less 'squirrel' was a much nicer name for these lively little things than 'roach.'
He watched as several 'squirreled' around before being sucked away by a small whirlwind of methane. He stepped back: Those whirlwinds were an annoyance. He had spent 20 minutes twirling around in one before. This time he had his jet-pack on over his silver astronaut suit so that he could surely navigate out of any of harm's way. He wasn't going to make that mistake again and be left in the middle of nowhere where he'd have to page a taxi droid for a lift back to the dome.
Now it started raining. Slow at first but he could tell it would soon become a torrential downpour. It wasn't raining rain drops, mind you: It was cans of tuna again. Walter sighed realizing the hover-bots would have a day's work ahead of them picking up all of PriceNice's wayward cargo.
It had long been ascertained that the safest and most efficient way to travel through outer space was by cannon. This applied to both humans and the PriceNice Corporation's products and produce. Everything that came to Earth from the Moon, Mars, or Venus was fired through a giant muzzle. And PriceNice wasn't always too careful aiming the cans of tuna. People, pistachio nuts, or corduroy suits had to be aimed just right to enter the earth's atmosphere by way of the huge funnel that was built towering above the clouds to catch everything shot this way. The tuna had missed the target and haplessly slid off to become rain: A common occurance.
He heard a voice that he wasn't expecting and grimaced because he hated being snuck up on: "Hey Walter, why don't you take off that space suit and join me for a cup of coffee?"
He sighed as he recognized the figure but approached as he liked coffee.
It was God.
The thing that most people don't realize about God is that He never manifests Himself as a burning bush or a huge white-haired man in a robe; instead He looks a lot like Groucho Marx. On that day, meeting Walter, He was even smoking the same brand of cigars.
Walter usually didn't mind God all that much. Most of the time. But, sometimes he found Him mildly annoying. It was nice that He made it possible for him to take off his suit and breathe the what would otherwise be toxic air. It was also nice that he was now holding what God described as a, 'rich Columbian dark roast.' But recently He was being increasingly argumentative about stuff.
Lighting a cigar God said: "Im seriously thinking about doing it, Walter. I am probably and finally going to destroy the Earth.'
Walter sighed again and said, "Oh, not this for the hundredth time."