The dead god’s carcass is huge beyond measure, glittering trails of frozen blood leaking from ancient wounds where asteroids have punched holes in its flesh. Here, isolated from the terrible void of space, deep within the rotting cathedral of its monstrous rib cage, is where I have made my home. It’s fine. The schools are good. Traffic often gets snarled up on my way to work, but that’s mostly because my commute happens to pass through the dead god’s intestines. A team of flesh moles is currently chewing out a bypass. It’s something to look forward to. On fine evenings my wife and I go out walking through the crystalline forests of the dead god’s unibrow, holding hands and watching comets twinkle against the void. Sometimes there are other gods drifting around up there. This is a problem, because if a living god ever gets close enough to notice that our god is dead, the living god will probably come over and try to eat it. On those nights I kiss my wife goodbye and rush down to the command center, where my team is already springing into action at their switchboards and steam pumps. A complex system of levels and pulleys hoist our god’s lifeless fingers into one of the hand signals gods use to communicate with each other. Through the telescope I see the living god begin to back off. My team whoops. High fives are exchanged. We managed to get everything into position in less than five minutes this time, a new record. Outside in the darkness, the dead god’s cyclopean middle finger stands tall against the stars. Down the black depths of its slowly decaying body, my shift supervisor pops the champagne.
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