Edgar Sphynx shouted biblical death, the end of days, and the omnipotent wisdom of the toad. He spoke with conviction despite not having an audience. The shuffling passersby on the busy street corner paid him no mind. Not a soul stopped to listen. No one seemed to care, and yet, he yammered on without concern, assured and overconfident in his conviction.
“Hearken! Blessed children of toads! Hear these words. They speak not of salvation, but damnation. Damn-Nation. Blessed, God-Damn-Nation awaits this world of sinful attrition. Now is not the time to sit with indifference until we’re forced to choose a side. It’s time to join your brothers in God and fight for the kingdom of heaven. The toad of holy wisdom croaks the word of God. Ulphia, in her infinite wisdom, sends her flock from the Isle of Amien, to save all who listen to these words. The time of biblical death and end of days is at hand!”
A man walked up within a few feet of his pulpit. He looked Edgar in the eyes, spelunked deep within his esophagus and hocked a colossal wad of phlegm onto his shoe. Edgar stopped and stared into the spit upon his slick black loafer. Entranced by the massive loogie, he heard the voice of Ulphia, patron saint of toads, whispering in his ears of biblical plague… and Toad Jesus. Edgar looked up and the man was gone, amidst the endlessly shuffling crowd, he stood alone, with only the voices in his head to console him.
* * *
The walks home from the ‘pulpit hours’ felt longer, as his situation became more desperate. Nobody cared about the wisdom of the toad. His followers left in droves, and nobody was joining the ranks of ‘holy toad warriors’. Doubt crept into his mind. He wondered if he wasn't a man chosen by God… and, in fact, might be a deranged schizophrenic. The voices that led him to this place became less prophetical and more belligerent, as the line between prophet and madman drew thinner by the day.
He reached the sign for ‘The Isle of Amien’, with its caricature of a smiling toad looking down on him. He noticed someone spray-painted a big black penis between the toad's surprised eyes.
Brother David shuffled along with his wife and daughter, each with their bags in hand. They lowered their heads when they noticed him, as if to ignore him without a word in passing.
“Brother David, Sister Claudia… where are you headed at this hour?”
“Gone, Edgar. We’re gone from this place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Edgar, forgive me. I’ve believed in you for a long time. I held on for longer than I should because I loved you and your father. Now, I see the folly in my ways. I’m worried for you… for my family… we have to get out of here. We beg you, save yourself before this madness consumes you.”
“What happened to your faith? Where is your conviction?”
“Back there. In that rancid swamp, where you chose to bury our people.”
They left without another word. Sister Claudia spoke not, though he saw the anger and disgust in her eyes. More people followed behind them; the remnants of a congregation for which he cared for in ways he couldn’t express. He stood with a sullen grin, pulpit in hand, without a prophetic voice to console him. Last to leave was Constance, his future wife, packed and primed for her departure. Edgar stepped in front of her, took her wrists in his hands and fell to his knees.
“You can’t go.”
“Edgar, please… get help.”
“It’s here. Don’t you believe me?”
“No.”
“But why? What made you lose faith in me?”
“All that money… Edgar… you wasted your fortune on that godforsaken swamp!”
“It will get better. I promise. The patron saint of toads will-”
“Jesus Christ, no. No more, Edgar. I will not listen to more nonsensical toad ramblings. You need professional help. I love you more than my heart can say… and I want to be with you. I beg of you… give up this fantasy.”
Her hand touched his cheek. Constance lowered herself and gave him a kiss goodbye before she left him forever. The whispers fed on her words and the ripple of thought that followed spoke of toads falling from the sky. They spoke of comets dancing in the midnight air, and Frog Jesus’ arrival for the rapture. He watched Constance's shadow fade into the darkness. He crumpled beneath the sign of the toad with a penis between its eyes. He hoped for some words of comfort from the voices. Instead, he heard a solitary, nonsensical ribbit.
* * *
Edgar sat alone in his shack, within the blessed Isle of Amien, with not a soul in sight. He propped up his feet on the pulpit, as he eased his back into a wooden chair. He downed a shot of vodka, then refilled the glass and left it on the table. He stood up, stumbled, kicked the pulpit over, and went in anger to a portrait of ‘Toad Jesus’ on the other side of the room. Jesus in toad form looked out from the painting. He sat with one hand raised, two webbed fingers sticking out, with the other hand folded on his chest. A golden hue surrounded his green, reptilian flesh. Jesus stared with bulging white eyes and cancerous black pupils that saw all.
“I lost everything for you.”
He slammed his fist through the portrait. Blood leaked from Jesus’ swollen white eyes. Edgar wiped it away with his fingers and noticed the liquid seeping through the back of the portrait. He tore it from the wall, and saw the rancid mess collected in the moldy wood of his shack. Everything crumbling. Everything swollen and stained from this putrid swamp. He stumbled out of the shack and fell to his knees before the pond of Ulphia. A statue of the patron saint stood on a small island at the center of the pond. Faithful parishioners dressed the statue in jewelry and decorations long before they abandoned the isle.
“What more do you want from me?”
Edgar kicked off his shoes, removed his socks and walked into the pond, until the water was up to his armpits. He brought his hands together in prayer and lowered his head before the statue of Ulphia.
“Please, give me a sign.”
He stood in the cold pond, with his feet sinking into the muck. The soggy wood of his shack creaked and crumbled, then came crashing to the ground. The candle which should’ve died in the crash ignited the brittle frame and set his home ablaze. Flames mounted the deprecated ruins of his cabin. Shadows danced like gypsies atop its remains.
Edgar sank, as the flames created a wondrous show of lights against the surface of the water. He thought he might drown and end his suffering, when he saw a red light in the sky. A round red object stood above the flames. It moved not, stood within the dark sky of its own volition, and then split into three. The three red lights moved in a circle, but never broke from their triangular form. The three lights became one, but the size of the one never changed. It remained the same circular shape and then sped off across the water.
It stood out over the open water, not a mile away, and hovered in the sky. Edgar found a small paddleboat and pushed it into the water. The little boat could hardly move at the pace he desired, but the thing in the sky wasn’t going anywhere. It sat in the sky doing nothing in particular, beyond drawing his attention to the middle of the open water. The voices in his head spoke in unintelligible words that became warnings, and then a simple plea: ‘go back’.
“I’m through with you… ya hear me… not a word or a croak or a god damn false vision again, do you hear me?”
An immutable silence filled his mind, as he noticed the object hovering within a few feet of him. The ball of crimson light enveloped him in its radiant glow. He sweat, as a migraine made his head feel like it was about to explode. His eyes went wide, staring into the radiant ball, as a fresh wad of spit struck his forehead. He gasped, as the air escaping his lungs left a hollow pain in his chest. His eyes went white, then everything went black.
He awoke, sitting at a bar, with the bartender offering an unblinking stare.
“What’ll you have, buddy?” A black, fluffy mustache covered the bartender's upper lip.
“Vodka.”
Edgar burped, and almost vomited onto the bar. The bartender caught the stench and stepped back in disgust. He reached for a glass and filled it with vodka. Edgar looked around at the few people in the dilapidated establishment. The hour was late. The lights were off beside the ones above the bar. People sat with their heads leaned against the walls or lowered to the sticky tables. A man a few tables behind him snored himself awake, before slipping back into his coma.
“Where’s your restroom?”
The bartender pointed to a hallway on the other side of the bar. He walked until he saw a sign of an alligator wearing a suit and tie, along with a gentleman’s hat. Edgar walked into the restroom and reached the stall before vomiting into the toilet. Fire bubbled up from his guts, as he doubled over and vomited again. When he got up, he stumbled back and rested against the wall. He sank down the porcelain tiles, until he reached the ground, and stare at the graffiti on the opposite wall. He read aloud these words etched into the slimy brown metal, “Elon Musk Pees Upside Down”.
He looked again, and yes, that’s exactly how it read. He shook his head, laughing at the absurd declaration, and finally, he felt much better. Edgar got up and went back to the bar. His drink was ready. He thanked the bartender, downed it in one gulp, and asked for another.
“Say, did you spot that graffiti on the wall in there?”
“What graffiti?”
“You know… Elon Musk pees upside down?”
The bartender snickered, until his laughter overtook him and he smacked the countertop. His laugh was loud and out of control, as his furry hand came down hard on the table. He shook his head, even cried with amusement, as he poured Edgar’s drink. His laughter was loud and boisterous, before it stopped. Everything froze. The liquid pouring out of the bottle of vodka suspended like a frozen waterfall into the shot glass.
“Lovely night.”
A man raised his glass, from the seat right next to Edgar.
“Not a star in the sky. Ain’t that strange?”
Edgar looked to the frozen bartender. His eyes glistened with an enigmatic light, trapped within his icy stare, as if it wanted to break.
“Who are you?”
“Daclan O’Lara: Purveyor of oddities across the stars, Supplier of stones from beyond the sea, Instructor of seers from all corners of the universe. You’re a man of great vision, aren’t you… a man who sees further than most… a fortuitous prophet of frogs, if I’m not mistaken."
“Go on, make your jokes.”
Edgar took the half-filled glass and downed it in one swig. Daclan waved his finger and the glass refilled.
“I never jest. Most can’t understand the fortitude it takes to follow through on your vision. I’m sure even those closest to you refuse to comprehend the force of will it takes to act when it’s only you the universe has chosen. I must admit, even I can’t comprehend it all, but who, besides you, really could? Wasting your fortune on some toad sanctuary is an unreasonable folly to a sensible man. It’s not my vision or anyone else’s. It’s yours. So many who follow their vision end up like you: lost, defeated and left for dead in some piss-ditch mired in madness. Do you know what separates the ones who fail from the ones who succeed?”
“What?”
“Luck.”
“So, what? I’m un-lucky?”
“Far from it. My friend, you’re the luckiest man alive. You’re one good decision away from shattering the veil of madness.”
“And what decision might that be?”
“Being my friend.”
Edgar snickered. “I’ve not a friend left in the world, and some magician who sells stones is sidling up to me… is that my luck or what?”
Daclan raised his hand and everything on the counter spun into the air. All around the bar, silverware and mugs and napkins and place-mats all hovered in the musky air. Daclan moved his finger and a butter knife floated into Edgar's vision. It floated in front of him, before the blade stopped spinning, and shot like a dart into the bartender’s forehead.
“Neither magician nor salesmen of stones. I’m what lucky men need: a financier who provides the opportunities that allow you to succeed.”
“Is this where you ask for my soul?”
Daclan laughed. “What I need is to make you the man you wish to be. Do you wish to fester away in this filthy swamp or fulfill your prophecy of toads?”
Edgar finished his drink and Daclan made another appear out of thin air. The various utensils and place-mats crashed down to their respective tables. Edgar sank into the stool. The voices chided him along with biblical prophecy, of a comet in the sky, of a sign from god of end of days. He remembered the signs and visions that brought him to the middle of nowhere. He thought of his fortune and all he’d squandered, sinking into the swamp along with the remains of his cabin. All that waste from a simple vision, one solitary dream amidst a lost and senseless waste.
“The prophecy. My dreams. I wish for them all to come true.”
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“I’ll need that in stone.”
He awoke in a world of darkness, atop a tall peak amidst a starlit sky. A stone, etched in countless names, stuck out of the ground. Wind brought the howl of devils from the beckoning darkness beyond the peak. Their voices called for Edgar, cried out for him not to follow in their footsteps.
“Place your hand on the stone.”
Edgar did.
“Repeat after me: I, Edgar Sphynx, want my name written in stone and all my wishes fulfilled.”
Edgar repeated.
“Then, it is with great pleasure that I may grant your every wish and prophecy.”
Daclan placed his hand on the stone and where he touched illuminated in a crimson glow. Red cracks spread across the obelisk. The earth trembled beneath them, as the winds sped faster along the high peak. Daclan’s stare remained on Edgar, as the crimson light invaded his eyes. His vision sank within the crimson oblivion, until everything disappeared. He awoke, floating in Ulphia’s pond, barefoot, with the early morning sun rising in the distance. It’d hardly broken the horizon, when a gentle rain fell from the sky, amidst a downpour of toads.
Frogs fell from the sky. The rain baptized his sanctuary, amidst the croaking, leaping forms of his saviors. He stood in the pond, as the toads gathered and swam, bounded and croaked, as if this was all part of their routine. Edgar basked in the brisk torrent, as he noticed a red dot on the meaty flesh between his thumb and index finger. He turned to see some magnanimous scar on his palm, something akin to a dagger burned into his flesh.
“Ulphia!”
He cried, with a widening smile, raising his hands as he basked in the refreshing shower. The rain stopped, washed away within a silent gasp of wind. The silence that followed was unbearable, as even the frogs seemed embittered by the calm. They sat in silence around the statue of Ulphia. Some floated in the pond’s refreshing waters, while others piled onto one another in front of the statue.
Edgar fell to his knees and prayed.
* * *
It’d been hours since frogs rained down from the sky. Edgar had been hard at work, rebuilding his sanctuary. His was the only shack that’d fallen and burned the night before. He was in the middle of putting it back together, when he noticed several people walking in his direction.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Edgar?” A woman wearing a red bandanna over her head, as well as a cross made of fabric around her neck, asked.
Edgar nodded.
“We read about you on twitter… if it’s alright, we’d like to help your cause.”
“My cause?”
“Yeah, man… your cause.”
A man with bushy black hair and thick eyebrows placed his phone in front of Edgar. A trending topic on twitter read: #ElonMuskPeesUpsideDown. The account to which the tweet originated was, Daclan O’Lara. The man showed him more under the account. Edgar saw directions to his sanctuary, and a message that involved his prophecy. Under it all, he read thousands of likes, comments and retweets.
More visitors arrived at the sanctuary. A few of them brought various tools, lumber and equipment. They arrived singing, smiling, as they entered under the entryway of Saint Ulphia. All around him was the slow, sullen hum of several praying tourists, bowing with their faces to the ground.
“I’ll be damned.”
* * *
A lot more people arrived at his sanctuary. Hundreds of eager individuals went to work, constructing Edgar's toad dream. He needed a break and decided to head out into the water.
Edgar peddled out to the middle of the lake. He kept going, until he saw the other side, then kept on until he could see the bar. A seagull squawked above him and then shit on his forehead and shoulder. Frozen, for a moment, as the voices laughed inside him, he turned his attention to the other side of the lake. He peddled until he reached the bar, then pulled the boat onto shore. He went in and found the same stool from last night, unoccupied, and took a seat. An elderly woman served drinks behind the bar.
“What’ll it be, sport?”
“The gentleman from last night… the bartender… is he alright?”
“Sully? He’s fine! Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
The memory of Daclan O’Lara sending a butter knife through the bartender’s forehead felt all too real. He got up from his seat and went to the restroom. The writing on the wall in the disgusting bathroom stall was no longer there. He went back to the bar and saw an old man eating a basket of chili fries in his seat.
“Got ya good, didn’t he.”
“What?”
“You got bird shit all over you…”
“Ah yes… the little bastard got me good.”
“Eh, forget about it… they say its good luck!”
Edgar took a seat next to the man. Before they could say anything else, a ball of fire appeared on the television screen. The bartender turned up the volume on a television above the bar. A newscaster reported a comet within earth’s atmosphere. The ball of fire shot across the night sky on the other side of the planet. Its trajectory shifted, and it hooked and shot like a cannonball, crashing down to earth. In that moment, the ground trembled. He thought it impossible that he could feel the aftershock of such a phenomenon so soon after impact.
The camera focused on a wall of ash rising above the devastation, as it became a wave rushing in their direction. The terrified spectators ran for their lives. The sound cut out amidst their screams, then the camera, until it all went black. Everyone at the bar sat in silence, in an eerie comprehension of what they'd witnessed. The loss was incalculable. Homes and cities and thousands upon thousands of people gone in a flash.
“What a terrible, preventable disaster.”
The old man next to him sucked down a chili fry, his head bowed in reverence to their greasiness.
“How does one prevent a comet?” Edgar asked.
“Well, for starters… don’t let women vote!” He raised a chili fry to make his point, before tossing it into his open maw. “Can’t piss all over God’s law and not expect any consequences. And, while we’re at it… well… ain’t there no one around who will do something to stop all the gays?”
“Stop them from what?”
“You know, just stop them!”
* * *
Edgar went back to his paddleboat and peddled out to the middle of the lake. He sat and wondered if a trail of cloud hanging in the air was not the ash of the comet poisoning their atmosphere. The moon stood brightest among the stars, which were few in the early night sky.
“Wave’s comin’, son.”
Edgar leapt in his seat. The boat rocked and he almost fell overboard. He managed to keep from falling, when he realized the person next to him was his father.
“Not one ripple spares the wave. Thousands upon thousands recoil in agony, when one desperate man makes a deal with the devil.”
“He’s not the devil.” Edgar shot back.
“Devil in the flesh. Devil in the eyes. Devil in your desperate gaze. Tell me, son. Did you really believe that Toad-Jesus was coming for the rapture?”
“With all my heart… I believed what the voices told me.”
“Don’t blame any voices. Blame your actions. I doubt the voices told you to sell your soul for a few fancy words of biblical death and end of days.”
“All those people… I didn’t know-“
“The ripple is coming, son. Do you think thousands of people can die without any justice? A redemptive wave rises from across the continent. You gave that creature power to invade our world. Now, he won’t leave, until the balance is restored.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, dad, please don’t speak in riddles.”
Edgar turned and his father was gone.
* * *
He paddled until he saw what was once the Isle of Amien and stared in confusion when he saw an aluminum dock and a beach. People laid out on towels, sunbathing alongside the silent and stoic toads. As Edgar approached, everyone sang:
“All toads go to heaven,
All stars see the sky,
All that’s good will always win
And all that’s bad shall cry.”
He shared the simple hymn with a few parishioners not a few hours ago. It should’ve touched his heart that so many celebrated in his faith. He faked an ingenuous smile, but his face waned in agony. All those lives erased from the planet felt like an anchor weighing on his heart. He'd not forgotten his father’s face, as he smiled through the pain, and shook hands with countless strangers.
“Edgar!”
A familiar voice shouted above the singing crowd. He looked out and saw Constance, smiling so wide her cheeks burned bright as crimson. She waved, as he rushed through the crowd and made his way to her. His arms wrapped around her and held her hard against him, not wanting to ever let go, as they found each other’s lips. He lifted her off her feet, amidst the cheering of the crowd, all eyes on him and his beloved ‘matriarch of toads’.
“It’s happening, Edgar. It’s all coming together. I never should’ve doubted you.”
“You were right, my love.”
“What do you mean?”
He thought to explain, ‘Constance, my love, I'm insane. I’m diseased. I’m sick in the head.’ All that brutal honesty lost out to a simple retweet. A gentleman brought his phone in front of Edgar. On it, he read the third part of his prophecy, within a retweet from the profile of Emilia Clarke. All that was in her response were the words: “Let’s make it happen”. His mouth sat agape. How could he forget the ridiculousness of his beliefs? It all returned to him, now, as he read the third prophecy:
‘The Father of Toads shall lay with The Mother of Dragons… on the moon’.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What amazing luck, Edgar!” Constance kissed his cheek. “You must go to her, as soon as possible, and fulfill the prophecy.”
His incredulous stare was wasted on Constance, who looked back in unquestioning adoration. The faith in her eyes was unwavering. The joy on her face astounded him, as he thought of the ridiculousness of his prophecy. He wondered what sickness could make them believe this was real. The same, he wondered, for all these people who followed him to the swamp. He felt enslaved to a lie, and to the promise of his people, more than any redemptive wisdom he’d ever sought in the past.
* * *
Night was full of merriment. The work on their meager village was far from done, but the day was long, and the night was much more welcoming. Darkness settled over the swamp. The campfires brought the attention of the parishioners to the fulfillment of prophecy. Edgar sat at the campfire for longer than he’d wanted, but Constance insisted he be among his people. His former followers all returned, and the new arrivals treated them like apostles. Everyone wanted to hear stories about the beginning days of their faith. He saw joy in the eyes of old and new members and felt relief in bringing them all together. Regret mired his every thought, yet the night felt blessed by eager people who spoke of a brighter future.
He took to his comfortable cabin and in no time fell asleep. A dream ensued of trumpets and saxophones… and Michigan J. Frog. Adorned in a black dress suit, a cane and black top hat, Michigan began:
“Tell me that I'm your own, my baby
Hello my baby, hello my honey
Hello my ragtime, summertime gal
Send me a kiss by wire, by wire
Baby, my heart's on fire, on fire
If you refuse me, honey, you lose me
And you'll be left alone, oh baby
Telephone, and tell me, tell me
Tell me I'm your very own, oh!”
The frog danced along the lunar surface, kicking, twirling his cane, and lifting his top hat. An endless line of smaller toads followed behind him. They followed Michigan beyond the edge of the moon, where they danced out into the stars. Edgar noticed the stars floating before him like fireflies. They twinkled, not more than a few feet away, hanging in the air like particles of dust.
“Like something out of a movie, isn’t it.”
Emilia Clarke lay across a large plush mattress. A thick fur blanket covered her up to her shoulders. She lifted herself as Edgar approached, exposing her body to him, with her arms to both sides.
“Is this part of your prophecy?”
“Yes, my queen.”
He muttered, as if in a trance. Emilia giggled, as Edgar crawled into bed. He kissed her ankle, her knee, her inner thigh, when she grasped both sides of his head and dragged him up for a kiss. Their lips met. She looked into his eyes and Edgar knew this had to be a dream. Emilia slapped him, hard, and tossed him onto his back. She mounted him like a Dothraki horsewoman, as her hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed. She sank down to him and he saw the burning ember of rage in her eyes.
“I will have what I want… by any means necessary.”
She kissed his neck and he melted into the plush bedding. It was all a blessed dream, as the beautiful Khaleesi rode him into daylight. The rolling ball of fire in the sky cast its beleaguered nightmare over Edgar’s fantasy. He held her hips against him, as she pushed, thrust, pounded her body into him. Her fingers grazed his lips and when they kissed, it burned with an agonizing pleasure. He saw her in every flash of the rising sun, before her warmth became too impossible to be real and was no more.
* * *
“It was not your best idea to build a sanctuary in the swamp.”
Daclan O’Lara's voice antagonized from beyond the dream. Edgar awoke, sweating, before a wall of fire. Screams echoed from beyond the impenetrable wall. It collapsed to reveal hundreds of people running for their lives. Alligators climbed out of the water in droves and snatched people up by their ankles. They twisted until their bodies contorted in pain, then dragged them into the water. Cries of despair rang out amidst the burning trees. Plumes of smoke climbed over the crumbling buildings. Madness unfolded before his waking eyes.
“A sanctuary to some, a smorgasbord to others.”
Edgar rushed through the collapsed wall of his cabin. He cried out for Constance amidst the screaming of the terrified parishioners. A tangible web of nightmare and suffering enveloped all within the sanctuary. He cried out, again, for Constance, and heard her scream back, “Edgar!” He looked in time to see an alligator’s jaws wrapped around her ankle. She clawed at the beach, as it dragged her beyond the shore. Edgar leapt and tackled the beast, wrapping his arms around it, until it let her go. The beast turned, slamming him over and over against the whirling waters. Edgar spun out of control, feeling the sickness rising in his stomach. He refused to let go. The beast’s form changed, molted within his grasp, and became an amorphous, reptilian blob. A creature of unimaginable form, a demon in the dark waters bit down on his arm. Its teeth sank into his meaty flesh, as its claw latched onto Edgar’s throat. It dragged him underwater, where he thought he'd die. The beast held him within inches of its face and he saw the crimson rising in its eyes. Its claw unclenched. The beast waded into the deep and was gone forever, trailing off with its enormous reptilian form.
He walked out to the shoreline, now decimated by smoke and burning embers. He cried out for Constance, over and over, amidst the scorched remains of his former sanctuary. The remains of his people scattered amidst the debris and rubble of their sanctuary.
“All gone… all of it…”
Brother David waded through the water. His wife and daughter were nowhere to be seen. He sat there repeating the phrase. The terrifying reality that he’d followed Edgar and lost everything set into his eyes. Edgar tried to speak to him, but the man wasn't listening, not now, not ever again. Lost in his muttering, Brother David walked out into the water and sank below its surface.
* * *
Edgar waded for hours, without any signs of Constance. He left the wasteland that was his sanctuary and went out in his paddleboat. He wandered until he reached the other side of the water. He left the boat along the shore and walked in the opposite direction of the bar. He walked down the street, toward a small town a few miles from his sanctuary. Only one business was open in the early morning hours. Music blared through closed doors. The club had no windows. Various shades of pink and purple painted the walls. Glitter and other sparkly things decorated the outside with rainbows and smiley faces.
A familiar face walked out from the club. It was the old man from the bar, who’d been eating chili fries as they watched the comet shoot down on the television.
“Hey fella, why the long face?” The old man asked.
Edgar spoke not a word. He had to stare at the man's glistening chest, rainbow-suspenders and purple ‘hot-pants’.
“Come on, now fella… it ain’t so bad. Just, look at that sunrise. Now, if that ain’t a miracle I don’t know what is.”
A ripple. A wave came rushing from the distant horizon toward the waiting coastline. A wondrous blue wave eclipsed the rising sun. Edgar accepted his fate, held out his arms, and waited for the ripple to become what his father warned about. The wave reached the shore without any such calamity. Hundreds of thousands of people arose from the water. The victims of the comet, in all their mangled glory, marched like an army invading the shore. Their corpses writhed in agony, as they crawled, crept and climbed over the beach toward Edgar.
Off in the distance, Toad Jesus, in his reptilian green flesh and satin white robe, adorned in both a halo above his head and a radiant, angelic glow, walked across the endless ocean. He reached the beach and the sea of corpses parted before his presence. All the dead fell to their knees and bowed before him. Edgar fell to his knees, hands raised in prayer, and cried before the holy toadman.
“Cry not, my son… for the day is new… and Toad Jesus will forgive all your sins, if you accept him into your heart. Do you accept Toad Jesus as your lord and savior?”
“I do, Toad Jesus, truly… I do.”
“Bow your head, my son… and let my love shine through you.”
He thought of Constance. Thought of the comet. Thought of all the pain he’d caused everyone who believed in him. Then, he thought of Emilia Clarke riding him like a Dothraki whore. Toad Jesus clenched his scaly hands against Edgar’s jaws. He lifted him to see, as he hawked the most blasphemous loogie into his face.
Blip, then unreality. Atop his black pulpit, Edgar stood with spit dripping down his forehead. Arise. Redemption in his gaze. He stepped down from his soapbox, aghast at his prophetic yammering. A crowd of uncaring passersby walked on without concern… and he couldn’t be happier. He checked his hand to see the tattoo left from Daclan O’Lara was no longer there.
“Did the comet come yet?” Edgar yelled.
The crowd finally took notice. A man walked up and put his hand to his shoulder, then guided him to rest atop his pulpit.
“Calm down, fella… there’s no comet… I think you’re having a bit of a meltdown.”
“In that, you’re right…” Edgar laughed. “Thank you, my… wait a second. Are you Elon Musk?”
“That, I am, my friend… and your luck is about to change.”
Endish.
Season Nine. Act One. Scene One. Moon Khaleesi, take one.
“I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the first men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the mother of dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains… declare Moon War on all the toads of the earth.”
Cut. Roll it.