however, stepped forward. It was then that Muchoman realized that
he had no idea exactly how he was supposed to go about saving their
world. All the fanfare had overwhelmed him, and he had forgotten to
ask.
A priest standing behind him reached around and placed a knife
in his hand.
Muchoman stared at the priest, expecting some sort of
explanation.
“What exactly—?” he said, puzzled.
“The same as we have done for you every fifty-two years,” replied
the holy man, “Only now, you can cut their hearts out yourself, and
directly eat the most sacred and life-giving gift we have to offer. And
with that fortification, you will preserve our world, as you have
always done. And has always been.”
“And—er—how many—?” Muchoman labored, the beat of his
own heart almost deafening in his ears.
“Twenty thousand,” the priest replied, “Normally. But since you
have come in person we have gathered ten thousand more. We hope
you are pleased. Please come and see.”
The priest led him across the enormous temple platform, already
elbow-to-elbow with the condemned, to the edge of the precipice.
From there he saw the army of half-naked and doomed covering the
south side of the temple stairway, flowing down onto the valley below
and into an ocean of human beings, heavy hearts waiting to be freed.
But here the details flooded back into the general, and soon the
landscape went monochrome. He grew dizzy, nearly falling off the
edge of the platform. Luckily the priest was fleet of foot, and caught
the deity before a catastrophe could come to pass.
“Are you all right, my Lord?” asked the horrified priest, breathing
heavily.
“Yeah, listen, priest,” Muchoman said, “I’ve changed my mind.
I’m tired of all these human hearts. You know—not exactly a
balanced diet. I’ve got an idea…How about we make a nice salad
instead?”
“Excuse me?” the priest said.
“Yeah. We’ll make a salad instead and then I’ll go home and you
can live forever in peace—or war! If that’s what you want, and then
the world will go on just like always—and—and—Hey! Why are you
looking at me like that?”
“You—you cannot be our creator!” the priest declared. He spun
H O L Y S H I T !
210
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