“The plan is to make you a god,” she told me, machete in hand. Her eyes blinked with vertical lids.
“A god, huh?” I twisted my hands together in their bindings, hoping they’d give way. “And what, might I ask, will I be the god of?”
“That all depends on what’s currently available.”
“And my head has to come off, why?”
So that it can be replaced with a divine prosthetic. Just like mine.” She allowed her chameleon tongue to unroll on the s of just.
“And what will become of the head I have now?”
“Why, do you know someone else who might want it?
“Well, no, but I mean, I’m inside this head, right? So I can’t really imagine that what you’re turning into a god will actually be me by the time you’re done.”
“Oh, it most certainly won’t be you. But you aren’t always you to begin with, now, are you? And you most certainly aren’t just inside that head.”
Being a god isn't as glamorous as one might think.
Remaining headless has its virtues, too.
The god of obsolescence has an 8-track mouth.