Quetzalcoatl stared at the clock. The digital representation of the time stared back.
Quetzalcoatl stared even harder at the clock. The time did not blink.
Quetzalcoatl stared as hard as he fucking could at the clock. The clock burst into flames.
Granted, this didn’t stem so much from the staring as it did the clock’s position on top of a lit stove, but Quetzalcoatl didn’t care. He hated that clock.
Quetzalcoatl was not well.
While most deities had eventually accepted the demise of religion, grudgingly or otherwise, Quetzalcoatl just kind of went insane instead. In his defense, it had been hard enough being the winged serpent god of a people that died out five hundred years prior. He didn’t need to be told he didn’t exist on top of it.
This isn’t to say that he didn’t at least try to adapt.
In fact, “can’t argue with science,” was Quetzalcoatl’s first thought upon finding out he was no longer him.
“Well, you can, but then you get murdered by robots in your sleep,” was the second.
“Fucking robots. I bet I can take ‘em,” was the third.
Quetzalcoatl single-handedly fought off six hundred platoons of science-enforcing murder-drones in a stunning battle that wiped out all of Central America and most of Mexico. Land, people, llamas, everything. Still, victory was victory. Quetzalcoatl climbed atop the mountain of broken machinery and re-claimed his godhood, shouting his intentions to the heavens.
Of course, at that point, Quetzalcoatl was half a mile underwater. Lifting one’s head up and shouting from that depth is a pretty good way to drown. Which is precisely what almost happened.
Quetzalcoatl eventually made his way to the surface, his face blue and his lungs saturated with water, motor oil, and llama blood. Grabbing a piece of flotsam, Quetzalcoatl floated in the unnamed body of water he had just created for days on end, the sun beating down on him while sharks gnashed repeatedly at his ass. By the time he made it to New Orleans, he wasn’t really sure what was who or why was where anymore, for no good no way.
Between the lack of oxygen, the loss of blood, and the dementia, the doctors were amazed any of his organs still functioned. They said it was a miracle he was even alive.
The bartenders said the same thing, only they meant ‘cause of all the bourbon.
Quetzalcoatl spent the better part of the next year drinking. By the time he sobered up, he had somehow managed to secure himself an apartment, a car, three girlfriends, and a paternity suit. That launched another year-long bender. By the time he came out of that one, he was down to just the apartment.
“And that, my good sir,” he said to the refrigerator, “is why mustard tastes purple.”
Quetzalcoatl bowed to the appliance and walked out of the building.