In Heaven, it was never supposed to rain.

It was, by design, always 75 degrees, always sunny, always perfect.

Well, almost always.

Today was one of those unusual days of imperfection.

The sun gave way to clouds, the blue skies to gray, the dry air to humidity.

The wings of angels, usually voluminous and soft, frizzed like a teenager’s hair at a 1980s junior prom.

St. Peter fidgeted in his office, adrift in endless piles of paperwork—new arrivals to screen, permits to process, prayers to alphabetize. He was dictating a note to his assistant Chloe, who sipped her third latte while noting absolutely nothing. The rain pitter-pattered against his office window before picking up in intensity, and St. Peter asked Chloe to note the downpour in the minutes. She did not.

Elsewhere in the Kingdom, War—the unquestioned commander of the Four Horsemen—was leading her horse, Carl, to the stables when the first drops fell. She’d been in Heaven long enough to know that storm clouds never dissipated before rain would fall. Carl hated rain. Despised the stables. And loathed being outside. Let’s be honest: Carl didn’t like much. Warhorses rarely did.

Satan was gobbling down Swedish meatballs in Hell, noticing none of this because the weather in the underworld ran on fire, brimstone, and a busted central air conditioning that cranked out nothing but more heat—with no chance of relief from an unexpected downpour.

In Heaven, on those occasions that it did rain, angels experienced a drizzle. Just a light mist that stopped as quickly as it started. 

But the rain on this particular day was a drenching one. So much so that it forced Heaven’s lone weather reporter to forgo re-broadcasting the same report he’d used almost every day for eternity (“Gabriel Fahrenheit here to remind you that it’s 72 and sunny. Again.”). Instead, he donned his formal robe and transmitted live with Breaking News (“Gabriel Fahrenheit here imploring you to grab your wing-brellas, it’s a real soaker out there!”) for the first time since the locusts got loose in 2017.

In Paradise, things like this weren’t supposed to happen. Heaven was, with the exception of an outdated office park in its easternmost reaches, immaculate.

Most roads were paved with gold or platinum, adorned with rubies, diamonds, and sapphires. Although one was, inexplicably, layered in five inches of fine Belgian chocolate.

The flowers always bloomed.

The grass forever green.

The birds often followed you, whistling your favorite songs. And they never pooped on you.

There was no gum on the sidewalks, no flickering streetlamps, no weeds growing between cracks—how could there be when there were no cracks? The only blemish was the office park, which I promise you will read about later. I swear.

It was never supposed to rain.

But…

But when God brooded, the skies opened up, as if crying the tears that He could not cry.

Today, the rain was drenching and miserable. It made halos spark painfully, like piercing little daggers to the skull. (Pain was not supposed to exist here either but, apparently even in Heaven, every rule had its exception.)

God had His feet up on the desk in His office, massaging His temples. He sighed, anxious despite being somewhat soothed by the steady beat of rain drumming against His windows. He sipped coffee mindlessly from a mug that read World’s Greatest Everything. He loved coffee—drank it every morning despite the fact that He never slept.

Earth. 

Earth infuriated Him. He mostly ignored the cosmic dumpster fire, but these days that was like trying to ignore someone bonking you on the nose—over and over—with a wet pool noodle. 

The Bible had become a prop. A weapon disguised as a book, its passages fired from its chamber to serve unjust political agendas. It was thumped in hatred and accusation, rather than being opened like welcoming arms. 

The hungry were ignored. The poor, forgotten. The wealthy were rewarded with interest, while the Earth itself was dying from a lack of it.

He stood and paced. Outside, the rain intensified. 

Maybe it was time to end the whole shebang with a push of The Reset Button™.

Next time He’d create a better species. 

Smaller brains? Bigger ones?

He wasn’t sure anyore. 

What would make them better? He thought they’d be perfect this time, but no. Not even close. Humans 5.0 might be the worst yet.

And it was His followers who bothered him most. Judgmental. Self-righteous. Claiming to know what He wants. So presumptuous.

And the worshiping? Please. Don’t even get Him started.

He never wanted to be worshiped. Who creates something and then requires it to grovel? You create life with the hope that it does the right thing of its own accord. Respect is earned, not demanded. Only an Asshole with little self-esteem could be all-powerful and still need to be worshiped.

When He ended the world, He would kill His worshipers first.

That decision was final.

Probably.