Job and god were playing handball against their apartment building. job told god he couldn’t use telekinesis, which made god sad because he couldn’t get his hands to grow past the size of a toddler’s. when god thought of this, his hands shrank to fetal. job was running the wall, making it rain aces and bullets. god alchemized a few bricks super rubber and pulled off the fabled roller. when job saw the cheat-wink, he called bullshit. god called nuh-uh, grew horns and hooves, shot blue flames from his nostrils and eyes. then god went dove-faced and said, “job, i…think i’m…pregz.” “you say that every time you lose,” said job. god sulked, turned cloud and showered molasses all the way up the graffitied stairs. he turned on shark week, changed to gasoline fumes and took a deep breath of himself, hovering over the couch as he forgot about the world. and job returned to the community center where he tended the pool and hid light along the pockets of deep darkness.