Record-breaking Heat Forecasted as Denver Begins Final Descent Into Actual Hell
God and Karen sat together atop Sugarloaf, watching the sunrise. God, dejected, took a sip of their environmentally conscious and sustainable coffee from Allegro. Karen threw back what was left of something hot and caffeinated snagged from the TA Truck Stop in Commerce City, crumpled the styrofoam cup and tossed it a few feet away.
“You did the best you could,” Karen said, lighting up a cigarette. “Denver’s been on a crash course,” she continued, “I wasn’t even trying to get Frank Azar to put up more billboards; that was all him. Then there’s Suncor. Plus, all of the schools are reopening,” Karen chuckled, took a deep drag and coughed, spitting phlegm onto the ground.
God pulled their mandated mask back over their mouth and turned to Karen, “But...I brought back socially distanced yoga to Red Rocks. The baby rhino at the Denver Zoo is fucking adorable. We have mail-in ballots…” they trailed off.
God sighed, “I just wish I’d known you’d flipped Mike Nelson.”
“Denver7’s Chief Meteorologist saw the writing on the wall. My team put together a great retirement package for the guy. Getting him to release a weather forecast of abysmal heat with little chance of rain for the next millenia was surprisingly easy,” Karen grinned, “He threw in the tornadoes on the eastern plains without prompting.”
Karen’s hellhound ambled over and shat on the ground, setting off a small fire.
“Is that thunder?” A rumbling noise was rapidly growing. God perked up, “I KNEW I shouldn’t have given up hope! It’s getting louder!”
Blucifer galloped into view and Karen cackled. She awkwardly clamored onto its back and gazed down at God, “Denver’s been mine for a while. I knew it, you knew it, the miller moths knew it. I suggest you pack up and go… well, shit. I don’t know where you go.” Blucifer whinnied.
She paused, thinking, “I gave the Catholic Church over a billion in PPP money. I’ll let you hang out with them for what little time you have left,” she smirked. “Thank me later!” she yelled over her shoulder as Blucifer and the hellhound trotted away, leaving a trail of flames in their wake. Cory Gardner appeared from behind a scrub brush and skittered after them, waving his arms wildly. “Wait for me!” he hollered.
God pulled some gummies and their iphone from a pocket of their robe and tapped the TikTok app open. Tossing a couple edibles into their mouth, they hit record and shared their final message. As smoke began billowing around their ethereal form, they pointed at each line of text they’d hastily entered while nodding and chewing knowingly to the music.
“Cancel culture has hit Denver.” Point, nod, chew
“This is the End of Days.” Point, nod, chew.
“No, really.” Point, nod, chew.
“Blame Karen.” God started choking and was engulfed in flames on-screen.
Surprising no one, the video went viral.
Kat Atwell is a writer, storyteller, and mental health advocate in Denver. She is a previous Denver MOTH storyslam winner, recently had no problem purchasing a Nintendo Switch Lite for her daughter’s 13th birthday, and has been published in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. One of these things is a lie.