Warning: Dark humor ahead! This story features the apocalypse, deadly horsemen, grumpy gods, and plenty of morally questionable decisions. My English isn’t quite good enough to translate it myself, so I had to ask the Internet for help. Hopefully it’s still funny! _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Almighty was boiling inside. “I’ve had it up to here!” it bellowed across the heavens, sounding like a thunderclap. “I gave those mortals down there only ten commandments—which isn’t much, even for hairless TikTok apes clutching coffee cups and conveniently forgetting all morality—and they break them every single day. MULTIPLE times! That’s it. In one hour, we’re kicking off the Apocalypse!” “One hour?” asked one of the Four Horsemen, pulling a pork shank from his saddlebag. “That’s cutting it close—practically lunchtime.” “Yeah, one hour isn’t exactly ideal for me either,” said the second horseman, polishing his Colts with a casual flick. “I’ve got a little date in the Middle East… and I’m not keen on being late.” He tilted his cowboy hat down over his eyes. “YOU GUYS WANT TO REBEL NOW TOO?!” roared the Almighty. “I said: one hour! You’ve got exactly 58 minutes to get ready!” “Boss, nobody’s gonna rebel against you, but we’ve got other things to do besides being on call all the time,” soothed the third horseman. He leaned toward a chicken and blew gently on it—the bird turned an odd shade of green and, in a slow, absurd kind of way, lost all its feathers. “You’ve been sitting here since the dawn of time—surely that’s enough prep time to get your stuff done. And now no more excuses! In 55 minutes, you wipe out humanity. Period!” “Mmph… yeah… this… ain’t fair,” mumbled the fourth horseman with a mouthful of meat, chewing as he spoke. “Exactly,” agreed the cowboy-hat horseman. “We’ve been talking about this behind the scenes, you know. Planning, negotiating… a little horsemen’s committee stuff. So, if we start the Apocalypse, we’ll all be unemployed afterward. First you make us work until we drop, and then we get cut? That’s exploitation, not divine leadership. You can’t treat us like this.” He drew out a crumpled list. “We even prepared a little demands sheet ahead of time—just in case someone wanted to push the button. Think of it as… pre-emptive bargaining.” He carefully unfolded the paper. “So—point one: Enough humans have to survive to keep our jobs secure. Point two: Forget the horses—give us modern rides, like a Harley for each of us. Point three: Workload relief via…” “HEAVENS ABOVE! WHAT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT NOW?!” The fabric of the universe trembled at the voice. “I am the Almighty and I declare the DOOMSDAY! This is not a union meeting!” “Hey Daddy, chill, man,” a thin, peaceful voice piped up from the background. The Almighty rolled his eyes at the sight of his son. As usual, he wore a flowing kaftan and sandals, held a smoking incense burner, and had a homemade hemp peace amulet around his neck. With glazed eyes, he inhaled deeply, then smiled at his father: “Look, Daddy, you really shouldn’t take all this so seriously. What those little apes are doing down there? It’s basically just protesting the establishment. Stay cool, Daddy. Why all the drama? Every day, same show—and every time, I remind you the apes crucified me, and I’m still not mad at them.” He inhaled deeply from the incense, then grinned. “Honestly, being nailed like that is quite the experience—and I’m still chill. Come on, take a puff, crank some Gregorian chants, or try meditation noise with angel choirs—totally heavenly. Love, incense, and chorales.” He flashed a peace sign and gave his dad a playful look. The Almighty massaged his forehead. Another migraine—the one that reliably appeared whenever his son was around. He shook his head, thinking. For 2,000 years, he had tried to kick off the Apocalypse almost daily—and every day ended in a scene like this. Did he even have any authority left in his own heaven? “Fine, you’ve done it again. My migraine’s about to drive me mad. We’ll let it slide today—but tomorrow… tomorrow we’re doing this for real!” He glared at his son one last time, who was still sniffing the incense and grinning. For a nanosecond, he considered a paternity test—which, for a being like him, was a very long time. But he wouldn’t do it. That simply wasn’t dignified for the Almighty. Exhausted, he wandered off to nurse his migraine. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ve got exactly one hour—then we finally kick off the Apocalypse,” he muttered, before lying down on a cloud and falling asleep. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Rendered in DAZ. No AI except for the translation of the text.