Death of a Ventriloquist

Phaëton

24 Phaëton It’s different now. I’ve learned my lessons; I have the helm. Aides place the crown, light, on my head. Phoebus sits on a fence in a western state watching steers chew green nubs to mud. You see, I was born again, and took the throne to make improvements. Who says a sun-king should sweat through his robes behind the winged fire-steeds? My cabinet is loyal and bright. Vulcan made the chariot. New threats these days, new tests. Some—I can’t believe—doubt the sun, say they’d live without it, and pray the opposite way. Some make their own light. They don’t understand neutrinos, radiation dancing through us; they’d ignore a gaze two million degrees at center. Taps and polygraphs enlighten our words and actions. I tell the Hours, Relax, we have crack teams to harness the steeds’ chest-fire and blazing breath. We know how to stir plasma, focus rays. Evildoers must be made to see. Bent to the big picture. We have emergency plans; I’ll govern from a cave. God’s been informed the fire may singe the planet. I’ve imparted the importance. If He can’t arrange our safety, we’ll do it ourselves. Tell those people their day of liberation is here: we’ll part the waters; enemies will bow in shock and awe. We’re a peaceful people, wielding a god-size fireball. ...