Bully

As a toddler he turned thirty-seven ants into thirty-seven asterisks by pinching. During his teens he pummeled the school mascot and had the linebackers fleeing whenever his shadow gouged the Earth. He did other things to the mascot I won't mention but will point out the linebackers flinched at the sound of a sharpener chewing a pencil into a stake. On his fortieth birthday he picked a fight with a mountain and laid the mountain flat. Don't ask me how he did this or how he took fists to the ocean and bruised its waves or the night he stopped the slow orbit of the moon with a headlock— cruelty has nothing to do with logic. He should've died sooner but shoved Death so hard to the floor Death spent an afternoon snapping his bones back in place. Dying was to be on his terms and when he finally perished he pushed his way into heaven and called God Sissy and Chump and newer insults like Helium Head and Asparagus Dick until He handed over the keys to the universe. At last on a night the stars quivered he had the sacred quill and inkwell to scratch down the new rules for living on this planet which to no one's amazement we are obeying faithfully.