“Stop whining already, here I am, here, for the whole hour. The proverb is right: ‘make a fool pray to God and he will smash his forehead’.”
Numb with fear, Serge turned slowly behind. In an armchair was sitting a man of heavenly beauty in his forties in an impeccable silver-gray suit of modern cut. His head was crowned with hair of steel-colored smoke. Serge was rendered speechless.
“Would you excuse me for having seated in your armchair without an invitation? You understand that it would be improper for a deity to ask permission from mere mortal, don’t you?” the guest pronounced to defuse the situation utterly confusing to beggar.
“On TV You was pictured with a cigar in your forehead,” Serge timidly uttered.
The man took two blue cigarettes from his jacket pocket and handed one over to Serge. The second one he lit for himself. The delicious scent filled the room. Serge dragged on and instantly felt more euphoria than that of marijuana.
“You confused me with our supreme Maya god, the so-called god K. He is somewhat like Zeus for the ancient Greeks. It is not a cigar that sticks out of his forehead, but a red-hot knife made of obsidian, volcanic glass. I am called the god L, according to your earthly terminology. I’m his junior business partner.”
“The gods also have business partners, then?” Serge wondered at his stoned consciousness.
“In this hypostasis I am called the Egregor of Smoking, but you can simply call me Gregory.”