They found god in the front closet of a suburban home in Lincoln, Nebraska. They said god was lying upside down under a bin of legos. They say a lot of things these days.

The men who were called were serious. The kind in white lab coats with guns and gas masks. How do you get into something like that? Probably the military. Men who are paid to know things and be really vague when anyone asks. That morning several serious phone calls had taken place. Immediately and critical and national security were used together in sentences.

Planes were flown by pilots who had no clue as to the reason for their flight. They are paid not to know, and they are paid well. Planes then black chevy suburbans with blacked out windows. Hard knocks on doors, “Ma’am you and your family need to evacuate there’s been, uhh a chemical spill.” Yeah that’ll scare ’em good. A chemical spill. All your questions will be answered soon. And what else really can you expect them to say “sorry we found god and we have no idea what the fuck to do now” no, no they must be confident, certain.

Mr. Smith was picked up first, of course that’s not his real name, but in the report which will be written, the one with lots of REDACTED’s written in it, his name will be Mr. Smith. He was coming home from work, stopped at the entrance to the neighborhood. You know the one with the big stone sign nestled in the bushes, no the other one. That’s it. “This is outrageous” Mr. Smith says to the man. “A chemical spill? What about my wife and daughters? Where are they?” The man sympathizes but he has no better information he can give.

Down at the end of the cul de sac, a white house with a bay window. It is the Smith’s house. Two young girls sit in the living room; their knees cushioned by the high pile carpeting. The tablet in the corner flashes shapes and sounds. It is the seventh age and a stuffed bear has finally earned his seat on the council. Next they must choose someone to be culled. The dolls argue amongst themselves, and the bear sits quietly. The rear door is breached.

Ms. Smith screams as the men is gas masks rush in. They haul her away. The girls look up. The front door is breached. A man grabs each of them behind the necks and rushes for the door. The man behind him, thinner and older, carrying a box under his right arm stands in the doorway. Sweat runs down his brow. His breathing fogs up the edges around his gas mask. Where moments ago was children’s play and quiet afternoon reading, now there is only terror.

What qualifies him to stand there in the entry way, before god. He quakes in his boots as he steps forward, towards the closet door. His skin rubs against the protective rubber suit. Good for radiation, poison gas, but what kind of protective clothing would make sense here. The man hasn’t thought about it. This suit wasn’t chosen for the occasion, but rather out of protocol. The tablet in the corner flashes colors and shapes its bright colors flashing against the walls. He reaches out, slowly turning the closet door knob. He trembles as he pulls back the door.

They found god in the front closet of a suburban home in Lincoln, Nebraska. They said god was lying upside down under a bin of legos. They say a lot of things these days.