The hook, in god-games, isn’t the destructive power or capriciousness. Sure, you can drop a volcano on Manhattan or fling your worshippers at distant islands, but so what? One might as well build a block city and kick it over in a raging second: fun, but not for long, and you have to clean it up.
No, Alejandro knows, it’s benevolence that addicts you. When else is doing good so easy, so clear, so quickly rewarded? If real kindness were like this, he thinks (drumming with pencils and wishing he was playing another turn), shit, he’d probably be a volunteer.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be repenting,” says Harlequin.
“Aren’t you one of those sexy people?” says the Ticktockman. “On the fronts of romance novels? And I’m some kind of repressive figure…”
“I think that’s a harlot, not a harlequin,” frowns Harlequin.
The Ticktockman has a face like a clock with gears behind it, probably. “Well,” he says, “now I want you to repent for doubting my vocabulary.”
“Okay. Sorry?”
The Ticktockman punches a card with his mouth, like clocks did in 1960 or whenever.
“This story is dumb,” says Harlequin.
“You haven’t even read it!” says the Ticktockman.