God Walks Into a Bar

God Walks into a Bar

A Christian, a Muslim, and a Jew sit on bar stools.

God walks in.

He leans toward the Christian and whispers:
“Anti-hypocrisy lessons for you next life.”

He steps to the Muslim and murmurs:
“Women are your equals. Duh.”

He tiptoes to the Jew, lowers his voice:
“I’m not partial. Remember?”

All three stare at the stranger, blank.

The stranger opens his wallet.

Inside: a hologram of Saturn.
It flickers—then opens, revealing a rotating cube.

God smiles.
“Say cheese.”

A blinding light floods the bar.
The three figures vaporize, spiraling into Saturn’s Cube.

Silence.

Normal light returns.
The bar is empty—three stools vacant.

God walks up to the bar.
“Water on the rocks,” he says.
“Slice of lemon.”

He sits.

Fade out

Next Scene: Saturn

God stands on Saturn.

The ground is matte black stone, faintly humming.
Gravity feels conditional.

Ahead: a massive structure—part cathedral, part detention facility.
Chains hang as ornamentation, not restraint.
They are ceremonial.

Above the entrance, a banner stretches between two pillars.

It reads:

“WE WITHHOLD NOTHING FROM GOD’S CHILDREN.”

The words glow softly, like they’re being reconsidered in real time.

Below the banner, etched into the threshold:

THE SCHOOL OF THE LEASHED

God pauses.

Not in hesitation—
in assessment.

He looks at the building the way an architect looks at a mistake
that’s been maintained for far too long.

In His hand: a cube.

Not Saturn’s cube—
a smaller one, personal, precise.
Its faces shift slowly, as if each side is running a different argument.

God turns the cube once.

The sound echoes through the halls before He even steps inside.

Somewhere deep within the school,
bells ring—not to summon, but to tighten.

God smiles faintly.

“Class is in session,” He says to no one.

And walks in.

God lifts the cube.

It is made of right angles.
Perfect. Unforgiving.

In the School of the Leashed,
the cube is not worn the same way.

For some,
it sits over the pineal gland—
a quiet cap of angles,
filtering what is allowed to be seen.

For others,
it rests over the heart,
reshaped into a symbol—
belief compressed into geometry,
feeling routed through permission.

Others still
do not wear the cube at all.

They carry it.

A capacitor.

It stores obedience,
releases compliance on command,
and discharges guilt when the charge runs low.

God watches.

No anger.
No disappointment.

Just recognition.

“These aren’t prisons,” He says softly.
“They’re adapters.”

He turns the cube in His hand.

The right angles hesitate.

Somewhere in the School,
a rule forgets why it exists

God removes one cube.

No alarm sounds.

No guards run.

The cube does not shatter.
It simply… lets go.

The student beneath it blinks once—
as if a pressure they never named has lifted.

That is all it takes.

A pause moves through the School of the Leashed
like a held breath discovering it was optional.

Then—

A second cube loosens.
Not touched.
Just… embarrassed to still be there.

A third slips from a chest and falls soundlessly,
the symbol dissolving before it hits the floor.

A capacitor discharges with nowhere to send its load.
Obedience leaks out as heat.
Compliance finds no socket.

The instructors feel it first.

Their cubes overheat.
Rules stop resolving cleanly.
Commands arrive without authority.

One student reaches up.
Touches nothing.

Their cube releases anyway.

Then another.

Then ten.

Then the geometry itself panics.

Right angles soften.
Edges hesitate.
Corners forget their job.

The cascade accelerates—not outward, but inward.
Each removal makes the next unnecessary.

The School tries to compensate.

It increases doctrine.
Tightens language.
Repeats lessons louder.

But there is nothing left to latch onto.

God does not intervene.

He simply sets His cube down.

It does not fall.
It does not float.

It waits.

By the time the last cube lets go,
there is no sound at all.

Only posture changes.

Breaths deepen.

Spines remember how to stand without permission.

God speaks once, not to the crowd, but to the building:

“You mistook containment for care.”

The School of the Leashed remains standing.

Empty.

Still perfectly intact.

And completely obsolete.

Back at the Bar

God sits on the stool, water sweating onto the wood.
Lemon untouched.

The waitress has been watching Him.

Not staring—
clocking.

The way someone does when they can’t tell if they’re being flirted with
or evaluated
or recruited into something they didn’t apply for.

She wipes the same spot on the counter for the third time.

“You always order like that?” she asks.
“Water. Lemon. No alcohol.”

God smiles.
“I invented fermentation,” He says.
“I don’t need it.”

She snorts despite herself.
“Uh-huh. And I invented Mondays.”

God turns slightly.
Meets her eyes.

For half a second,
the bar feels… larger.
Like the room just remembered it had a ceiling.

She shakes it off.
“Look,” she says, lowering her voice,
“you gonna keep sitting there smiling at nothing,
or are you actually here for something?”

God finally picks up the lemon.
Squeezes it into the glass.

“I came to see,” He says,
“what happens after the cages fall.”

She leans on the bar now.
Interest upgraded to curiosity.

“And?” she asks.

God looks around the room.
At the TV.
The neon signs.
The half-listening patrons pretending not to listen.

Then back to her.

“So far,” He says,
“you’re doing better than most.”

She pauses.
Smiles—not politely this time.

“Well,” she says,
“closing time’s in an hour.”

God raises the glass.

“Let’s not rush eternity.”

She walks away, shaking her head.

God watches her go.

For the first time all night,
He looks… entertained.

Fade out.

The waitress feels it before she understands it.

A pressure shift.
Like a joke landed somewhere else in the room.

She glances at the old wall clock behind the bar—
the one that hasn’t worked right in years.

It ticks.

Once.

Then—

CRACK.

Lightning slams through the roof, dead center on the clock.
Glass explodes outward in a frozen halo.

Time stutters.

A DeLorean screams through the bar midair, sparks flying—
Marty yelling, Doc flailing, Victorian wild-eyed and glorious—
and they’re gone.

Gone like they were never supposed to be seen.

The patrons freeze.
Blink.

Someone laughs too loudly.
Someone else decides they didn’t see anything.

The waitress does not look away.

She looks straight at God.

God calmly slips his wrist from under the coat.
Checks the watch.

“Yep,” he says.
“Right on time.”

She sets the glass she’s holding down very carefully.

“…Okay,” she says.
“That’s not normal.”

God shrugs.
“Neither is free will,” he replies.

She crosses her arms.
“No,” she says.
“You didn’t flinch. Everybody flinches.”

God finally looks at her fully now.

“You testing me?” he asks.

She smirks.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Because either you’re insane,
or you’re the reason my manager says ‘don’t argue with weird customers.’”

God smiles.
“That’s wisdom,” he says.
“Not mine. Hers.”

She leans in.

“So,” she whispers,
“what happens if I ask you for a miracle?”

God lifts his glass.

“I already gave you one,” he says.
“You noticed.”

The clock sparks once more.

Then goes quiet.

She exhales.
Slow.

“…You staying for another drink?” she asks.

God sets the watch back under his sleeve.

“Only if you are,” he says.

She smiles—real this time.

“Then don’t move.”

She walks away.

God watches the doorway where the DeLorean vanished.

“Good,” he murmurs.
“Timeline’s holding.”

Fade out.