The sound of furious scribbling filled Kazuo's apartment.
Not the casual scratch of a shopping list. Not the lazy scrawl of someone doodling penises in a notebook. No. This was the apocalyptic scratching of paperwork so overwhelming it could collapse economies.
At the center of the table sat Seraphina, wings spread, quill pen flashing like a sword. Her tongue poked out in concentration as she filled out form after form stacked in glittering golden piles.
Kazuo lay on the couch, burrito'd in his blanket, face smushed against the cushion. "…What the hell are you doing?"
"Paperwork!" Seraphina snapped, not looking up. "I'm filing the reactivation request for your Creator Account: Earth Edition."
Kazuo blinked sleepily. "…My what now?"
"Your Creator Account. The celestial system that officially recognizes you as the One True God of this planet. You let it lapse 2,000 years ago. I'm currently filling out Form 77-B for Reinstatement of Dormant Deities."
Kazuo yawned. "Cool. Sounds like a you problem."
Seraphina froze mid-stroke, quill shaking. "A—A ME PROBLEM?!"
"Yup." He pulled the blanket over his head. "Wake me when the world ends."
Seraphina slammed both hands on the table. The stack of paperwork shuddered ominously. "Creator! Do you realize the entire cosmos runs on deadlines?!"
Kazuo poked his head out of the blanket like a disgruntled turtle. "…Yeah, well, my laundry also runs on deadlines. Guess which one I actually care about."
Her wings puffed in outrage. "The Creator cannot miss deadlines! If you don't reactivate your account by the next celestial quarter, the Earth will be reassigned to… to… Substitute Management."
Kazuo blinked. "…Sounds like a temp agency."
"It is worse! They're outsourced to the Department of Cosmic Freelancers! Do you want Earth run by some half-drunk intern god from Andromeda who thinks volcanoes should shoot bubble tea instead of lava?!"
Kazuo actually perked up. "…Okay, bubble tea volcanoes sound kinda sick."
Seraphina shrieked, tearing at her hair.
She jabbed a glowing crystal on the table. It lit up, projecting a shimmering call center full of angels in cubicles, all wearing headsets.
A monotone voice answered: "Thank you for calling Celestial HR. Your call is very important to us. Estimated wait time: 7,000 years."
Kazuo blinked. "…That's longer than my student loan payments."
Seraphina screamed into the crystal: "Representative! Representative! Representative!"
The automated voice droned: "If you are attempting to reactivate a Creator Account, please press 1. If you are filing a complaint against mortals, please press 2. If you are requesting smiting services, please press 3—"
Kazuo sat up. "Ooo, press 3. Smite Kenji."
Seraphina glared. "We are not smiting your cult's High Priest!"
"…Pretty sure that'd solve a lot of problems."
Seraphina shoved a glowing clipboard at Kazuo. "Sign this!"
Kazuo glanced at the title. Form 99-Z: Proof of Identity (Creator-Level Being).
He groaned. "Nope. Too much reading."
"It's just your name!"
Kazuo pointed at the six glowing sub-sections. "It wants my name in celestial runes, mortal tongue, divine frequency, spiritual tax ID, blood signature, and… is that… 'favorite sandwich'?"
Seraphina coughed. "…Celestial HR is very thorough."
Kazuo crossed his arms. "Fine. Favorite sandwich: tuna mayo from Lawson."
The paper burst into golden flames.
Seraphina screamed. "You FOOL! The cosmic system does not recognize convenience store sandwiches!"
"…Sounds like discrimination to me."
Seraphina tried every trick. She threatened. She pleaded. She even bribed him with promises of ramen that wouldn't instantly spawn a cult.
Kazuo's response every time? Rolling deeper into his blanket cocoon and mumbling, "Five more minutes."
At one point, she even tried dragging him physically to the table. Kazuo went limp like a dead fish.
"Creator! Stand up!"
"Nope."
"You have to reauthorize existence itself!"
"Later."
"THE ENTIRE PLANET WILL BE DEACTIVATED!"
Kazuo snored loudly.
Seraphina collapsed onto the paperwork, quill trembling in her hand. "…How did the cosmos survive with this man at the helm?"
Just when Seraphina thought it couldn't get worse, there was a knock at the window.
A bespectacled angel in a suit hovered outside, clutching a massive briefcase. He had the dead-eyed stare of a man who had audited entire universes.
"Hello," he droned. "Heavenly Internal Audit. Random inspection."
Kazuo cracked one eye open. "…IRS?"
Seraphina gasped. "No! Worse!"
The auditor floated in, opening his briefcase to reveal glowing folders. "Let's see here. Creator Account: Earth Edition. Dormant. Pending reactivation. Cult activity detected. Unauthorized miracles performed. Ramen-based phenomenon spreading exponentially. Hm."
Kazuo waved lazily from the couch. "Yeah, that was me. Accidentally sneezed ramen into reality. My bad."
The auditor adjusted his glasses. "Violation of Section 34-C: Uncontrolled Culinary Manifestations."
Seraphina turned white. "Creator! That's a red-level infraction!"
Kazuo shrugged. "Cool. Bill me later."
The auditor scribbled in his file. "Noncompliance noted. Earth now flagged for probationary review."
Seraphina fainted face-first into the paperwork.
As the auditor snapped his briefcase shut, he looked at Kazuo with all the warmth of a tax collector.
"Final notice: if Creator Account: Earth Edition is not reactivated within one lunar cycle, management will be reassigned to Substitute Deity #8471… otherwise known as Gary."
Kazuo blinked. "…Gary?"
The auditor nodded. "Yes. Gary. God of Parking Tickets and Mild Inconveniences. He will run Earth."
Kazuo sat up straight for the first time in days. "…You're telling me the entire planet will be ruled… by a dude named Gary?"
The auditor closed his briefcase with a snap. "That is correct. Good luck."
And with that, he vanished.
Seraphina groaned from the floor, half-buried in paperwork. "Creator… please… sign the damn forms…"
Kazuo rubbed his temples. "…I hate Gary already."