With a slight chortle on her lips, she read the words. Then looked back up.
“That’s not a word; that’s not English.”
The deity lowered the glasses he wore for fashion only and cocked up an eyebrow. “Oh, do you think you know the reality of the situation? I was there when language was formed—I saw the very concept spring forth.”
“Still not English,” she said, crossing her arms. She took a sip from her tenth cup of coffee.
The god stared at her for a second more, debating vaporizing her. But she was a college student, and he was Pro-Cras, the god of students, brunches, all-nighters, and craft beer. To kill her would be to commit a serious infraction of his branding.
“Fine, fair, and well met. But, if you put these words in your essay, Mr. Brian will pass you—he will. And he will have not a choice in the matter.”
“What are they?” she asked.
“Old words, magic words. They were the words spoken by the first college student to successfully bullshit his way through his thesis.”
“Look, that’s just how magic sounds. I am a god, you know. I give you this gift, do you not want it?”
“No, no. Thank you, I do want it,” she said, sipping at her eleventh cup of coffee. “I just…I guess… I was expecting a more dramatic thing for sacrificing Jim.”
The god looked down at the lanky boy with his organs exposed and his heart laying on the most expensive college textbook in the curriculum.
“Eh, pomp and circumstance is so…”
“—cliché, you’re right,” she replied. “Thank you, oh Pro-Cras, for this gift.”
“Damn right,” he said, sipping his trillionth cup of quad espresso.