Floating in the middle of the kitchen, just below eye level, Martin puckered and blinked his bulging eyes. Swirls of water lolled about him, aqueous satellites to a tiny, fishy planet. Every utensil, plate, cup, and bowl were strewn about, some cracked and others shattered outright.

“Theodore,” intoned Martin’s voice, more a whisper at the back of Theodore’s head than anything, “I…am…a…god.”

The chill running up his spine seemed to kick forward an ill-chosen response, “But I bought you at Wal-Mart. For a buck fiftyseven.”

“Well,” came Martin’s voice, perhaps a little sheepishly, “I didn’t say the god.”

Eyes surveying the mess, Theodore couldn’t help but ask, “Um, and my kitchen…”

“We have work to do, my friend.”

“Yes, I know—cleaning up my frakking kitchen.”

“Sorry. I was, you know, working some things out.”

“Like frustrations?”

“No.” Martin paused. “Thinking. Figuring. Theodore, I’ll level with you. I fear I may not be a god but merely a telepathic and telekinetic fish.”