They called me Azathoth, The Blind God.

They told me all of creation was only a dream I had concocted in my ignorance. They said if I were to truly awaken, the fabric of reality would rupture down to loose threads, and every other conscious being would fade from sentience, in this existence and all others.

They asked to be spared in return for their unwavering devotion.

I asked if I could clarify what they'd meant by approaching me.

"So all you little red riding hoods have become convinced that the threads of your lives, and the lives of any loved ones you have, are being plucked on a single near-infinitely large harp that exists in the ear of a sleeping space squid God."

The first of the red-cloaked figures nodded. "More or less."

"And after observing my mundane behaviors, you've pieced together that I must secretly be the mortal incarnation of your deity who, again, upon waking up will essentially stop plucking the strings and collapse all of existence back in on itself."

"By means great, terrible, and unfathomable." The worshipper smiled.

"Can I see that stick?" I asked, pointing to his steel-headed cane. I thanked him for handing it over, then I brought it down firmly on the top of his head.

Whether I am this God or not, folks need to learn how to let sleeping dogs lie.

I'm on day 26 of a streak. If you'd like to read some of the other 25 days, they're at r/FarFetchedFiction.

Thanks.