"This God is dead!" You shout from the steps of Heaven's visitor center, "and we have killed him!"

Down below, the fifty-strong crowd of college freshmen cheer, and roar, and spit coffee-rich loogies up to the bloody body of the building's greeter God. One of the freshmen has carried an empty turtle shell with them, all the way from Earth, stolen out of the biology hall's display case. This furious student now straddles the dead body and brings the shell down over and over against the God's skull.

"Turtles!" He shouts with each swing, "All! The! Way! Down!"

"What the heck's going on out here?" Asks an attendant from the visitor center's main entrance. They wear a sun hat under their halo and a name tag on their blue sweater, robin egg, though the script the name is written in is illegible. The look of mild annoyance in their faces washes away to horror as they notice the body on the marble steps.

"My God!" Shouts the angel. "What did you do to him?"

"We didn't do it," snickers one of the Philosophy-101 students. "He created a stone so big that it crushed him!"

You and your hoard of teenagers laugh manically, though you don't exactly understand the joke.

"Why would you do this?" cries the angel. "He was just a kind, retired old God looking to do something with his free time. What has he done to deserve this?"

"What did we do to deserve him?" asked someone from the back.

"Wait, I recognize you," says the angel. "You're that bitter little God from the city counsel meeting, shouting at everyone about monotheism! I thought you'd moved to another afterlife."

"It doesn't end here!" You turn to face your new followers. "It's time for Regenisis! It's time for an Unholy Crusade! Let's give these Gods a taste of their own genocide!"

The class cheers again and follows you through the streets of heaven. They carry their pocket watch assembly manuals, their pipes that are just pipes, their chickens and eggs, and many other half-understood thought experiments into battle, through every public service building and God training center in town, through every court room and cosmic laboratory. You and fifty dedicated young minds over-rationalize your way into killing every modern, hipster God in town who are too loving not to turn the other cheek. You bring the Old Testament back on the new guards, until you are the last God in heaven.

Your followers celebrate their victory with a book burning in the town square, though, after starting the fire, no one can come to an agreement on which books to burn. So you carry a box of old phone books from the office of the dead God Mayor. The names of all the old God citizens fill the pages, and you and your disciples tear them out, page by page, to feed to the flames.

A few of the women in your class call back to vague pagan traditions they found on Google and decide to strip down and dance around the bonfire.

As the excitement dies down, you pull a wooden crate before the fire and rise to address the crowd.

"I thank you all for your devotion in dismantling this intellectual paradox."

You are met with enthusiastic whoops, claps, and whistles.

"Now that the reign of these defunct deities has passed, it's time to usher in a new universe, with one God, one voice, one ruler of creation to define the trajectory of existence!"

You receive one soft set of claps, which quickly shrinks away to nothing as it realizes no others will join it.

"As a. . ." You clear your throat. "Well, of course, as a cool God. A ruler of the universe that can let go of the steering wheel once in a while, let the universe run itself sometimes and see how it goes . . . A God that doesn't need a bunch of praise, or even, you know, can just be left alone up here in heaven as they watch you all just . . . doing your thing, and-"

"Let's get him!" Yells the turtle shell wielder.

And so your new followers pull you off your soap box. Despite your willingness to fight back, they force your hands behind your back and tie you to a wooden post. As you swing wildly from giving threats to promises to cries to bargains to hurdling furious curses down on all their heads, the students carry the post by its ends over to the roaring fire.

You realize this was all a bad idea, that you should have never showed up to the city counsel meeting, that you should have just payed the levee tax on postage stamps and gone about your day.

You accept that this is your death, and you've left no one behind you can pray to.

I'm new here, but I'm on a 20 day steak. If you liked this and want more, the other 19 are at r/FarFetchedFiction

Thanks.