Chapter Text
Have you ever been to the DMV at the edge of all known existence? (Canada) It’s a fluorescent purgatory with flickering lights and no clocks—just a single, buzzing vending machine that only sells expired shrimp chips and something called “Regret Cola.” The floor tiles spell out cryptic Latin phrases if you squint too long, and the potted plant in the corner keeps scooting an inch closer every time you look away.
Weirdly? It’s always empty. Like, you walk in and it’s just you , a glassy-eyed receptionist named Trixie (who may or may not be the well-known drag queen), and a floor that smells vaguely like wet dog. But don’t be fooled. You take a number, and BAM—you're 894th in line. Where are the other 893 people? No one knows. Maybe they got quantum-ported somewhere weird. Maybe they’re ghosts. Maybe they are the DMV now.
All I know is, my number never comes up, the air tastes like printer ink, and somewhere in the ceiling tiles, a mariachi band is playing No Surprises. Radiohead? Really? An edgelord somewhere is crying tears of joy.
It started with a sizzle.
Not the sexy kind—the kind that smells like overcooked carnitas and spite. One day, across the endless parking lot outside the DMV (which stretches into a fog that screams if you stare too long), a taco stand manifested. No ceremony, no permits. Just a flapping vinyl banner that read in Comic Sans: “Tacos de Venganza.”
Behind it stood Ramón.
No last name. No background check. Just a man, a spatula, and a grudge aged like fine tequila. His eyes had seen things—unholy things—like expired cilantro and betrayal by celestial beings. His aura? Spicy. Smoky. Mildly threatening.
And he wasn’t here to sell tacos.
He was here to settle.
See, eons ago, God (yes, that God) promised Ramón “the divine catering contract of a lifetime”—Last Supper 2: Afterparty Edition. Ramón prepped for centuries. Mole sauces, grilled cactus, those tiny blue corn tortillas that cost twelve bucks a pack. And when the holy shindig rolled around? God “forgot to budget” and paid him in exposure .
Exposure.
So when God rolled into the Canadian DMV to renew His universal admin password or maybe get a photo retake (He blinked in the last one—embarrassing), Ramón was waiting. In his apron. Holding a deck of glowing cards made from dried oregano.
“I challenge you,” Ramón said, slamming the table down between two cracked curbs of reality. “Poker. One hand. Winner takes all.” God looked up from His paperwork and squinted. “Taco guy?”
Ramón didn’t blink. “Taco legend.”
And just like that, Trixie—our DMV receptionist/drag queen/eternal oracle—stood up, wiped glitter off her clipboard, and took her place at the folding table. She cracked her knuckles and adjusted her wig with the grace of a thousand timelines.
“Texas Hold ‘Em,” she said, her voice echoing across planes of existence. “Ante up, divinity.”
The cards were dealt.
“Hey-ey ey ey, wait a second. Taco guy–” God starts, but Ramóne cuts him off. “It’s RAMÓNE, idiota cabron!” God’s eye twitched. “Right, whatever. Ramóne. What exactly do you mean by ‘winner takes all’?”
“Winner takes everything, ” Ramóne said, his spatula glinting like the Sword of Damocles dipped in queso. “Your domains, your creations, your multiverse. All of it. On the table like a soggy napkin.” Trixie dealt the flop with a bored flourish. “Let’s keep it civil, boys. And by civil I mean campy with threats of annihilation. Thank you.”
God, now visibly sweating behind His bifocals (yes, He wears bifocals—turns out omniscience doesn’t cover astigmatism), leaned back. “You can’t just take the multiverse. That’s—there are protocols. ” Ramóne never breaks eye contact. “There’s a protocol for stiffing a caterer, too. You broke it.”
That's when the ground rumbled.
Not the dramatic, Hollywood kind of rumble. No. This was subtle. Personal. Like a judgmental aunt clearing her throat behind you at a family dinner. I looked up from chair #894, my Regret Cola fizzing violently in my hand, as the ceiling tiles shifted to play the bridge of No Surprises in 3/4 time. Something was happening.
And then—
“EMMY, TO WINDOW THREE.”
I blinked.
No one ever got called up. Not in all the eons I’d been waiting here, slowly becoming one with the upholstery. But there it was, in bold red pixelated font above Trixie’s head. My number. My name . Trixie looked over her bejeweled cat-eye glasses. “You heard the void, sugar. Come on up.”
“Is this about my health card?” I asked, standing on shaky legs, cola sloshing.
“Not unless your health card covers divine asset repossession,” she said, waving me forward. “God’s about to lose everything, and guess who’s the lucky little mortal pre-assigned to collect on cosmic debt?”
“…Me?”
“You.”
I stumbled toward the poker table. When I got there, Ramóne gave me a curt nod. God looked panicked. “What’s she doing here?” He sputtered. Trixie popped her gum. “She’s the Collector. Read the fine print.”
“I thought the Collector was supposed to be a towering eldritch being—”
“And I am, ” I said, slamming my Regret Cola onto the table with divine authority. “Just... in a more approachable form.” Ramóne grinned, flipping a card. “River’s down. Time to show your hand.” God, reluctantly, laid His cards down: a pair of sevens. Weak. Mortal. Desperate.
Ramóne flipped his.
Royal flush. In tacos. Yes, the cards were tacos.
Trixie clapped once. “And that’s game. Congrats, Ramóne. You now own the multiverse.” Ramóne raised a brow. “Actually, I’m outsourcing management.”
Everyone turned to me.
Me. Emmy. A girl with zero formal experience in cosmic administration, but a lot of opinions and a Pinterest board titled “If I Were God, LOL.” “I accept,” I said, casually grabbing the multiverse like it was a tote bag on clearance. The sky turned magenta. A choir of possums sang Bohemian Rhapsody in reverse. The DMV walls melted into an IKEA showroom of forgotten dreams.
And just like that?
I was God now.
And I had plans.
Step one of being God?
Fire the moon.
Not because it did anything wrong , per se. But because it was giving the same energy as that coworker who does absolutely nothing but still gets Employee of the Month. Honestly, it’s been just sitting there , tide-ing and reflecting like a glowy little freeloader. So I replaced it with a disco ball. Big one. Sparkly. Visible from Neptune. Nights are now 74% more fabulous.
Trixie approved. Ramóne blinked once and handed me a burrito the size of a baby walrus. “Fuel for management,” he said.
God? He just sat on the DMV curb, drinking Regret Cola and muttering about “back in my eternity…” Poor guy. I gave Him a universal severance package, including a coupon for half-off therapy and a bumper sticker that says “I Built the Cosmos and All I Got Was This Lousy Enlightenment.” I’m not a vengeful deity. I’m more of a “chaos but make it stylish” type. I kept the Earth, deleted Twitter (you're welcome), and turned Australia into a sentient marsupial rave that runs on recycled water bottles. The oceans now taste like LaCroix. All frogs are legally allowed to scream at 3AM.
Oh, and cats can vote now. And they’re already mad about it.
Somewhere in the background, the potted DMV plant (which turned out to be named Greg ) gained sentience, unionized all other foliage, and is currently running for President of Reality under the “Photosynthesis First” party. I support him, though I’m slightly concerned about his stance on mandatory chlorophyll injections. But here's the thing about becoming God: people start expecting answers.
“Why are we here?”
“What’s the meaning of life?”
“Why do mosquitoes exist if I’m a good person?”
And honestly? I have no clue.
But I do know this:
The multiverse is mine now, and I’m gonna run it like a whimsical little fever dream with a side of salsa verde. I’ll make mistakes. I’ll probably forget to water some dimensions. But I promise you this:
There will be glitter.
There will be gnomes.
And no one, NO ONE, will ever be paid in “exposure” again.
<END OF CHAPTER ONE>