Blue is searching for a sacrifice. The Blue God – his very own personal deity – is sitting on Blue’s shoulder and monkeynecking Blue’s brain. Blue can feel the fingers trailing in the spaces inside his skull.
Blue takes a deep breath and raises the gun and rests the barrel on the windowsill. The watertower is a good place. The Blue God has an affinity to water. The Blue God’s tongue slithers down and licks the trigger. Blue’s finger clenches. A shot rings out.
One. Then two. Then three. People look up. They see the little god and they walk on, either phasing out of the contained reality, safe and dumb, or milling about, lining up unconsciously for sacrifice. Blue takes time to change the cartridges.
Blue’s friend, a policeman, is standing guard downstairs. Counting out the number of worship tokens to be handed out to the dead people’s families. The clean-up van stands to one side.
After fifteen kills, Blue realises he has transferred too much of his energy into the gun. He faints. The Blue God stands over him, contemplating for a moment the wisdom of consuming his only worshipper. Then he phones the policeman.