Word spread. Gods lined up like Black Friday shoppers. I set up a velvet rope and a sign: "One multiverse per deity. No refunds."
Athena rolled in on a tank made of owl feathers. "Need a war strategy?" I handed her a Rubik's Cube. "Solve this first." She solved it in 3 seconds, then declared war on the cube. Boom. New battlefield universe.
Krishna arrived playing flute, peacocks in tow. "Wanna co-create a love story?" I blushed (gods blush?). "Working on it." He smirked. "Take your time. I've got 108 chapters." Philosophy: Romance is a sitcom with infinite seasons.
Thor hammered Mjolnir on the counter. "Need storms?"
I pointed to Zeus's discount bin. "Already covered." Thor sulked, accidentally created a tornado of mead. We all got drunk on existence.
Jesus returned with a clipboard. "Customer feedback: 'Too many loaves, not enough fish.'" I conjured a sushi multiverse. He gave it two thumbs up and a halo sticker.
The thuds syncopated—lub-dub-lub-dub—like laughter in the queue. I whispered to the void, "If enlightenment is a garage sale, ego is the junk we can't price."