Since meeting with the man who was called Sunday, Azalaan insisted on the use of his formal name. He refused to answer questions about his moniker, and when anyone insisted, he would end the conversation completely.
He needed everyone to know who he really was, that he was no longer a mere mortal but the Idiot God in the flesh. He didn’t expect anyone to understand, and in actuality, he hoped that the use of his name would weed out his enemies. If anyone recognized his new moniker, they were likely in league with Sunday and they had likely sought him out to do some bidding of the enigmatic man with no face, who could steal the faces of others.
Azalaan was very paranoid during his sophomore year at Columbia, always looking for clues that Sunday had come for him and was manipulating him into a complex trap that he must be wary of. When he introduced himself to others, he studied them carefully for signs that they were up to something, nefarious or no. He was convinced that Sunday would be after him to take away his newfound Godhood and his life for nearly a year was very quiet and routine. He continued his sensationalist editorials where he lambasted modern American society and he often cited the works of Kurt Graham that warned of calamity in the country’s future if it refused to change course and find a new way to hold together as a nation because all of the old ones had worn away with time, eroded to nothing by apathy. Azalaan made regular appearances on cable news and around the internet on various blogs, video platforms, and podcasts. But he very consciously killed his social life, wary of allowing Sunday unnecessary access to his life should the man be plotting against him.
Then one day, as Azalaan made his way from the offices of the college newspaper to his dorm room, he was interrupted by a group of people dressed all in black. It was a hot day, summers in the city can be sweltering, but they all seemed to be wearing black long-sleeved shirts and pants and after a minute or so of cursing and looking for an alternate route, he realized that he had stumbled onto a protest that intended to block the sidewalk in front of a music store.
“Are you brave enough to join us?” a young man who noticed him standing frustrated on the sidewalk asked.
“I’m brave enough to crash through,” Azalaan said like a reflex and only barely acknowledged the young man’s presence.
“So you’ll turn a blind eye to injustice? I’m ashamed for you, brother.”
Azalaan looked at the young man with derision. “There is only one man in this world who can call me brother, and even he doesn’t, so please keep your shame and your attempt at connection, and kindly tell your compatriots to clear a path for me on the sidewalk before things get very ugly.”
The young man stared at Azalaan in disbelief.
“Descrimination against anyone allows for descrimination against everyone. Now they’re coming for transgender people, and if they succeed, black people are…”
“Is that what this is about? Transgender people?” Azalaan asked with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “What happened? Let me guess, an obvious man tried to pee standing up in the sink of the women’s bathroom so you summoned the woke brigade?”
“Wow, dude, they got you brainwashed…” the young man started.
“I’m brainwashed? You’re the one blocking a sidewalk in a heavily pedestrian city to protect the rights of like ten people who want to defy gender norms. Do you even know a transgender person personally?”
“I’m trans,” the young man said. He was shorter than Azalaan, but he squared his shoulders and stood with glaring anger in Azalaan’s face.
Azalaan eyed the young man carefully. He had brown skin and the hair on his head was neatly cut and faded along the sides. He was in all black, but wore shorts.
“What’s your name, young lady?” Azalaan asked.
The man chuckled and rolled his eyes. “It’s Stephen,” he said, “and I’m only telling you that so if anybody asks who whooped your ass today, you can tell them it was Steph the trans man.”
Steph punched Azalaan and he stumbled to maintain his footing. He immediately tasted blood in his mouth and the hit rocked him harder than he imagined was possible for someone of Steph’s size to generate.
“Holy shit,” Steph said and Azalaan steadied himself on two legs.
Azalaan spit blood from his mouth and it was oily black on the sidewalk, bubbling like it sizzled in the heat.
“You would strike a God?”
“You’re not a God,” Steph said, “I’ve heard about you, Azalaan, the pretender.” Steph eyed Azalaan with contempt and crossed his arms at his chest.
“And what have you heard?” Azalaan asked, eyeing his oily blood bubbling on the sidewalk. It had spread and oozed the sidewalk like an acid that threatened to eat it all away, but instead, it caused many of the protestors to slip, slide and fall.
“I’ve heard that you think of yourself as our leader, the HIIC, head Idiot in charge. They say you’ve talked to Sunday, but I don’t believe that. I think you started that rumor to get more followers. Sunday wouldn’t waste his time with someone like you.”
It’s finally happening, Azalaan thought to himself. It’s about damn time.
“How do you know Sunday?” he asked Steph. The protest had been completely interrupted by this point and the block where the protesters had congregated was completely covered in the slick black blood of the Idiot God. More people had gathered to gawk at the mysterious substance, some taking pictures. The owners of the music store had come out of the front door and they slipped and fell over it to the delight of most of the gathered crowd.
“Because,” Steph said smugly, “the leader of the Woke Brigade is Thursday, and after the vote tonight, that will be me. I was hand picked.”
Thursday, Azalaan thought to himself. Marlo had said that the man Kurt Graham who she learned was Sunday only spoke to his assistant and five other people that she said he identified as the proudest idiots. They must all take a name for a day of the week.
“What if I told you that I’m Monday,” Azalaan asked coolly.
Steph threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “I would say you’re full of shit. Monday rights the way, she is a glorious woman who sometimes visits all five of the Idiot cells to make sure that the common goal is forefront in all of our minds. You are not Monday, you are the pretender, claiming to be the Idiot God. Sunday declared himself the Idiot God long ago.”
Azalaan smirked.
“Surely my display of power proves something. Does your God bleed black blood?”
The commotion on the sidewalk held steady and there were more people inspecting the substance on the sidewalk.
“And how do I know you are what you say you are?” Azalaan continued. “You could be a pretender yourself.”
This seemed to agitate Steph.
“I can show you,” he growled. “You can watch me become Thursday.”
Azalaan flashed a wide smile, showing all of his teeth.
“Splendid.”
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