“Dear Lord, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Thomas Knockers was in a bad way, and it was obvious. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. The veins looked like overlapping routes on a GPS. A greater display of his discomfort was in the way he pressed the palms of his hands against his head, above the ears, as if trying to play a stubborn accordion. He was experiencing the mother of all migraines.

It was well known amongst his peers, Thomas Knockers was never a religious man, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He got down on his knees, bowed his head, closed his eyes and prayed out loud. “Lord, what the hell? Really? What have I ever done to you? Come on give a guy a break. Quid pro quo. Make my damn headache go away. Good talk. Amen. Again, good talk.”

Thomas opened his eyes, and groaned as he pulled himself up. As he stood, he stubbed his big toe hard against the bedpost. It hurt like holy hell, throbbing with profound pain. He hopped about on one foot while grabbing the other. In this process of all kinds of clumsy, he stubbed his other toe. It didn’t end there. He slipped on faux satin sheets and fell head first on the hardwood floor.

He laughed weakly as blood seeped slowly from his cracked skull and said, “Well played, God, well played.”