I decided the void needed traffic. Not cars—multiverses. Cheap, easy, one tug per cosmos. I pinched three threads at once, twisted, and POP-POP-POP—three bubble-wrap universes burst into being.
Universe #1: "Discount Olympus" A neon sign flickered: "Zeus & Co. – Lightning 50% off!" Zeus—white beard, dad-bod, flip-flops—waved a coupon. "OJAS! Buddy! Need a thunderbolt? Buy one, get one free!" I raised an eyebrow. "You're renting space in my void?" He shrugged. "Mortgage on Mount O. Inflation's a Hera." Hera stomped past, dragging a cloud-shaped suitcase. "I'm moving to the Andromeda branch. Better Wi-Fi." Philosophy 101: Even gods get evicted
Universe #2: "Buddha's Pop-Up Zen" A glowing lotus floated. Siddhartha sat cross-legged, sipping boba. "Enlightenment, now with tapioca pearls." I tried a sip. Tasted like emptiness with hints of mango. He winked. "Attachment is extra calories." I laughed so hard a black hole burped.
Universe #3: "Jesus Take the Wheel" A carpenter's truck—"JC & Sons: Miracles While U Wait"—idled on a comet. Jesus leaned out, halo slightly crooked. "Need a water-to-wine conversion? Flat rate." I pointed at the void. "Got any spare loaves?" He tossed me a baguette the size of a galaxy. "Gluten-free. You're welcome." Comedy in divinity: The Son of God runs a food truck.
I slapped price tags on each bubble:
Olympus: "Slight thunder damage"
Zen: "Mind not included"
JC: "Limited-time resurrection warranty"
The thuds pulsed—lub-dub, lub-dub—like distant customers haggling. I grinned. "Garage sale of the gods. Everything must go… including ego."