Gregory. Julius Chance

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      You are my creator, but I am your master…

      (“Frankenstein” by Mary Shelley)

      Serge angrily crumbled the smoking cigarette butt onto the tea plate (he had thrown away all ashtrays long ago). One more attempt to quit smoking failed … Just a few minutes ago the image of a smoking cigarette and the acute sensation of a puff seemed to be so attractive that he again could not resist and shamefacedly went around to ask his neighbors for a cigarette. He deliberately did not go to the kiosk to buy a whole pack. Such amount would not be needed. This cigarette was supposed to be just one more and, this time, certainly the last, the very last one. Now, when the craving for nicotine was satisfied, the charm of a blue haze in his mind was again replaced by depression, arising from the realization that he was simply incapable of quitting. Serge knew that the neighbors were already sneering at him. Truck driver Basil from the fifth floor this time did not give him a smoke at all. He said that he allegedly did not have it, although, Serge knew for sure, he always had. Only old retired Maxim from the first floor helped him out. Perhaps, it would be better even if he also refused! The smoked cigarette canceled out a week of abstinence torment and broke the remaining willpower into pieces. Serge felt that this cigarette would not be the last again. In frustration, he stared at the television. The program was about the ancient pagan gods of the Maya. It was already finishing, but Serge noticed that those gods were constantly smoking. And one of them had a smoking cigar sticking out right from his forehead. Melodious like mild cocaine in blood, the idea slowly crept into Serge’s head. He jumped over to the computer and entered the key phrase into a search engine: ‘how to appeal to the smoking god of Maya.’

      Candles, cigarettes, matches and a saucer of water were at the ready. The huge full moon shone through the window. Serge turned off the lights, lit candles, lit a cigarette and blew out smoke over the saucer and began the mantra:

      “O Great God of smoking, I beg You come and help me; oh Great God of smoking, I beg You come and help me …”

      An hour passed, but nothing happened. Already losing hope, Serge yet stubbornly continued to blow out smoke over the saucer and repeat the mantra again and again. Finally, having lost faith in success completely and intending to stop the ritual, Serge suddenly heard a pleasant male baritone from behind his back:

      “Stop whining already, here I am, here, for the whole hour. The proverb is right: ‘make a fool pray to God and he will smash his forehead’.”

      Numb with fear, Serge turned slowly behind. In an armchair was sitting a man of heavenly beauty in his forties in an impeccable silver-gray suit of modern cut. His head was crowned with hair of steel-colored smoke. Serge was rendered speechless.

      “Would you excuse me for having seated in your armchair without an invitation? You understand that it would be improper for a deity to ask permission from mere mortal, don’t you?” the guest pronounced to defuse the situation utterly confusing to beggar.

      “On TV You was pictured with a cigar in your forehead,” Serge timidly uttered.

      The man took two blue cigarettes from his jacket pocket and handed one over to Serge. The second one he lit for himself. The delicious scent filled the room. Serge dragged on and instantly felt more euphoria than that of marijuana.

      “You confused me with our supreme Maya god, the so-called god K. He is somewhat like Zeus for the ancient Greeks. It is not a cigar that sticks out of his forehead, but a red-hot knife made of obsidian, volcanic glass. I am called the god L, according to your earthly terminology. I’m his junior business partner.”

      “The gods also have business partners, then?” Serge wondered at his stoned consciousness.

      “In this hypostasis I am called the Egregor of Smoking, but you can simply call me Gregory.”