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“Very well, since you are the verbal acrobat who walks the tightrope of the zeitgeist, educate me. How should I have responded?”
“First, get rid of ‘well.’ Nobody uses that anymore either. Now they always say, ‘I’m good.’ ”
Leif frowned. “But that is grammatically improper.”
“These people don’t care about proper. You can tell them they’re trying to use an adjective as an adverb and they’ll just stare at you like you’re a toad.”
“Their educational system has suffered serious setbacks, I see.”
“Tell me about it. So what you should have said was, ‘I’m not stoked like you, Atticus, but I’m chill.’ ”
“I’m ‘chill’? That means I am well—or good, as you say?”
“Correct.”
“But that’s nonsense!” Leif protested.
“It’s modern vernacular.” I shrugged. “Date yourself if you want, but if you keep using nineteenth-century diction, people will start to think you’re a spooky bastard.”
“They already think that.”
Afficher en entier“Leif, you spooky bastard, how the hell are ya?”
Afficher en entierTurns out that when you kill a god, people want to talk to you. Paranormal insurance salesmen with special “godslayer” term life policies. Charlatans with “god-proof” armor and extraplanar safe houses for rent. But, most notably, other gods, who want to first congratulate you on your achievement, second warn you not to try such shenanigans on them, and finally suggest that you try to slay one of their rivals—purely as a shenanigan, of course.
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