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’.”
