"God?" Joan called.

He did not turn around as she expected him to do. It was God, or at least looked like the cute-God that she had been crushing on since their eyes had connected on the bus. Oh, yes, it was God, yet it was not God. His hair was as short as it had ever been, but it platinum blonde with bright red in it; some of it actually had an orange tint to it. As well, now it was in it liberty spikes. Even his garb had altered: baggy black pants, with a wallet chain, and studded belt. A black shirt that clung to the youthful appearing boy, with white words on it, but she could not make out what they said.

Joan jogged up to his retreating figure, and as she reached him, she tapped his shoulder. Turning around, she was met with the familiar face. This time, though, his eyes were outlined in eye liner, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. For a moment they stared at one another, both surprised.

"G-God?" she asked once more.

"Excuse me?" even his voice was the same.

"Oh," giggled Joan, nervously, "I'm sorry, I-I thought you were someone else.

Through his tough exterior, the boy smiled genuinely. It surprised Joan to actually see someone who looked so uapprachable, to smile a soft, sweet smile. It was quite infectious, so Joan smiled back, feeling her face grow warm.

"You thought I was God?"

"Uh," she pondered for a moment, "Nickname."

"You know a guy, who resembles me, and you call him God?"

"Well . . . yes,"

"I guess I should take that as a compliment," and, he chuckled whole-heartedly.

They stood there, staring at one another, dumbly. Joan shook her head, wondering if God was playing a trick on her. Perhaps he was pretending to be a normal boy . . . well, as normal as one could get with wearing a spiked dog collar, black eye liner, a studded belt, and spiked bracelets. All in all, the boy that stood before her was a perfect candidate for the punk-goth president.

"Is there something wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, face growing dark with resentment.

"No-no," Joad stuttered, "Oh, God, no. Uh . . . I just can't get over it: you look so much like my - uh . . . friend."

"God?"

"Yeah . . ." she trailed off, noticing a little girl swinging on a swing.

The young girl was about eight years olde or so, and she smiling a secret smile, that only He could smile. The little girl waved at Joan, or waved as much as she could with a rather large lolli-pop clutched in her tiny fist.

"Is that your little sister, or something?" the boy questioned, breaking Joan's cogitations.

"Huh?" Joan said, cocking her head to one side, "Oh, no, just . . . someone I baby sit sometimes."

"Well, she looks like she wants to talk to you, so . . . I'll just go,"

"Wait," Joan touched his forearm, bringing his attention back to her, "I'm Joan, Joan Girardi."

"Torc," he simple said, grinning mischieviously, "Torc Hearte. Catch ya' on the flipside."

With a wave, Torc was gone, finally lighting his cigarette as he walked on down the street. That name - his name sounded so familiar somehow. Throwing off the sense of deja vu, Joan made her way to the little girl. She sat down on a swing next to the girl, feeling a bit nostalgic.

"So, it wasn't you?"

"Nope," the girl giggled.

"Then, who was it?"

"Torc Hearte,"

"I know what his name is, but why was he in your form?"

"Actually," she slowed down her swinging, "I was in his form."

"But, then, how . . ."

"He was miles and miles away when I took his form, on another continent actually,"

"And, now?"

"And, now, what?" God inquired, nonchalantly, flipping a pig-tail out of his eyes.

"What do I need to do, now? Join a convent, and start a car wash? Or, maybe take part in the Herbology club at school?"

The small girl peered up at Joan; their swinging had ceased, and the only thing making a sound were the birds in the nearby trees. It was Summer, and of course there was no wind, no rain, or no future promises of it cooling off anytime soon. A few beads of sweat gathered upon Joan's forehead - she briskly wiped them away, hoping that God was not in a rambling mood today. Currently, she was day dreaming of vegging on the couch in front of the television, letting the AC wash away all her troubles.

"Actually," God drawled, slowly, "I'm releasing you of your duties."

"Oh, that's . . . wait! Did you say releasing me? Why? Is this a trick, because I am so not in the mood . . ."

"Joan," God interrupted, "Let me explain. If you so choose, you're released from your duties. There's just one catch."

"Which is?" Joan anxiously, asked.

"You have to choose your predecessor,"

Joan blinked rapidly, then took a double take at God. He was smiling, genuinely smiling. Damn him, she thought, seriously, he just lays a butt-load of stress onto my shoulders, and all he can do is smile. God licked the lolli pop in his hands, lips and tongue turning more blue each time he did so.

"I have to choose," Joan practically shouted, "Why do I have choose. You chose me to do your work, so just go choose another!"

"It's not that simple," God explained, "You have to actually pass on you gift."

"What gift? It's not like I'm the only one that can see you, I'm just the only one crazy enough to believe who you actually are,"

"Joan, Joan, Joan," God sighed, heavily, "I gave you the gift of supreme compassion. Why do you think you feel so much, so much that you're in tune with other's pain, with other's happiness?"

"Hormones?"

"Ah," chuckled God, "Yes, Joan, your unique ability to see into one's soul is due to one, great, big hormone."

"Okay," she rolled her eyes, "So, sometimes I get overwhelmed by emotion. I'm a teenage girl, who is practically driven by instability, PMS, and boy-craziness."

"You forgot one thing,"

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Me - you're driven by me,"

"Alright, already, I'm driven by you, too, in more ways than one," Joan finally conceded, "So, what'd I gotta' do to pass on this gift? And, what if this person doesn't want it? What if this person doesn't believe? What if I accidentally give it to a Satanist? Oh, yeah, that'll be a grand time for you, wouldn't it?"

"Joan?" God asked.

"Yes," she replied, still pondering over who she was going to give it to, "I know who I'm going to give it to! Lenny Parker: I hate that guy! And, he's a total pyromaniac to boot, too."

"Joan?" God asked again a bit louder than before.

"He always smells like sulfur, not to mention he's a chain smoker . . ."

"Joan!!!"

"Sheesh, no need to yell, God," she snipped, "I'm right here."

"You are not giving it to Lenny Parker,"

"Okay-okay, but who am I suppose to give it to, then?"

"You'll know when you meet them,"

"Hey . . ."

"No, it's not, Torc,"

"Fine," she pouted, "But, I still wanna' give it to Lenny."