Legs

In his doomsday bunker the angel sighed. King Kong, whom he had heavily backed, failed to destroy the world, and now his hedge, the King Kong Cafe, was failing. King Kong and cheese croissants were just more of mortality than we liked to face at brunch, as fellow primates and so-far-failed destroyers of the world, though there was hope, the angel investor considered, pacing the warren of his doomsday bunker. It had been such a pleasure to design, and now he wished, unreasonably, to have some more legitimate use for it, the cleverly simulated skylights with light source slowly shifting as in the course of a sunny day, the manly his bathroom and the less manly hers bathroom for the wife he may yet find, his Eve, as he couldn’t help styling her. On his cloud the archangel sighed. He had invested heavily in this man, and, alas, man in general. But such apocalyptic egocentricities and doomsday burrowing, he considered, might not be such a clear signal to get out, as his fellow archangels advised him, having no doubt forgotten, just as surely as had our man himself, this seemingly aspiring Adam, that as a boy he had gazed, so that his mother had to pull him away, at the prairie dogs of the Turtle Back Zoo, surfacing, standing so manlike on hind legs, nose alert and curiously twitching.