Bo heard a thousand screams. He laughed, and a city fell. On his morning jog, oceans sloshed and spilled over coastlines, drowning the praying tourists and locals. It was indiscriminate destruction. Unintentional, mostly.

Bo belched, and with it came a collective cry for mercy. He shrugged. What was he to do about it? He’d tried everything he could think of: he ingested Ipecac, punched himself in the stomach, got black-out drunk, ate ghost peppers—it only made him feel sick. Sure, some of them were vacated in the violent discharge of various bodily fluids, but these things were resilient.