Hugging the pavement of Liverpool’s Oxford Street is a small hedge of spindly trunked trees. Somewhere close by, close enough to be self-pamperingly symbolic, eighty, and a few, years ago John Lennon was born. In a knobbly hollow of a tree of this thicket is a nest of compacted owl pellets in which a lilac pockmarked egg the size of a cola can is squatting.

A jagged black crack crept across the egg’s crown and a chick raised its slime slick head. The chick's eyes were glaring half moons. Amon’s head revolved a full three sixty under his eggshell flat cap. Beelzebub. No, wait.

Amon’s beak fell and his eyes widened dramatically, glossily catching the crisp light and giving the rest of his head the appearance of a deflated balloon. Hypermnestra. Queen of the Danaids, operating a possessed Barbie doll. It's peroxide wig was puffing madly around it’s naked plastic joints defying all laws of center of gravity as it walked tiptoe through Atlantis.

Around her, contained within a stolen and re-purposed snow globe the miniature subsurface theme park span, beeped, flashed and jingled with Alps, pixies, Imps, fairies and discarded possessed toys which were the only vehicle by which anything over thirteen inches could get a ticket. Trailing behind her on its edge through the bamboozle of packed roller coasters, water rides, merry-go-rounds and sky-riders was an envelope.

Relatively in Amon’s inner eye it was the size of a lorry next to Barbie and for what it contained, The Letter of Last Resort, for his Faith, it was going to wallop like one.

At the center of Atlantis were five bridges radiating inwards to a small island where a crumbling Mesopotamian temple loomed over the once great, now miniature, city. Jets of Mediterranean sea waterfalled off the temple’s pyramidic tip crashing to pool beneath the bridges. Up an escalator ride Barbie entered the temple’s mouth and the envelope span dizzily, skimming the polished opal floor to rest at her father’s sarcophagus.

The lid’s chiseled rendition of the demonic merman quivered.

Amon snapped back to itself gulping so hard it’s tiny, frisbees of cheeks up and lifted a centimeter out of its face. She has the worst taste in men. Not that Faith had ever expressed any taste in men but what a first. She should join a convent. Amon would get her a nice vibrator instead.

Oh, it was too late. With Verrine and Mammon gone there was space in the hierarchy for a newly active god and Hypermnestra's mother was very ill. Sala, Gia, pick a name stick with it. Honestly, he'd been Amon deity of groovy chill since the dawn of time.

Extermination. How long was he out? There was a very good reason why you didn’t mess with the divine. It fragments destiny. The Fates, were, furious. Addy had placed herself in an opioid induced coma. Honestly it all goes to pot and who's left fighting? They were such bullies. Speaking of bullies. Worse. God. The first God. Father God.

Oh god.

He had to warn Faith.

Chicklet Amon dematerialised incredulously.