He had been lost for many days — perhaps as many as forty, he wasn’t sure — but one thing was certain, he had reached the highest point that he could climb without proper equipment.
Dr. Maximilian Tundra was uncertain why he had decided to climb up, instead of down, when he got separated from his trekking group in the Annapurna Himalayas. But he was glad that he had, because he wasn’t alone anymore.
He sensed a presence, no, capital P — Presence — with him as he sat on a house-sized boulder about three-thousand feet above the base camp of Annapurna I.
While he watched the avalanches rumble nearly a mile above him on the mountain, he saw a light, which grew in intensity as it seemed to come towards him. As the light got brighter, Dr. Tundra thought that he could see a figure within it, and he felt a sudden stab of fear.
“Max?” a voice asked him.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Who do you think it is, Max?”
“Well, either chronic hypoxia has messed up my temporo-parietal junction and the prefrontal cortex of my brain, or you’re God.”
“Can’t it be both, Max?”
“Sure, why not? Of course, social deprivation may be causing prefrontal lobe dysfunction, and lowering my inhibitions. And let’s be honest, God. They weren’t that high to begin with.”
“You’re speaking of your peyote addiction.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re dalliance with that made-up religion, Norse Pastafarianism.”
“I still like the idea that Vikings are the cause of all our problems,” Dr. Tundra admitted.
“Perhaps they are,” the voice suggested.
“Really?”
“Yes, and perhaps you should get serious about letting everyone know.”
“Cool. And God? Why don’t you look like spaghetti?”
Suddenly, the figure turned into a large pasta bowl, filled with linguini noodles and an aromatic Bolognese sauce; it was wearing a horned Viking helment. From within the noodles, the voice said, “because I am linguini. Now spread the word.”
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