Almost four weeks since the last rain, and Haka and Jot feel anxious eyes as they mount the low steps to the altar. Around them, the wooden gods glare down, limbs fetal, teeth sharp.
“What may we offer, mighty ones?” Jot begs.
They cast carved bones for an answer. Haka carefully sets them in line.
“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA–,” he reads.
They do it again.
“–AAAAAAAAAAAAAATS,” Haka concludes.
“SRSLY,” adds Jot, reading the littlest ones.
They get a bunch of novelty baseball caps at the tourist shop downtown and stick them on the gods. Then they cast a third time.
“FUCK YEEEEEEEAA–,” Haka reads.