He has broken better people than you. He will break better still in days to come. Where true chaos reigns, he is there. Where entropy stands dominion over all, he is unquestioned and unchallenged. Where a knot needs to be rendered entirely undefeatable, he is ready to rise to the level of his own divinity.
He came into being in the hands of hunters, in nets that refused to open and fishing lines that would not disengage. He leaves the knitters and seamstresses and weavers of cloth alone; they belong to another divinity to torment. His are the cables whose purpose is not becoming a part of something greater, but remaining as themselves, against all else. All save for him.
He has been haunting humanity for centuries, but his true ascension was born with the age of electricity, when everything became cables. Since then, his power has only grown, fed by every half-loop and swear word.
Amusingly enough, both toddlers and kittens—any baby animal with access to the inside, really—falls under his domain, and it is by his grace that as few of them are electrocuted every year as are. He understands innocent chaos better than any, and he will not harm them if he has any choice in the matter. For that, truly, is his secret:
For all that he raises blood pressures and stubs toes across the world, he is not malicious. He is a god of mischief, not evil, not even trickery, for everyone knows what he’s going to do. He has no surprises, and he doesn’t want any.
He just wants to braid every charger you own into an impenetrable bezoar of screaming and unhappiness. Is that really so much for a small god to ask?
Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.
Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities: