Bobby is a vertiginous theist: if it’s above him, Bob’ll send some devotion that way. He sends prayers to pigeons, and the rain is sacred; the puddles not as much. God is in the sky, Bobby figures, and so are gods of lesser but more interesting niches. There are blimps and dirigibles and rigid airships and lost children’s balloons and hard-working science balloons and terror-pigs floating over the countryside ever since Pink Floyd came through on their last tour.
Sometimes, small planes are tailed by banners that offer helpful tips on what bar is having Ladies Night; Bobby always says a prayer for Ladies Night.
Death and poison falls from the sky in some places, but Marin is not one of them. Just goodness and sun and forgiveness and healthy rain and the occasional lost parachutist.
So, when the drone flew into his backyard, Bobby knew what to do.
“I praise you, Master of the Sky! Your 12-15 minutes of flight time brings us all joy and the sleep of the innocent! Hover over your glad children like aJESUSFUCKINGCHRISTLOOKOUT!”
“WHO’S FLYING THIS DAMN THING?”
“Billy, what the fuck!?”
“My bar band’s playing your bar this weekend. Wanted to drop by and say hi.”
“You sliced off half my mustache!”
“Yeah? Stand still, I’ll get the rest.”
“Get out of my backyard.”
“Where’s Chimenti live? Kid needs a haircut.”