The Eschaton debacle (p. 328)
The only harried-looking person on the 1300-m.2 map is Otis P. Lord, who has to keep legging it from one continent to another […] Lord having to dramatize manually the effortless dictates of real logic and necessity […] removing vaporized articles of clothing from sites of devastating hits and just woppsing them up or folding them over at the sites of near-hits and fizzle yields […] it’s a nerve-racking job, he’s more or less having to play God […]
Context
Game-master Otis P. Lord mid-game, pushing his crazy-wheeled hospital food cart from continent to continent. The map needs a God to keep representation synced to event — and God here is a thirteen-year-old with chapped hands and a running nose, folding vaporized T-shirts by hand. The labor of keeping a map honest, played for comedy before it's played for catastrophe. ("1300-m.2" is the raw's flattening of the print superscript.)