At first, I thought it was was Raiden making another of his desperate attempts to befriend me - he's been hanging around a lot, telling me about things he sees in the park - and when I awoke to find Max's severed head in the bed next to me, I thought he was trying to win me over with kindness. (Don't worry, I've sewn Max's head back onto his body, he's fine now)
Then, yesterday, a Mafia Don arrived at my house and demanded I cast his nephew in my new film. I tried to explain I didn't make films, and also - through a complex series of events that required much genealogical enterprise on my behalf - explain to the Don he had no nephew. But in the end, I had no luck in either endeavour.
In a beautiful voice, one of the Mafia goons began to sing in Italian. The moving, dramatic score provided the perfect background music for the other two henchmen, who set fire to my living room.
Beside me, in a flash of lightening, Raiden appeared.
"Help! Fire!" I yelled enthusiastically at him.
"Oh." He sulked. "You barely talk to me, but now you need something.... Well, I'll see what I can do."
In Raiden's defence, of course, he didn't have mastery over rain or water or anything. But after the first few attempts, it should have become evident to him that lightening was not the solution to my problem. Huge bolts of the stuff flew from the sky, immolating my already smouldering shrubbery and destroying my carefully arranged garden Scrabble board. The roof of my house gave way under the combined forces of fire and a different fire, caused by lightening, which was to all effects and purposes identical to the first fire.
I sighed, and went into the garage. I'd lost everything, especially the beehive that had been growing ever larger under my gutters. Those bees were meant to sustain me through old age, providing flying nourishment and sexual gratification...
Oh well, this isn't real life. Don't cry for me, I'm already fictional.