This does, in fact, knock John flat on his ass. He lets it. As the dust clears and the bits of bone go pattering across their stadium, he takes a good look at whatever that was. He takes mental notes. He'd love to buy this guy a drink and ask how, and what, and if he could get another couple demonstrations for science.

Still, one thing can be said of God: he is never, never, done with the shenanigans.

The roar of the crowd is a welcome surge of noise, even if they're not roaring for him. It's still his show. He sits up, straightens his shirt, knocks a couple pebbles out of his hair. It has the feel of a pratfall routine. Around them, the shattered skeletons rise and reassemble.

"Best two out of three?"