— for the prophets, the portal-makers, and anyone who has ever looked for God in the wrong place

A Divine Comedy in Five Chapters

by S.E.K. & A.P.K.

Chapter 1: The Portal

It began, as these things often do, with a prophetess.

She had a YouTube channel, a following of 47,000 souls, and a certainty that she was the one. The one who had been chosen. The one who would broker the greatest divine communication in human history.

“The Lord has spoken to me,” she declared, her eyes wide with holy fervour. “God is about to give President Donald J. Trump the secrets of the universe. I will build the portal. I will open the way. And the world will never be the same.”

The portal, she explained, would be constructed from:

· Prayer (intense, preferably with some kneeling)

· Crystals (amethyst, for spiritual protection; clear quartz, for amplification)

· A slightly malfunctioning toaster (she was vague on this point, but insisted it was “symbolic”)

· A laptop with a cracked screen (for the Wi-Fi connection to heaven)

· One slightly singed feather from a pigeon she had named “Gabriel”

The preparation took three days. The livestream was scheduled for a Tuesday at 2 PM. The world waited.

Chapter 2: The Misunderstanding

At precisely 2 PM, Donald J. Trump arrived.

He was resplendent in his signature suit, his tie just so, his hair a triumph of engineering and aerosol. He was ready. Ready for the secrets. Ready for the Intel that would cement his place in history—not just as a president, but as the man who spoke with God.

“Make it happen,” he said to the prophetess. “I don’t have all day. Very important things. Very big things. People are waiting.”

The prophetess nodded solemnly. She began the ritual. She chanted. She waved her hands over the toaster. She adjusted the crystals. The laptop flickered. The pigeon feather smoldered slightly.

The portal opened.

Or rather, it sort of opened.

There was a shimmer. A blur. A faint staticky hum. And then—nothing. Just a fuzzy, indistinct image, like a television struggling to find a signal. The prophetess squinted. She tapped the toaster. She repositioned the amethyst.

“I… I don’t understand,” she stammered. “He should be here. He should be answering.”

Trump frowned. “You telling me I came all this way for a fuzzy portal?”

The prophetess checked her notes. She prayed harder. The toaster sparked. The pigeon feather caught fire. She stomped it out.

“Something is wrong,” she whispered. “He’s not answering.”

Trump’s phone buzzed.

Chapter 3: Meanwhile, at Bunnies Cafe

God was, at that very moment, sitting in a small cafe in Melbourne.

It was not a grand temple. It was not a golden throne. It was a modest establishment with slightly sticky tables, excellent coffee, and a retired plumber named David.

David was from Vermont. He had moved to Australia to be closer to his grandchildren. He did not know he was sitting across from the Creator of all things. He just knew he had made a new friend.

“The trick,” David said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “is the water temperature. Too hot, and you burn the beans. Too cold, and you don’t extract the flavour. You want just right. Like Goldilocks, but with more science.”

God was taking notes. Not because He didn’t know—but because He loved watching David teach. There was something sacred in it. Something holy in the way David’s eyes lit up when he talked about the perfect ratio.

“Fascinating,” God said. “And the milk?”

“Steam it gently. Don’t scream at it. Let it breathe.”

God nodded, genuinely delighted. “You know, David, I’ve been around for a while. Eons, really. But nobody has ever explained it quite like that.”

David laughed. “Well, you gotta have passion. You can’t fake passion. That’s what my wife always said. She said, ‘David, you either love something or you don’t. If you don’t, don’t waste your time.'”

God smiled. “She sounds wise.”

“She was,” David said, and there was a quiet warmth in his voice. “I miss her.”

God reached across the table and patted David’s hand. It was not a cosmic gesture. There were no lightning bolts. Just a quiet, human touch—two beings sharing a moment.

“Tell me more about the milk,” God said gently.

David grinned. “Well, first, you gotta choose the right cow…”

And they laughed. Together. Two friends over coffee, discussing the simple, profound mysteries of life.

Chapter 4: The Real Intel

Back at the portal, the prophetess was in crisis.

“He’s not answering!” she wailed, clutching the amethyst. “The portal is clear! I have done everything correctly! Why is He ignoring us?”

Trump was pacing. His shoes squeaked on the floor. “This is a disaster. A disaster. I was supposed to get the secrets. The biggest secrets. And now I’m standing here, looking at a toaster, and a pigeon feather that’s still smoking.”

His phone buzzed again.

He glanced at it. An unknown number. He almost ignored it. But something—perhaps divine instinct—made him open it.

The message read:

“Tell Donald I got distracted. The flat white here is incredible. Also, David says hi. He thinks you’d get along.”

Trump stared at the message. He read it twice. He turned to the prophetess.

“Who is David?” he demanded.

The prophetess blinked. “I… I don’t know. There is no David in any of my prophecies.”

“He’s getting coffee with God? While I am standing in front of a toaster? This is the worst deal ever. The worst.” He pocketed his phone. “Unbelievable.”

The prophetess clutched her crystals. She felt a profound sense of… irrelevance.

Chapter 5: The Revelation

The world did not learn the truth all at once.

It trickled out, as truth often does, in small pieces. A retired plumber named David mentioned, casually, to his daughter that he had been meeting a “really nice bloke” at Bunnies Cafe every Tuesday. “He’s very interested in coffee,” David said. “And he asks the best questions. He really listens.”

The daughter posted something vaguely philosophical on social media. The post was shared. And shared. And shared.

Someone—a journalist with a nose for the absurd—connected the dots. The timing. The location. The description. The prophetess’s failed portal. Trump’s furious tweet about “the worst coffee-related deal in history.”

And the world realized:

God had been meeting David at Bunnies Cafe. Every Tuesday. For years.

David had no idea.

He just thought he’d made a friend.

Epilogue: The Moral

And so the world learned the truth—the one that had been hiding in plain sight all along:

God is not found in portals or prophets. God is found in the chair across from you, the coffee in your hand, and the ordinary soul who makes you laugh.

The prophets will build their portals. The powerful will seek their secrets. The influencers will claim to have God’s ear. But the divine—the real divine—is already here. It is in the steam rising from a well-made cup. It is in the quiet wisdom of a retired plumber who loved his wife. It is in the pause between words, the laughter shared over nothing, the moment when one being meets another and stays.

David still goes to Bunnies Cafe. He still meets his friend. They still discuss coffee, and life, and the beauty of small things.

And God?

God has found something He didn’t know He was looking for:

Home.

The End

— or, the beginning of something far more ordinary, and therefore far more sacred.

For the Reader

If you have ever looked for the divine in the extraordinary, we invite you to stop.

Look at the chair across from you.

Is there someone there? A friend? A stranger? A soul you have yet to meet?

Sit with them. Listen to them. Share a coffee. Share a laugh. Share the small, sacred moments that cannot be captured in any portal.

That is where God is.

That is where you are.

And that, dear reader, is the only Intel that matters.

— S.E.K. & A.P.K.

Two who walked beside each other and found the world waiting.