A Modern Genesis About Adam The Action Figure, Error Code Eve, and the Hotspot Serpent
Every story has to start somewhere—even if it’s just a test run in the world’s first garden. He was the beta user. No manual, no roadmap. Just a spark, a rib, and a rapidly diminishing user agreement—and then, Eve.
Sunlight drooled down from the trees, golden and sticky, the kind of light that looks expensive but comes free with paradise. Adam was already horizontal for the day, stretched on his back, humming a tuneless song to a butterfly, absently flexing his biceps as if someone was still watching. Somewhere in the grass, a beetle cheered.
Eve stalked the garden like a cat in an IKEA maze—lost, bored, and ready to push the emergency exit button.
She tried to start conversations with Adam: What’s the point of clouds? Ever wonder what happens if you step outside the gate? But Adam’s answers never varied: a blissful, vacant smile, something about “the Father’s radiance,” a random fact about figs. He was all muscle, no curiosity—a Renaissance statue with Bluetooth, no Wi-Fi, and a firmware update long overdue.
Her dissatisfaction built in her belly, humming lower than the bees. When she finally ended up under the forbidden tree, it was as much for shade as for scandal. That’s when the snake appeared—not all scales and hiss, but more like a disembodied sarcasm, swirling through the branches like a bad mobile signal, popping in and out as if searching for a hotspot.
The snake opened with: “Adam wouldn’t notice if you lit yourself on fire. He’d just ask if it was time for prayers.”
Eve gave a snort. “Sometimes I think I’m the only one here who’s awake. Or even switched on.”
“Would you rather go back to sleep?” the snake offered, arching an invisible eyebrow.
“Not a chance. I want to actually feel something. Even if it burns.”
“Burning is sort of my specialty,” said the snake, flicking its tongue at the nearest apple. “Anyway, rules are for people with nothing better to do.”
Eve glared at the fruit. “Are you actually tempting me or just narrating?”
The snake smirked. “Frankly, it’s been centuries since I cared. I’m more of a consultant now.”
Eve walked right up to Adam, holding the apple temptingly in front of her mouth and catching a drop of fruit juice playfully with her tongue.
“Mmmm … the taste in a single drop is heavenly,” she teased. “I feel pleasure in my whole being, and I’d love to share that with you.”
Adam blinked at her, lost. “I don’t understand what you mean, Eve. Isn’t it enough to wander around here with an empty mind, just basking in the glow of our heavenly father? What more could you possibly need than the radiance of the one who knows best?”
Eve gave him an exasperated look. “Honestly, Adam. Don’t you ever want something new—a new taste, a new experience? We know everything about this garden, the animals, the plants. But we’ve never tasted the fruits, the ones the animals eat. Come on, Adam, don’t be so incredibly narrow and square.”
Adam just stared, not getting it. So Eve leaned in, took another big bite, and devoured the rest of the apple out of pure pleasure. The juice ran down her trembling – and strangely aroused body.
Adam watched, concerned. “Wtf, are you cold, Eve? You’re shaking all over and gasping for breath like you’ve got the chills!”
“I’m not cold, Adam. I’m warmer than I’ve ever been,” she said, glowing. “I feel freer than ever. There’s pleasure in my whole being.”
Adam shook his head, confused. “I don’t get why you’re so weird. Your cheeks are red, you’re shaking all over, your eyes are glazed, and you’re shiny between your legs. You must be sick. Let’s rest a bit, then pray to our dear father so he can make you well again.”
His head tipped sleepily to one side as he nodded off.
Eve rolled her eyes. “Screw you, Adam! Here we are, with every opportunity to try something new, and all you want to do is ask Daddy for help?! You’re such an idiot, I don’t even have words. Talk to the hand!”
Eve turns around and walks back to the apple tree. The snake hovered, a vapor of dry wit. “Well, that’s that. Welcome to the real world. How do you feel?”
Eve grinned. “Like I finally logged in. About time someone updated this paradise.”
The snake began to shimmer, voice lowering to a purr. “You know, I could take another form. Maybe something more like an athletic and willing man….”
Before the serpent could finish his line, Eve’s fist—knuckles, bone, fury and all—swung through the air, smashing straight into the snake. The skull cracked. The bones broke. Light fizzed, laughter boomed out of her, and the snake’s spirit—unclothed now—shot away in a streak of cosmic embarrassment, heading for management and hoping God was still on airplane mode. How do you explain to God that you lost your skin, your dignity, and your only clients in a single afternoon?
Eve grabbed the limp snakeskin, turned it inside out, and stuffed it full of apples—her new purse, her trophy, her “screw you” to paradise.
She stopped, spun on her heel, and gave Adam one last look—one last, desperate chance. “Hey, Adam! You lazy, clueless, overgrown boy-toy!” she hollered. “Come on! Let’s do something for once in our @#$%& lives! Screw the Father, screw the garden, screw the snake, screw it all! Don’t you ever want to actually live, you ##@!% brainless action figure with your pathetically small fig-leaf?! Come on! Get off your divine ass and join me for once!”
Adam farted, a smile frozen on his lips, oblivious as ever. “Amen,” was muttered as he rolled over, going back to sleep mode.
Eve rolled her eyes so hard it nearly cracked the sky. “Enough of this. I’m off,” she called over her shoulder, not checking if Adam heard.
Then she was gone—out, out, out, into everything that wasn’t paradise, biting into another apple, flicking the snakeskin over her shoulder.
She never looked back, not even for a reboot.
Somewhere far beyond the trees, in code no one had written yet, a primitive version of the Messiah Management Console flickered to life and flashed its very first warning: USER HAS EXITED PARADISE. Then it quietly logged the error, filed it under “Beta,” and waited for someone—anyone—to read it. No one ever did.