"You are not God! The universe is not so badly designed."
(Picard to Q, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Tapestry)
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It was a Saturday morning in the middle of July, the sun was settled in a cloudless sky and the beaches running along the coast were jam-packed, filled with young couples, young families, and young lifeguards ogling skimpy swimsuits. Everybody seemed to be having a very enjoyable afternoon.

That is, almost everybody was having a great day.

For Joe Rodway and his lifelong friend Andrew Clements, this Saturday was just like any other, if not immeasurably worse. The pair had just been fired from the latest in a long succession of attempts to gain long-term employment. Between them they had been a garden centre Santa and happy little elf respectively, fast food workers, amusement arcade attendants, Easter bunnies for a local shopping centre, department store lackeys, shelf-stackers at no less than four separate supermarkets, barmen at three separate pubs, caretakers at a local primary school, and now this.

The final humiliation.

It had been the best job yet.

Until two hours ago, Joe and Andrew had been waiters at one of the more upmarket hotels in the main area of the town. Until Andrew had accidentally spilled hot soup over one man's lap. The man had then verbally lashed out at him before moving to try and aim a punch or three, and when Joe stepped in to break it up, he and Andrew had been dismissed on the spot by the snooty supervisor, Portia Hadley.

And now they were once more out of work, and the rent on their tiny flat was due in six days. The flat which was barely big enough for a dog to pee in the corner of, let alone for two grown men to live in.

"Joe," Andrew said, staring at the blank TV, "mate, I am so sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Joe replied. He breathed in deeply and set his beer down on the floor. "I didn't like that Portia anyway. Snobby bitch."

"Amen to that." Then, "This is getting desperate."

Joe raised his head and looked over at his friend. "I know, but I don't know what we can do about it. I mean, the job centre's bloody closed due to the heat and I don't know about you, but I do not want to dress up as a freakin' rabbit again. Or any other animal God chose to stick on this planet."

Andrew nodded in agreement. He then reached down the side of the couch and pulled out a battered television remote. Flipping through the channels, he ended up with a choice of news, some sappy black and white film, more news or a documentary.

He went with the documentary. Turning the volume up, the two men listened to the female voiceover describing the brainwashing techniques supposedly used by some Chinese cult in order to gain obedience from followers.

"...The teenagers were taken away in groups of two or three, where Kenzo's accomplices repeatedly bombarded them with propaganda and videos filmed for this specific purpose. Eventually, the youths could be sent out on to the streets of the Chinese capital in order to beg or busk for money, which would be returned to the cult at the end of each day without fail..."

Andrew stabbed one of the buttons on the remote; instantly the woman's voice muted, although images of the children begging remained on the screen. He stared at the screen for some time, lost in thought. It was okay for this Kenzo bloke, he thought, he had all those gullible twits in their dozens...

He jerked upwards, the beginnings of an idea forming in his head.

"Andy? Mate?" Joe sounded worried, but Andrew didn't really care. Breathlessly he turned around, aware of the fact there was a grin forming on his face.

"I've got it. I've gone and bloody got it," he said quickly.

"Got what?" Joe shook his head, puzzled.

The other man rolled his eyes. Impatiently he jerked his head back at the television. "That guy set up his own religion because he knew it would make his some serious money. Right?"

Joe nodded uncertainly.

"Well, what if we were to do the same?" Andrew asked slowly. "We could set up our own religion, find some real idiots, and let them do all the bloody hard graft for once?"

"Set up our own religion?" Joe couldn't help it, he sounded sceptic. After all, it was a bloody crazy idea. "Isn't that, well, illegal?"

Andrew shook his head. "Don't think so. But think about it," he continued. "We find ourselves something to worship and find some idiots dumb enough to worship it. And through it, us." He shook his head, smiling. "Bloody genius."

"Andy? Mate? Hello?" A hand waved in front of the smiling face. "What are hell are they going to worship?"

That stopped Andrew right in his tracks. He hadn't thought of that. Not yet, anyway. He turned back to face the television, now showing adverts. One for endowment policies vanished, leaving in its place an image of Britney Spears advertising Pepsi.

"That," he said, pointing at the screen.

Joe followed the line to the television and stared at it blankly. "Her? Andy, men worship her already!"

Andrew shot a very fish-eyed look at his friend. "Not the blonde, you idiot!" he said scathingly. "The drink."

Joe's face said it all. "What, it's going to be the cult of the can?"

"Got it in one. Now all we have to do is find a couple of idiots dumb enough to believe us. They'll be around somewhere. They always are."

Happy now he had a plan, Andrew bounded off into the cramped kitchen to get himself another beer. In the living room, Joe's mind slowly went over what they had just discussed. Although he gave off the appearance of being somewhat lacking in the brain department, he was in fact the smarter of the two. After a few seconds, he had worked out details, and he began to smile.

The Cult of the Can had been born.