Ginormigon just wasn’t feeling it.
He half-heartedly swatted at some buildings, breathed a little fire here and there, and raised his arms one time and sorta kinda roared, but it just wasn’t happening. At one point he even sat down, right in the middle of downtown Tokyo.
He just felt exhausted. He probably would have gone to sleep right there if the military hadn’t shown up. But once the jeeps and helicopters surrounded him and started shooting, he knew he wasn’t going to get any peace there.
So he forced himself up, flicking away a few helicopters in the process, and lumbered out of the city, to the beach, and back into the sea from whence he came.
As he crawled back into bed, Ginormigon wondered what his deal was. Was it depression? Surely that was part of it; he wasn’t on meds and seeing a therapist for nothing. But was the fatigue caused by the depression, or was it a side effect of the meds? And if it was a side effect of the meds, why was he even taking them? He didn’t see how being in a state of perpetual tiredness would help him feel any better.
And what was causing the depression? Mid-life crisis? Probably not. I mean, he did feel like life was moving too fast these days–it seemed like just last week he was attacking the village of Edo and being fought off by men wielding bows and arrows and catapults; now all of a sudden he was attacking the city of Tokyo, with its highrises and paved roads, and being fought off by an organized military armed with bullets and bombs and flying machines. But the thing was, he was only a couple thousand years old; not even really close to middle-aged, so unless it was some kind of early-onset crisis, that wasn’t the deal.
Dr. Ushiba said she thought the depression was part of the “self-sabotaging” he was doing due to the “fear of success” he had developed, but Ginormigon thought that was a bunch of cockamamie psychobabble.
Was it guilt? Maybe–after all, even his most listless attacks killed at least a few hundred innocent people. Hell, in that half-assed attack he’d just pulled, he had sat down on an entire office building when he had stopped to rest, so that was a good number of people killed just by accident.
But then again, he was a monster. Literally. For him, feeling guilty about killing innocent people would be like a pitcher in baseball feeling guilty about striking batters out. You can’t feel bad about doing your job.
He didn’t know what it was, he just knew he was freaking tired. He rolled over in bed, trying his best to sleep it off, hoping his nap wouldn’t be interrupted by any military submarine attacks this time.
I mean, seriously–underwater boats? Couldn’t a monster get some decent sleep around this ocean?