This little man carried the skies on his shoulders, just like this grand-grand-grand-father of his, Atlas. It ran in his family, jumping generations at random. He was named Atlas too, because that was the tradition, but he preferred to be called Roger. When you saw him coming into the bar for his morning coffee, Roger was nowhere impressive. Darwin had made sure that the fittest had survived, so our present skies-carrying champion had broad shoulders, a short body, thick legs, and he walked with a permanent stoop. He could have been working at the nearby docks, or in the moving business. However, it was impossible not to notice that his demeanour wasn't one of a lowly employee. Not that he acted superior or anything. After all, anybody knew that Atlas the First had seriously misbehaved and been duly convicted.

Roger's Grandma, Annabelle, herself an Atlas, had asked for a reprieve, with no success. Roger said that the curse would end only when the current Atlas would rebel and shove the Vault of Heaven into the nearest dump. Then the powers that be would know better. As for Roger, he liked the job, the responsibility that came with it, and the fact that other people respected him for that. Even when you were drinking with him, you could be sure that the skies were absolutely safe, all tucked in, and that would hold together for a few minutes. Roger would then tell you the real truth about the extinction of dinosaurs, when