Now the get together o’ Cheez-its was approaching, and the douche-bags in the white robes parading round’ the cherry tree did so with the profs de la dick. They were looking for some way to rid the world of the newest charlatan on the block, mr. um, jesus. Their reason was that if they did not, then the people who once had obeyed them like mindless sheep would then change suit and do so for the new magician in the magic booth. Just then, Satan came to a man called Judas Iscariot. Satan, a fictional creature created by God, a fictional writer, was of course no threat at all to the community at hand---but as the people in question had nothing to attribute all their worries, their failed crops, etc. to, they picked this character to do so (until something better came along). Judas had been reading the last book that said fictional writer had written, and got it in his head that he’d play along with the local bullshit or as others called it, prophecy. He went to the douche-bags and dicks and they sat down with a bottle of rum to discuss how to stage the betrayal of the fictional creation known as jesus. They thought it was a great deal---they called the stage manager who was overseeing the production. He agreed and paid Mr. Iscariot a small fee, saying that the rest would come when he returned the fictional character to the douche-bags & dicks in question.
Then came the day of Cheez-its on which the great Cheez-it who walked on four furry legs would have to be diced up and sent round the village for those to taste its exquisite cheddary goodness. Jesus the character sent his two fabrications, John & Peter. “Go ye and make the table ready for the great passing Cheez-it,” he pronounced.
“Where is it that you want the Cheez-it?” The two rhymed like a couple of make-shift amateur em-c’s (MC’s).
Jesus responded with razor sharp wit spitting “As you come upon the edge of the desert sand---you’ll find a man carryin’ a large tan can---stop and follow him right where he stands to the place where he lays his balding head (forced rhyme).” The man in question whom fictional characters Peter and John did speak with knew Jesus from back when they were on tour together in the early 80’s. The two, amidst other lyrical poets of the time had Wednesday evening “power picnics” where they’d get together with flasks of wine and spit up the issues of the day---sorta like an open mike for morons.
The two fictional characters left and did just what jesus had told them---as the little bitches that they were.
When it was time for the power picnic, jesus and the rest of his little bitches sat down cross-legged at the picnic table, with the yellow gingham cloth tossed over and tucked beneath the corners with clothespins. He sat down between them and spoke: “I am fucking hungry, so lets get down to this eating business. Before I hit that radio-stage, I’d like to calm this righteous appetence of mine. I do feel, my brethren, that I will be on a long long diet soon, one that no doubt may end me hanging out as food for the very birds that I do consume at present.”
After pouring himself a glass of Coca-Cola (he’d grown tired of sucking on the same wine flask as the rest of em’), he eyed them all point-blank and remarked “Drink this bubbly, for I tell you, the end of this world comes with the repercussions of the biggest lies one can tell---and your kin and their kin will continue to tell them, until the day when you wise up---sort of like that feeling in the side of your jaw when you first flush your mouth with some cold Coca-Cola.”
And he took a few of the fries laid out in a cute little basket, dishing them out to the brethren saying “take these and make sure you use some of the Frank’s or just straight up Tabasco---this is about as good as it gets, on a Wednesday night.”
“It’s one of you though, I feel, who is gonna fuck me over majorly, before the night is through. And so, I look upon you all with great suspicion. Don’t let it ruin your dinner though.” Jesus said, when he was passing the Steakums.
There was an argument that arose among the brethren as they liquored up. They were debating over which of them was the greatest, as drunken stupid men might do as the night grows on. “The king of kings is me, pure and simple” spoke Jesus. He slammed down another shot and shook his head quick and dramatically. A bit under the table already, he babbled on about the twelve tribes of this place and the kingdom & thrones of that---not really making any sense anymore. But then, who was listening?
Jesus spoke with a slur directly to one called Simon. He told him not to turn his back on the rest of them, after they had all fallen into a sleepy stupor. Simon had been dubbed the designated driver for the evening, and he nodded to Jesus, sipping at his water and nibbling on his Triscuits.
Peter had gotten up to use the can and when he came back he sat down, minding his own business. Jesus was staring at him, and Peter, after looking behind himself to see if there was anything interesting going on back there, he turned back towards Jesus saying “what?” Jesus responded, “Peter, I tell you, before the cock squeals this morning, you will no doubt tell three different out of work soldiers that you have never met me.”
And then, as Peter sat in bewilderment, looking to the others for some sort of consul, Jesus told them to arm themselves, all of them, for there was a bad moon risin’. And he hummed the tune to them as he finished off his drink.
Jesus Prays on the Mount of Olives
Jesus left the get together, basically to get some air. He walked to his favorite air-getting-place, the Mount of Olives. And of course the guys that had been eating with him followed him. Honestly, he was getting sick of those guys following him all over the place. Privacy was a concept that had long since been forgotten for our fictional creature, Mr. Christ. But alas, he sat down and told them that they should do their best not to be tempted by the nuances of the world that might bring a man down. They nodded in agreement, and one of them pulled from his pocket a deck of cards, from whence the rest started a game of poker. Jesus began to sweat a lot from his brow, and the brethren thought that he had had too much to drink, or had fallen a bit sick to the stomach, after eating some of the food.
After a while, the brethren had fallen asleep. Some of them had stayed awake longer than the others, as they didn’t really know why the fuck they were all still outside---but Jesus had taken a piss and upon walking back he woke them up asking them why they were sleeping. “Get up and be alert, in case I get arrested in a few minutes.” He told them.
When Jesus was speaking to the just awakening brethren, Mr. Iscariot came walking up the hill with a crowd following him. He stood in front of Jesus, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. “Look chief, I think I should tell you, everything is working out just like you planned. I told the cops like you asked and they are coming. If there is anything else you need, you know how to reach me.” And Jesus smiled, thanking him. He gave Judas a hug and Judas turned, walking down the hill. The crowd didn’t know whether to stay and listen to Jesus or follow Judas down the hill. It was something of a popularity contest, which neither of the figures cared about. Idiotic crowds were, after all, not sought after by people fictional characters who had a better chance of passing an I.Q. test than they did.
One of the brethren saw the cops coming and with his pee-shooter, blew off a chunk of one of the copper’s ears. The cop, holding his hand up to his ear exclaimed. “Fuck man, that’s my ear!”
And Jesus spoke to the coppers saying “Am I the leader of this revolution that you speak of? Or am I just the scapegoat that you pin your worries on every couple of years to scare off the people that actually want change in this empire?” Of course, none of the coppers answered.
Peter Disowns Jesus
The coppers led Jesus into their car and drove away. Peter followed them on his donkey.
When he came to a courtyard near the station where Jesus was being kept, a prostitute was walking beneath the lamplight. She had an undercover copper with her, and she pointed at Peter, who now sitting beside his donkey, was sipping from a squeeze bag of Capri Sun. “This guy was one of them with the revolutionary fictional character,” she told the undercover copper. The copper asked Peter if this was true and Peter responded, “Man, this skank doesn’t know shit. I have been here with my ass all night. I mean look at me…do I strike you as a revolutionary?” The copper turned and walked back to his car---driving away after the lady sucked him off.
A bit later, when Peter was riding his donkey down the street to get himself a pack of smokes from the local bodega, a guy from across the street said aloud, walking with a uniformed copper, “That guy, he was with the quack! He was armed with the rest of em’ when he got caught on the hill.” The cop crossed the street and asked Peter if this was true, after running his identification through the interface in the car. Peter denied it again, and with his story panning out as far as the computer was concerned, the cop drove away, thanking the idiot nark for wasting his time.
Lastly, like another hour or so later, Peter had tied his donkey up outside a pub and was throwing them down at the bar inside, when another officer of the law walked over to him, almost dragged by one of those annoyingly curious people that often make up small towns. The kind of person that really need to be locked up, or dragged out into the street and shot. The officer of the law asked Peter once more about the fictional character known as Jesus Christ and Peter told him furiously, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” And just as he was speaking, a cock squealed (there was a guy getting head from a local teen in the corner of the pub and when he came in her mouth, he winced with drunken joy a bit). The cop left, tired and bored. He got in his car and made way for the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts. Peter finished his drink and walked over to the teen who was counting her cash at the table in the corner. He paid her what she wanted and she went to town on him. He came hard and began to weep as his orgasm ebbed. The teen stayed with him until he was alright.
Those that were guarding Jesus, as he was sitting peacefully in his cell, made fun of his outdated garb, saying that if he was going to be a 21st century revolutionary fictional character, that at least his creator could have given him some more updated clothing.
In the early morning, a bunch of old farts saying that they spoke for the people of this backward town, as well as the douche-bags and dickheads from before (remember them?), met together. When Jesus was brought to them, they asked him “If you are the revolutionary fictional character that everyone is sleeping outside of Barnes N’ Nobles for, please tell us.”
Jesus answered, “If I tell you, you will not believe me, and if I asked you, you would not answer. But from now on, the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of the mighty God.”
With that, the old farts, douche-bags & dickheads all asked in tandem, “Are you the fictional creation of a fictional creator that most imbeciles refer to as ‘God’?”
Jesus replied, “You say that I am.” Then he went on to recite some Eminem lyrics. “Look,” he said, “I am whatever you say I am/If I wasn’t, then why would I say I am?”
“Look man,” the old farts, douche-bags and dickheads said, more or less together, “we didn’t ask you to go copping Eminem or anything, we were just asking. As far as we were concerned, we thought you were just some author with a Harry Potter kinda’ crowd and we were gonna make the right provisions for your book tour or whatever. But now we can see that you are nothing but a kind of gutter-punk who hasn’t a thing to offer but plagiarized lyrics.”
And so the cops let Jesus go, and nothing else happened. The writer of the story lost steam, and his fictional character ended like so many stories that go without endings when that precious bag of Cheetos is empty and they have to leave the stream of consciousness to go replenish their stash by running to the store.