Dakar airport, Senegal
Someone from the US Embassy was coming to see Jesus. He was being held because he didn’t have documentation. And there was nothing on the kid.
‘Who’s the kid?’
’Somebody I resurrected.’
‘Do his parents know?’
Dolfie was sitting in Jesus’ lap monitoring the guy. Now he looked at Jesus to watch him answer.
‘They’re not alive.’
‘Couldn’t make it a package?’
Jesus rubbed his eyes and half chuckled.
They weren’t sure. All they knew was that Jesus had come down that hill that sleety day in winter and approached them across the stones and said hello. And they had made room for him around the fire and shared a fish. All very Matthew. And they told him they were two brothers and a cousin. And that they had been out fishing all night and not caught anything. And they ate the only fish they had and some drank raki, a Turkish liquor, and sang Smokey Robinson songs around burning walrus bones. And Smokey Robinson and burning walrus bones had never been put together in the same sentence in the whole history of the world. And Jesus was a better singer they retold. Better doo-whooper. Better than Smokey. Better than Kanye.
Well, maybe not better than Kanye.
Jesus came up alongside. The kids, six year olds, had their hands in the fountain, enjoying the sensation of the bubbling water. The mother was too tired to smile.
‘Remember when you prayed? That if they would just live, you could deal with the rest.’
At first she thought she was imagining this voice. It was not too dissimilar to one she heard every day reminding her. Reminding her she had gotten what she prayed for. But then she looked at him, still not sure if it was him that spoke.
He was watching the children. ’It was a nice prayer.’
She didn’t know what to do.
‘We get a lot about football games and slot machines…’
She swallowed. ’I was too afraid to ask for more…’
Jesus nodded. ’You could ask now.’
Judas went bad because of George Clooney.
As Jesus died Barabbas watched. He watched from the shadows like a cat waiting for the neighbors to stop consuming a chicken. Then the Christ yielded up his spirit, and the earth quaked and the sun blackened over DC and bodies spilled out of the tombs - and he fought his way through the confusion and the terror and the news crews and stole a car.
It’d been long. And he thought about a beer and a tequila, and a couple numbers from his favourite Korean fusion home delivery menu.
He made it back to New York City. He didn’t have his phone and he’d have wanted to order before he got home so it’d be at the door when he got out of the shower. But he dumped the car and got to his townhouse and tapped in the entry code.
No one answered at the restaurant. Eventually it routed through to the owner’s cell.
‘We’re not working today.’
‘...Are you serious? Cos of the redemption, man. Cos of the redemption. We’re freaking out!’
Barabbas growled, ‘We still get hungry. When will you open?’
‘...In three days.’
‘Yes. He’s supposed to rise then.’
‘And you’re guessing he’ll be hungry?’
There was a long pause, ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘You could deliver to the tomb.’
Then as he hung up Barabbas muttered, ‘Put it on my bill.’ And he froze, staring at the door of an empty refrigerator. He had a bill. He owed Jesus. He knew what he had to do.
He would track down Jesus’ betrayer - and serve his head up on a plate.
Larry is a trillionaire bad guy who wants to derail mankind’s salvation.
Raise the Ante...Christ.
He also let it leak about three years back that he’d had his testicles removed and replaced with little nuclear walnuts - so if anybody tried coming for him he could take New York City with him.
Nobody believed it.
Everybody believed it.
Jesus dialed it back. ’Are you spiritual?’
Larry looked at him like the question was whether he filed personal tax returns. ’Sometimes I watch the brunette on the next roof doing naked yoga.’
Then there’s a chick...
And Jesus stood from the table, admiring her like some stolen artifact, like a grown daughter from a one night stand with Aphrodite, like unopened champagne.
And the family just sat there watching the two of them, beautiful and young - and for about a moment - as perfect as each other.
One small step for an angel…
The Pink Oven.
1 New Yorkers 11:21
The Cruelty of Innocence.
Children of the Scared.
Brussel Sprout Green.
Learning to Fly.
Clothed with the Slain.
What is Truth?
Behold! The Man!