will happen, we just don’t know when or where. Or how. Fucking Lucifer—or whatever name he’s going by in this time—
and his fucking band of merry hypocrites. Those pleasure-leeching do-gooders who can’t stand the idea that anyone might actually enjoy themselves in the here and now. Instead they’re saving it all up for the image of the afterlife which they’ve built up in their minds. Do they have a big shock in store for them…
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to, does he? Apparently the tableau before them speaks for itself. We could not be any guiltier to them unless they’d caught us in the proverbial fucking act, and yes by that I do mean the act of fucking. Dammit, it’s started. Again. Wheels are being put into motion. Even now I can feel them in my heart, a most excruciating pain.
A man steps forward. Perhaps he intends to play spokesperson for the group.
Middle-aged or beyond, nondescript, I’ve seen his kind before, I know what words of venom he possesses, but when I make a move toward him, Jesus holds me back with a gentle but firm touch. I turn toward my young prince in frustration. His glow is one of resignation. I’m sure mine is far redder, were it even visible to them.
Much more sanguine.
The man indicates the book in his hands. “The Bible does not suffer sinners such as yourself. Have you no shame? How can you preach His word and not realize that what you’re doing is perverted?” His brethren murmur their agreement.
How brave they are en masse, these mangy, hypocritical sheep. And how very much I despise them for what they are about to do.
“Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone...” Jesus’ reply is given calmly, no hint of defiance of any sort. That would be my purview. And yet his simple words produce a mass gasp from the bible thumpers.
“We’re only trying to help,” a woman bleats. The others nod and nod and nod.
“For our children,” a man interjects. “For my son.”
I take a step toward the rabble, although I’m unclear as to my intent. Jesus restrains me, softly. “Please, Judas, no,” he begs, and I cannot move. My eyes flicker over them. I hope my disdain is more than evident. I think I recognize some of them. They were at the show tonight, I’m sure of it. That man, the one who spoke of his son. I think he was the one I saw talking to Thomas. What exactly does he think his son needs saving from?
“Fall down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness. Give up your evil ways,” the first speaker demands in a holier-than-thou sort of way. Again with the head bobbling from the pseudo-Greek chorus behind him. And still Lucifer remains silent. He has no need to speak, it is all being done for him.
“He has no reason to beg forgiveness,” I hear myself blurt out, despite Jesus’
attempt to curb my tongue. “He is innocent and pure. Go about your business, you have none here.”
“We saw what we saw,” the man insists. “You can’t deny that, can you? That wasn’t innocent, that was evil. Both of you need to pray to God for the salvation of your immortal souls, or you’ll never be able to get into Heaven…” I think that’s the point at which I begin to lose it. I’m laughing at his words, at the very idea, at the absurdity of the notion his words attempt to convey. Us , not get into Heaven? US? T’ain’t that way, Farmer Snodgrass, I think, he’s fucking Jesus Christ, that’s his father’s fucking house, but luckily I’m too busy choking out guffaws for any words I might have to make any sense, or even be heard. What a lovely time to become hysterical, right?
The whole situation is just too ridiculous. Jesus takes my arm as if he’s had enough; I can feel his weariness. I sense his reluctance to have this particular discussion right here, right now. Not to mention his need to get me away from them in my present condition. He bids the rabble a polite good night, as we turn to go on our way, go about our
and his fucking band of merry hypocrites. Those pleasure-leeching do-gooders who can’t stand the idea that anyone might actually enjoy themselves in the here and now. Instead they’re saving it all up for the image of the afterlife which they’ve built up in their minds. Do they have a big shock in store for them…
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to, does he? Apparently the tableau before them speaks for itself. We could not be any guiltier to them unless they’d caught us in the proverbial fucking act, and yes by that I do mean the act of fucking. Dammit, it’s started. Again. Wheels are being put into motion. Even now I can feel them in my heart, a most excruciating pain.
A man steps forward. Perhaps he intends to play spokesperson for the group.
Middle-aged or beyond, nondescript, I’ve seen his kind before, I know what words of venom he possesses, but when I make a move toward him, Jesus holds me back with a gentle but firm touch. I turn toward my young prince in frustration. His glow is one of resignation. I’m sure mine is far redder, were it even visible to them.
Much more sanguine.
The man indicates the book in his hands. “The Bible does not suffer sinners such as yourself. Have you no shame? How can you preach His word and not realize that what you’re doing is perverted?” His brethren murmur their agreement.
How brave they are en masse, these mangy, hypocritical sheep. And how very much I despise them for what they are about to do.
“Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone...” Jesus’ reply is given calmly, no hint of defiance of any sort. That would be my purview. And yet his simple words produce a mass gasp from the bible thumpers.
“We’re only trying to help,” a woman bleats. The others nod and nod and nod.
“For our children,” a man interjects. “For my son.”
I take a step toward the rabble, although I’m unclear as to my intent. Jesus restrains me, softly. “Please, Judas, no,” he begs, and I cannot move. My eyes flicker over them. I hope my disdain is more than evident. I think I recognize some of them. They were at the show tonight, I’m sure of it. That man, the one who spoke of his son. I think he was the one I saw talking to Thomas. What exactly does he think his son needs saving from?
“Fall down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness. Give up your evil ways,” the first speaker demands in a holier-than-thou sort of way. Again with the head bobbling from the pseudo-Greek chorus behind him. And still Lucifer remains silent. He has no need to speak, it is all being done for him.
“He has no reason to beg forgiveness,” I hear myself blurt out, despite Jesus’
attempt to curb my tongue. “He is innocent and pure. Go about your business, you have none here.”
“We saw what we saw,” the man insists. “You can’t deny that, can you? That wasn’t innocent, that was evil. Both of you need to pray to God for the salvation of your immortal souls, or you’ll never be able to get into Heaven…” I think that’s the point at which I begin to lose it. I’m laughing at his words, at the very idea, at the absurdity of the notion his words attempt to convey. Us , not get into Heaven? US? T’ain’t that way, Farmer Snodgrass, I think, he’s fucking Jesus Christ, that’s his father’s fucking house, but luckily I’m too busy choking out guffaws for any words I might have to make any sense, or even be heard. What a lovely time to become hysterical, right?
The whole situation is just too ridiculous. Jesus takes my arm as if he’s had enough; I can feel his weariness. I sense his reluctance to have this particular discussion right here, right now. Not to mention his need to get me away from them in my present condition. He bids the rabble a polite good night, as we turn to go on our way, go about our
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