Death of Jesus, the Spider King
A playful satire of the current socio-religious climate.
Note: This is, simply, satire. I have no qualms with Jesus. I have depicted Jesus being killed, swearing and arguing in a bar amongst other corruptions of his character that some may found offensive. This story is not intended in an offensive manner and is entirely metaphorical, as I and many others believe the events of the Biblical texts are mean't to be interpreted. Please view this story for what it is. Harmless satire.
Jesus inhaled sharply, held the smoke in his lungs long enough to feel that satisfying sting, then breathed out, relishing the bitter taste of the Marlboro.
The bar was full of bastards. Moronic, sinful dickweeds who had no idea how much he had been through so that they could preach his teachings without the slightest bit of understanding as to the ethical implications behind how they chose to live their lives. Look at them all, sipping champagne and laughing like hyena's about things that aren't funny. Goddamn lousy dickweeds.
"Hey, chief.", the bartender growled.
Jesus turned to face him, unamused.
"What is it?" he snapped at the short, wide man behind the bar.
"Ya' gettin' blood all over the carpet, chief."
Christ looked down and realized it was true; his crucification wounds were bleeding again. Good lord.
"Ima hav' to ask ya' to leave, chief."
This was too much.
"Are you really asking me, Jesus Christ, to leave your bar on account of my stigmata? A symptom of the sacrifice I made so you could live a free life?"
The bartender clearly couldn't care less about Christ's stigmata.
"Listen buddy, we've all been through some tough times. The rest of us jus' suck it up and move on. Maybe you oughta' think about that on your way out."
"I have issues you couldn't even begin to understand!"
"Yeah, yeah. J.D Salinger would be proud. Now get out, 'fore I have to get you out myself."
Jesus was flabbergasted. To be spoken to in such a way, by a mere barkeep! The blasphemy! The rudeness! The piece of the puzzle that should stay in it's place yet refuses, causing the whole thing to fall apart! His illusion of grandeur, shattered by the reality of television and lies!
"I'm really not sure what part of this you fail to understand. I am Jesus Christ, savior of the western middle class white folk!"
The man scratched his head, trying to recall the name. Eventually, unable to remember anyone by the name of 'Jesus Christ' he shook his head slowly.
"Not ringing any bells, chief. Get out. I'm not telling you again."
Jesus was at a loss for words.
"Jesus Christ, for Christ's sake! The son of God! Jesus of Nazareth! Son of Mary!"
Again the man shook his head. He disappeared briefly under the counter, and returned with a sawed off double barrel carbine rifle. Jesus, being a firearm enthusiast himself, now knew that he must resort to desperate measures.
"I invented christmas!"
"Don' celebrate it, myself."
"My biography is the most often stolen book in the world!"
"You callin' me a criminal, chief? Get out. Last warning."
Jesus raised one bleeding hand in protest.
"You may not know who I am, but you owe your life to me. You freedom and independence would not be so if it were not for my eternal sacrifice. I am the savior of all humanity. I am a part of all people, and your ever-lasting soul is indebted to my death. I protect the weak, and watch over all men an women, young and old. I will forgive and accept without a moments thought, and I love all humanity."
In the silence the followed it occurred to Jesus that everyone in the bar was staring at him in contempt. Had they not been moved, at least, by his speech? Did these people not understand the enormity of his being and the importance of his life?
"Well," the bartender snorted,"You ain't done a thing for me, chief."
And with that, he fired four shots in quick succession, all of which struck Jesus Christ in the chest, spraying blood across the walls and over the crowd glaring at the scene.
As soon as his body had fallen to the ground Jesus rose, the full power of his furious wrath glowing in ember eyes. His body contorted. Limbs snapped, bones cracked. And as his flesh morphed into a grotesque mockery of it's former handsomeness, a soft moan fell from between quickly sharpening fangs. Two mandibles tore through the skin of his cheeks and emerged snapping beneath his newly formed seven eyes, all beady and black. Blood poured off the newly formed beast as it's final four legs slid out of bloody holes and it stood, savage and raw, before all those in the bar. In this body of some monstrous spider, Jesus roared with anger and prepared to attack.
The bar keep, watching in horror as the colossal arachnid approached, thought fast. In one swift movement he smashed the heaviest bottle he could find (A nice Italian wine, as a matter of fact) and brought it down hard upon the creatures skull, sending shards of bloody glass flying. Jesus groaned in pain, then collapsed.
And so, Christ was finally defeated by the bartender of the Rodanthe bar, NY. The bartender, to whom many names have been given over the centuries, became a hero, until he was torn apart with ropes attach to his limbs and head in the bronx, after a late drug payment. Yog shoggoth, Ry'leh! Break it down now.
Perhaps no myth is true, but the myth that has yet to be written.