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If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

(a parable for the 21st century)

© 2012 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin


A recent email from my gay-activist counterpart from the East Coast, Carlyle Lambourne, now inspires me to put an end to, once and for all, the belief that Jesus Christ really existed. What irks me most about this Sham Deification, is how even some hardcore atheists believe he existed (at least as a historical figure), in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

So, how can yours truly--a simple and humble person never given to flights of fancy of any sort (except dragons)--put the ultimate kibosh on this "Jebus Myth"? Obviously, the answer (the only answer) is to travel back in time myself and document all relevant material at hand, in this living laboratory of this Middle Eastern Tempest in a Roman Teapot.

Thus equipped with my iPad knockoff (a refurbished android tablet look-alike only $138 at eBay) and my trusty scaled-down version of the Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator (a solstice gift from my dear friend Marvin), I set off in my Temporal Transmogrifier* to the year in which Their Lord was supposedly crucified: 33 A.D.

* Temporal Transmogrifier: my own invention (with the assist of several hacker allies from The Berkeley Unix User Group, which I founded in 2001). Only remotely similar to H.G. Wells' time machine, seeing as this device is not a physical conveyance of any type, but a form of astral projection triggered by electrodes attached about the skull, and an intravenous feed composed of aloe vera gel, witch hazel, THC compounds, and liquified Futurama DVDs.

The most vivid interaction with a past event lasts approximately 40 minutes, after which the impressions rapidly fade back into the present. Whatever recording (and other) equipment you choose to bring, must be light in weight, and limited to no more than two items. Else, their parallel astral accompaniment will become sporadic and unreliable; thus any evidence preserved, tenuous.

I set the date on my Transmogrifier's LED panel for mid-afternoon April 1, 33 A.D.: the day on which the Last Supper supposedly occurred. Right: April Fool's Day, go figure.

Soon, I am in deep trance and my present reality becomes a thing of the future. I find myself standing in Old Jerusalem's historic marketplace, amidst a teeming throng of bartering Jews, Romans, Greeks, Phoenecians, Egyptian slaves, Moabites, Cannanites, Edomites, Thracian mercenaries, Bedouin tribes with their camel caravans, and even a troglodyte or two.

The sweet scent of dried figs, apricots, dates and pomegranate seeds mingles with the tantalizing odors of crusty leavened bread still oven-warm, juicy cucumber slices, lemons, pulses boiled with cardamom and sumac; and the smoky tang of fire roasted goat meat and lamb. I drool for a shawarma.

All social strati are represented, from the ragged beggars to the local upper classes that reside in the neighborhood just adjacent to, and east of, the marketplace. The flawless linen robes of the wealthy glimmer under the hot sun with fine gold thread woven into exquisite patterns, set off with sparkling faceted sapphires, rubies, emeralds, opal cabochons and Persian beadwork. Even their slaves are outfitted in robes and capes far more resplendent than those of the merchants and visiting luminaries.

Glimpses of Herod's Palace flicker in the distant west between the passing shoppers like a 19th century zoetrope, and the walls of the Great Temple rise above the city's northeast horizon, like a limestone and cedar palisade of giants, trimmed in gold. The sere, pale blue sky is kissed by puffs of white clouds skudding by in the desert wind.

Dizzy from the sudden and brilliant onslaught of a new world, I have to catch my breath or faint dead onto the stone masonry. I feel like I'm in a Cecil B. DeMille extravanganza, only this marketplace is more real, more immediate than any Hollywood props and extras could ever accomplish.

I sweat profusely in the solar-baked heat, yet paradoxically am cooled by my rough linen undergarments, scratchy though they be. I grab my iPad-wannabe through this dusty shephard's robe that clings loosely to my frame, to be sure it is well hidden and secured in an oxblood sash flung tightly 'round my midriff. The Space Modulator rests alongside, a bit lumpy but not uncomfortable, like a gun holster.

To my surprise, coins jingle in a pocket that hangs within the cloak's left side. Silver, gold and bronze pieces clatter in a cacophony of mercantile glee. Some of these coins bear imprints of Herod and Caesar, while others depict grape clusters, crested helmets, eagles...and kings, queens, gods, goddesses, and mythical beasts of unknown origin (at least, to my limited knowledge). Many are scribed in Greek characters, some Aramaic.

There arises a reckless hollering in a small crowd several stalls up from where I stand. Some long-haired lunatic wielding a corded whip is knocking down merchant stands and screaming blasphemy. Glistening stacks of wet grape leaves, small urns flush with cracked olives and pepper pods swimming in sea brine, square wooden trays piled with reddish-brown lumps of drying seaweed, clay bowls wobbling with dense camel's milk curd that theatens to flow over, and smoked fish wrapped in clean papyri tumble to the ground as leprous orphans scramble to procure the precious windfall. My attention is then drawn back to this lunatic.

Quite dashing in face, I observe. Especially that trim jet moustache and beatnik/hipster goatee! Outlines of buff muscle reveal themselves in thighs, biceps and pecs, beneath his double-robe ensemble dyed in rich hues of cobalt and crimson. Definitely GQ material, in spite of this disturbing and unwarranted outbreak. He then spits repeatedly (and most menacingly, I couldn't help notice) upon a muster of caged baby peacocks pooping over a large wicker basket loaded with fragrant dew melons.

He is quickly dragged away by Roman centurions, and the usual bartering babble resumes. Why are the hottest men always so unstable? I gripe to myself, speaking from experience of more than 30 years in the Castro.

"Judas, you shaved!" a voice suddenly booms behind me, and I drop the coins back into my pocket with a flurry of clinks. I turn to see a tall, rather gaunt male rush up to me, and embrace my shoulders with ferocious affection.

"Er, er, yes..." better think quickly. "Yes I did. Just this morning." As startled as I am to find myself in the arms of a stranger who died almost 2,000 years ago, I am equally shocked to discover that I can speak in fluent Aramaic. Obviously, the adventure has begun!

He presses against my Space Modulator, and instantly steps back. "Ouch! What in Yahweh's name is glued to your chest? A melted-down idol of Baal?"

I place my hand over the lump in order to prevent its discovery. "Ha ha. Very funny, my friend!" Once more, I think with the speed of mercury. I lean into my unknown friend's ear and boldly whisper:

"Why, they're silver utensils embossed with obsidian flakes for tonight's feast. Loaned to me by my mother's commode slave."

"Ah, I see!" he replies, with a finger of mutual secrecy pressed to his lips. "No wonder you hide them under a cloak. Thieves abound in the agora!"

This stranger-yet-friend then grasps both my shoulders to admire the barber's handiwork: "But say, you look good without that beard, Judas. Ten years younger, at the least!" He confesses:

"Just last night Jesus spoke to me in confidence: 'John, you need to have a talk with your bosom buddy Judas, about that haggard old hairy crumb catcher. It's bad for group morale, not to mention public relations.' Now, here we are, problem solved without a single feeling hurt or argument uttered."

I am astonished. Is this John the Apostle, the very John who Jesus loves most? They might even be gay lovers. What a scoop for the National Inspirer! I could make millions off the book! Heck, forget the book; let's do the movie.

Then another thought crosses my delirious mind: Wait a minute. Do I really look so much like Judas Iscariot as to be mistaken for him? Hmmm, there is considerable potential in this surprise twist. I'm gonna milk this for all it's worth!

Of course, in the heat of excitement, I forget all about my mission that brought me here in the first place. Never mind though, let's see where this goes. So I respond:

"Yes, well, Jesus came to me at first cock's crow to settle the matter. Surprise surprise."

"What?" John seems astonished. "He's supposed to be on his way from Capernaum and isn't due to arrive till Apollo's chariot descends into the Dark West!"

"You seem to have forgotten something, my dear John," I calmly reply, like an adult to a naive toddler. "Jesus can work miracles. So isn't it plain as the scarab on your change purse that this most trivial of miracles is but donkey's play to Our Heavenly Master's Only Son?"

John blushes in embarrasment and looks down at his open-toed sandals made of sacrificial goat leather. "Of course, of course," he admits, and whacks himself on the side of his head with an open palm. "How stupid of me."

Then he clasps my hand in the friendly intimacy of intertwined fingers (as is the tradition in the Middle East for grown men to act so fey). We leave the open-air mall to parts as yet unknown by yours truly, arms linked and aswing like two Catholic schoolgirls off to merrily confess their sins to a horny old priest behind a dark screen. (But such a scenario now lies in the distant future. Ancient Rome has other, less subtle, ways to corrupt little girls.)

"Come, let us set the table and prepare fine vittles for Jesus's last supper," declares John with unabandoned glee. "You do realize of course, that he's due to be crucified by tomorrow eve. At least, that's his claim." John grips my arm firmly with his free hand, then continues:

"Personally, I think Jesus is a bit of a drama queen, and I don't think anything bad's gonna happen." John pauses to watch a flock of buzzards fly overhead, flapping their wings in concert as they settle on a withered, bare old olive tree.

He looks to me with a sparkle in his eye, and pats my arm: "So why not just drink and be merry? After all, consider the artichokes of the field, how they flourish: they neither boil away nor singe; and yet I say to you that even Salome in all her glory was not as tasty with sheep schmeer like one of these." John's chest is now puffed up in pride, over this new-found wisdom.

Jesus needs a new speech writer. I think. Desperately.


The scene of ancient Jerusalem then fades (along with bosom-pal John), as my 40-minute allotment has run its course. All becomes shadowy for a while, then pitch dark. I cannot wait to return, so enjoy a quick meal of non-GMO soy milk and raspberry granola before my assistant plugs me back into the Temporal Transmogrifier. (Our laboratory BTW, is nothing more than a makeshift double-bed room at a Motel 6.) And off I go, once more, to expose the Jesus Myth in all its deceptive glory.

We pass through the gates of an obviously uppercrust household, which John says is the House of Zion, for it stands topmost on that holy mountain of the same name. All of Jerusalem is spread out at the base of this sacred hill, blinding white and gold buildings as far as the eye can behold. The settling sun casts deep rubicund rays across this spectacular and most bewitching panorama. A chill, crisp breeze anoints the searing air like a gentle mist.

"David's tomb lies just beneath this structure," remarks John, as we climb the narrow stairway to the second floor, where the Last Supper is in the final stages of preparation. Most of the 12 apostles are already present: missing are Bartholomew, Matthew, Thaddaeus and, of course, Judas. The dinnerware is already laid out, including utensils. They all pause in their preparations to welcome me, and compliment how good I look clean-shaven. Each apostle exchanges a fond embrace before resuming his suppertime chores.

"Judas," says John. "Why don't you just exchange the silverware already laid out, with your own thoughtful gifts? I'm sure Martha won't mind."

I desperately grasp for an excuse: "Oh, oh no. I don't think so. Now that I think of it, I'm certain my own tableware is overly elegant for such a humble and holy affair. I'll just hold onto them until I can return them in a day or two."

"As you wish," complies John, who then leaves me for the kitchen, to prepare the finger bowls and spit cups.

I then realize this is the opportune moment to descend the stairs and wait outside in hopes of intercepting Judas, and convince him to go elsewhere. Only several minutes pass before I see him coming up the cobblestone walkway.

"Hey! You look like me," he remarks in curious surprise. "Who are you, one of the servants?"

"Never mind that," I think fast. "Will this inspire you to stay away for the night?" I quickly deposit 30 shekels of Tyre into Judas's open hand, to get him to shut up and leave. His eyes open wide with delight, and he quickly scoots off to the marketplace to suck on honey-locust snowcones: his favorite way to beat the desert heat.

Three more dinner guests jovially walk hand-in-hand up the steep walkway, in my direction. I quickly learn they are the three missing apostles: Bart, Matt and Thaddy. I return with them to the upper chambers of the House of Zion, where the holy feast will soon commence. Ruddy brown salt water dishes cast a warm glow on the linen tablecloth, and deep blue ceramic glazed wine vessels sparkle in reflect from the flames of flickery oil lamps. A Kiddush cup rests at one end, where I presume Jesus will sit. A large, white platter is placed in the center, generously burdened with two large shanks of juicy roast lamb, smothered in a fairy jungle of bitter herbs.

Several young maidens dressed in silken robes of white and silver (their lustrous brown or black flowing hair plaited with blue ribbon) wash the apostle's feet and invite me to sit by a basin of chilled water. I gratefully slip off my sandals to enjoy a cool, gentle foot massage scented with sage. Through an open archway, I watch the large blob of orange sun slowly dip below the desert dunes. I must've dozed off for some minutes, for I was suddenly awakened by a servant's announcement:

"Jesus number Two and Six have just passed through Martha's gate!"

Two and six? What's up with that? I think, and arise, cross over to the balcony. It is nightfall. Below, I see two, tall and white-robed clean-shaven young men speak jovially with arms linked, walk up the stone path and disappear beneath my feet. The four maidens quickly remove their water basins, and stand at the stair's top to greet their savior(s). The apostles stand nearby in eager suspense.

When in Jerusalem, do as the Jerusalemites do. I defer to the situation, and rise to stand among my worshipful compatriots. The two Jesuses turn a corner up the stairway, and are quickly relieved of their top robes by these entranced maidens. Then escorted to a row of chairs against one wall, with fresh basins of scented water to cleanse their dusty feet. Each disciple hugs and kisses Jesus 2 and Jesus 6 smack dab on the lips. Taken aback by this weird turn of events (two Jesuses?), I step back into a corner shadow, hoping to not be noticed. Jesus #6 speaks up:

"Come, Judas, don't be shy. Not on this most momentous of nights!" And he waves me over.

I approach; he grabs my hand to pull me onto his lap. I yield, to find myself in the strong, hairy arms of "Jesus". He has liquid hazel eyes, and honey-brown hair clipped neatly on the sides and top, but falls in luxurious streaked curls down the nape of his neck. That's a mullet! I observe. They didn't even have mullets till the 1960's. Then I also notice a tattoo of an anchor on his thick, smooth neck as he presses those pouty lips onto mine. His slick tongue slides against my own, and lingers awhile.

This is hot, I think, and lose myself in the moment, with firm embrace and tongue action that would make the Whore of Babylon blush. An obviously thick and more-than-ample boner boldly pushes up against my arse-crack. The other Jesus (sporting buzz-cut black hair, and a single pierced earring of sterling silver, that seems to depict a Viking rune) already has a hand discretely slipped under my robe. He grasps my tumescent Rod of Aaron with delicious intent. Which quickly grows hard in a secret place near the iPad knockoff.

"You look simply bodacious with that beard shaved away, Judas!" whispers Jesus #2 into my ear, like a cool winter breeze off Mount Gilboa. No, it's spearmint. He's chewing a wad of gum, fer chrissake! Just how anachronistically warped are things going to get, before I have to shut down the experiment, or deem it useless? I notice underneath his robe, some sort of plaid skivvies. Curious. Plaid wasn't invented until the fifth century, in Ireland.

He squeezes my johnson with the passion of a Rabbi's prayer on Shabbat. "You will belay me before the night has passed," he puns. I raise my head to kiss those spirit- sweet lips. Lightning suddenly streaks the starlit sky, and a cock crows.

"Stupid rooster!" screams James (son of Alphaeus), and kicks the hapless fowl off the balcony and onto the bed of rosemallow and barley grass below. His wine jar is already emptied, I observe. A servant corteously refills his jar to the brim. It is then I notice all the apostles--plus the two Jesuses--are already drunk in various shades. Yet the feast has not begun!What are we waiting for...the other Jesuses? I grow a bit plucky and address the Jesus whose hand is up my thighs:

"Just how many Jesuses are there?" I demand of Savior 2, who removes his hand from my privates, and drunkenly stands up to press the wrinkles out of his now-cum-stained robe. I rise from the other Jesus's lap to stand beside him, insistant for an answer.

The faux Savior drapes an arm around my shoulders, spilling what drops remain in his carafe. "Well, my good friend," he confides to my left ear, "At lasht...*hic* lash count it was eleven." He almost slips to the floor with a second hiccup, but I pull him up and brace him against a beam.

"Eleven, huh?" I echo. Jesus #2 now leans hard against me, one hand on my buttox, and confides:

"Yesh. Eleven. *hic* But you never can be *hic* sure, theesh are fasht-payshed days, what with the newer *hic* Transhmug...*hic* Transhmogrifersh coming out of the Innergal...*hic*...actic Patent Offishes *hic* theesh days."

Transmogrifiers, eh? Intergalactic Patent Offices? My invention has sure come a long way! At this point in our talk, Jesus 2 slicks up his hand with some olive oil from a small serving bowl, and places it once more, under my robe. Slippery, rough fingers grasp the base of my shaft, and begin gliding up and down like a slow piston. I grow feverishly turgid, so decide to take this to the next level.

"Is there a room somewhere?" I whisper.

"Yesh! Yesh! Lots and lotsa *hic* roomsh." He moves through a draped archway, tugging clumsily at my sleeve. Leads me to a cool, dim room with a breathtaking view of the Great Temple lit up by nighttime sconces. There is a latch on the door, which I deftly lower into place. Messiah 2 drops his robe and undergarments to the polished cedar floor. To reveal a vision of Adonai with a rump so tight and bouncy, I quickly find myself humping my way through St. Peter's Pearly Gates.

Screw the foreplay, I'm on the department's time clock.

Click on image for a larger, "view".


I awake in our Motel 6 laboratory with a raging hard-on. "Geez," says my assistant Sean. "What the frig are you up to there, Zeke? Do crucifixions give you a boner?" I laugh: "Well, not really. I need to get back there ASAP. Something very significant is about to happen." (Of course, I'm referring to the hot tryst with Jesus #2, which I'm eager to resume.) Sean pulls up my robe and declares: "Yeah, you're gonna pop like a rocket." And goes down on me with a ravaging thirst before sending me off to Old Jerusalem once more. Couldn't ask for a better assistant.

My chubbie quickly shrivels from rock-hard to flaccid, and pops unceremoniously out of Jesus 2's brown-pink orifice. Crikey, I whine to myself. Too much carryover on the Transmogrifier's amp. I whip out my Android touchpad to make a note about adjusting the circuitry, and quickly slip it back into my undersash.

"Erec-*hic* erectile dishfunshun, huh?" mumbles the hottie avatar whose face is buried in a henna tinted satin pillow. He drops a hand languidly over the bed, and bumps the Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator hidden beneath my discarded robe. A green light glows through the linen, and a searingly pink phaser beam pierces his head. In another instant, he is gone.

Nothing remains but a small heap of ashes, a mini-blob of molten silver that once was the rune-etched earring, and a sheepskin kok ring. A whiff of smoke rises to the ceiling with a cauterized flesh odor that pervades the bedroom chamber. I start gagging against my will.

Better move fast, I think, as I discard the cinders in a bronze urn (quickly dissolved in my own puke), and find a new robe to replace the one now damaged by a large hole with burnt edges. I discover an ivory box stuffed with rosemary incense. Light a cone and place it in a bronze bowl resting on the bedside table. That should take care of the unholy stink, I conclude. Then straighten out the bedding, and exit.

All the missing Jesuses are now present and seated at the supper table. Ten to be exact, as identified by each wearing a thorny crown and a paper-mache bleeding heart dangling from a beaded necklace. (Note: there would be eleven messiahs, but for the unfortunate accident so recently enacted in a boudoir, with myself the lone witness, thank Goddess.) They all share sips from the Kiddush cup...and only among themselves.

Some of the Jesuses are spectacularly bedecked in this weird metallic cloth, or arrays of brilliant light of myriad hues..including one color I've never seen before. It gives me a toothache. Presumably, they arrived from various futures more distant than the discovery of fire is to our present. As for example, the following sad specimen of 438 generations of genetically engineered, petri-dish inseminated, inbred Jesuses:

of David McCallum from The Outer Limits

There's also a clown Jesus. Odin only knows what's up with that! Or maybe not. I seat myself quietly at one of two vacant chairs.

"Where's Jesus #2?" booms a savior whose name tag bears a lone number: "7". He's the one that knocked over the market stalls, earlier, I observe. Not one to place any suspicion upon yours truly, I pipe up:

"Oh, he just instructed me to tell all present, that he was called away to an emergency healing." I adjust my robe nervously, to bury the Space Modulator that was poking out.

"Well then," concludes No. 7, as he looks around at his multi-temporal Jesus counterparts. "Let us not tarry. On with the supper!"

The saviors and their apostles all dig in to the roast lamb and herbs. However, there is also a bucket of H. Salt fish and chips, which a 20th or 21st century Jesus must have brought. So I decide to dive in and enjoy the fresh taste of New England cod, with a splash of malt vinegar.

The wine is quite potent, so I opt for A&W Diet Root Beer in order to remain lucid in my role as witness to Biblical history in the making. I am astounded at the Jesuses' gluttony, for they speak not a word, but gobble down their repast in record time, with frequent pauses to lubricate their stomachs with fermented grape and barley.

After one too many macerated figs and greasy ass crackling, Jesus 4 suddenly needs to relieve himself, so stands up before all the guests and declares:: "Shkooze me gennermen [ *hic* ], but I musht take my anal...annual, Pashover plop!" Everyone roars with laughter. Bartholomew, the most drunk of all, falls off the bench and lands on a rubbery crown of thorns Jesus #8 had nonchalantly tossed from his false-cap pate. The Jesus Clown* sitting two places down and across from me, honks his horn twice. Harpo Marx did it with much more joie de vivre, I observe.

* Jesus Clown: apparently (as Jesus #3 so patiently explained while chewing on a supper fest of sheep testicles and pan-seared hummingbird with shredded cucumber relish) an unemployed clown some time not too far from our own, had figured a way to take over the Quantuum Noosphere, and thus, the entire planet. With that, he killed off all the present 111 billion inhabitants, and replaced them with clown look-alikes. And named himself King Steven. Being Jesus was one of his dreams, now fulfilled (obviously). Fine with me, I abhor clowns. I'd be more than ecstatic to crucify every last one of these bald-headed, cotton-candy-hair-ringed, bulb- nosed, uber-lipped freaks in dotted pajamas and floppy sasquatch feet.

Suddenly, a fishbone gets caught in my throat, and I begin to choke. The supper scene speedily dissolves into blackness, and I find myself once more, at our Motel 6 makeshift laboratory.


I wheeze from the splintery bone until my assistant Sean slaps me on the back, and I spit it out. "Wow," he exclaims, "First a raging boner, then a medical emergency. What next, Zeke: are you sure we shouldn't shut down this experiment before some ugly outcome ensues, and you are lost to me forever?"

"No. I'm on to something really astounding," I plead as my larynx heals from the now-expelled obstruction. "Send me back there immediately. I'm about to uncover a terribly shocking revelation!"

"And what's that, my best friend," teases Sean, "that Jesus has the biggest dik you've ever slurped? Surely, that doesn't raise the bar very much from your previous trysts!"

"Sean, shut the fuk up, and get me back to Jerusalem, pronto!"

"Okay," he shrugs. "But I'll need to reinsert that bone back into your throat, in order to return you to the precise moment you left."

"Fine with me," I counter. "Just stop blocking my efforts, and do it!"

So I return to the Last Supper, hacking like a cat with a major fur ball.

Jesus 9 rises from his seat and screeches:

"Do something brothers! We can't afford a dead body at this crucial moment. The last thing we want is centurions scouring this place for evidence, while we rot in Gehenna until the culprit is brought to justice! Which you know as well as I, will never happen."

Jesus #10 pounds the table and declares: "Judas is stealing our show!"

I attempt to speak: "Hold on my bosom buddies. I'm still alive, it's only a tiny bone that can easily be rectified by a solid pat on the back. Or at worst, stand behind and place your arms around..."

But my larynx remains crimped by the embedded sliver, and I cannot utter a single word. Cursing Henry Heimlich for not being born two thousand or more years earlier, I slip into unconsciousness as a dearth of oxygen shuts me down.

When I come to, it is pitch black and the air seems stale. A rustling sound some feet away tells me I am not alone.

"Who's there?" I demand.

"Relax pal. It's just me, Jesus 7." No sooner does he speak, than a soft-yellow orb begins to glow near my feet, and increase until the chamber is fully alight. Number 7 sits atop a stone sarcophagus, dangling his beefy legs.

I approach him to ask: "What happened? I thought I died."

"Oh, I just resurrected you."

"No kidding. Guess that makes you the real Jesus, eh?" Perhaps my quest has ended, in this fortuitous outcome that began in tragedy.

"Oh ha, ha. No way." He laughs with such amusement, I grow confused. He continues:

"Check this out, Judas 2." And he hands me what appears to be an electronic device with four finger-sized loops, flickering stripes of orange and green, with a metallic plate soldered to one side from which hang jiggly thin tentacles tipped in gold. On the opposite side to this plate are the following letters stamped in day-glo lime on a jet-black surface of raised, little bumps:


I hold it close to the shining orb: "That's what brought me back to life?"

"Yes," he replies while stepping down from the sarcophagus. "The first resurrection device was invented 476 years after I was born in 2791."

He raises a hand to reclaim this technological wonder. The deep robin's egg and ruby tinted robes fall away from one arm to expose a firm, round bicep that flexes like a leopard. Faintly printed in a lighter tone on that bulging skin are the words: "Synthetic anatomical insert #024". I regain my composure and step back some feet. The craggy stone wall is damp and chill against my shoulder blades.

"Now wait a minute. You just called me Judas 2. Why?"

"Because I met the real Judas Iscariot at the marketplace on my way to Martha's house," he states with a wry grin.

I yearn to slide my turgid rod across those pouty lips. They are framed in a neatly clipped moustache and goatee. Jesus 7 then takes a step forward, exposing the outline of athletic thighs and a plump basket of goodies.

Against my will, my penis engorges, and bumps against the Space Modulator's nozzle.

"Wh-what do you want with me? Why am I here?"

"This is Jesus's tomb. We drew straws to decide who'll have the honor of being confined here for three days. I won." He then points an accusatory digit at my trembling form.

"You, my dear friend, fukked things up royally for every Jesus here, by choking to death on a fishbone."

I adjust the Modulator away from my pushy hard-on, and wonder aloud:


"A dead body in the Jewish Quarter would not please Caesar. We'd all wind up in the Coliseum as a tasty morsel for lions and tigers and bears. Oh my."

His reference to Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz startles my already perplexed mind. A very gay thing to say in the midst of a cold, dark tomb in the year 33 A.D.

"We couldn't accept that outcome," he continues while gazing deep into my eyes, "or none of us would have the remarkable adventure of playing Jesus Christ Himself."

He sighs with a defeated shrug: "And all our vacation and time-travel expenses are not refundable."

"So you decided to dump my corpse here, where Roman soldiers would never suspect?"

"Bingo! You're a champ."

He then places a large, strong hand on my left shoulder and begins to press those Grecian lips upon mine. (The words "Synthetic anatomical insert #102" appear in a pale shade of cherry upon his upper lip.) A juicy tongue slips between my teeth. I swallow his wine- laden saliva, and can barely contain my kok beneath the robe.

"What are you going to do with me now?" I shiver in suspicious hesitation.

"Come come, my darling boy. We may as well make the best of our time stuck here together for the next three days."

And with that, a middle finger roughly thrusts its way through the tight walls of my anus. His other hand feverishly fondles my sweaty balls. I lose myself in ecstasy.

He presses himself firmly against my quivering body, but I push him away at arm's length.

"So tell me this, Jesus 7: does the real messiah exist?"

He ignores the question and knocks my arms aside to clutch me in wild passion. I am shoved against the wall, my robe pulled up by hungry hands. He slides his bouncy, camel-proportioned schlong against mine, and whispers into my burning ear:

"I really have no..."

Before he finishes the sentence, his heaving breast activates the Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator. Here one moment, gone the next. I now find myself alone, and gazing upon a pile of dust that once was Jesus 7. A time-travel brochure flutters from the sarcophagus onto the dirt floor, beside the illuminated globe. Title: "Adventures in the Holy Land."

Beneath the title in smaller print are these words: "2-in-1 package deal: Moses & Jesus." With that, my entire perception quickly fades into a nebulous charcoal gray, and I find myself once more, reclined on the bed in our Motel 6 lab.


Sean already has my robe bunched up, my legs bent in a compromising position. He salivates for yet one more gobble fest.

"Aha!" he declares, "another bone for this little pup!" And dives right into my basket of eggs and bratwurst.

My aching knob squirts copious wads of sperm across the surface of his tongue, and down the esophagus, where it mingles in his belly with spicy Cheetos, root beer and a hash brownie. I hand him the brochure.

"You're jivin' me!" he remarks as he wipes away some excess semen dribbling down the lower lip and chin. "A time travel brochure from the year 2879." He turns the flyer in his hand. "But how do we prove it's not a sham? Anyone can print this out."

He unfolds it upon the coffee-ring-stained night table, whence a 3D hologram pops out to depict a live action mini-diorama of baby Moses floating among the bullrushes. Alphanumeric characters in rosy gold (16-point Trebuchet font) hover above the scene, accompanied by gently blaring trumpets and a chorus of virgin castrati: "Be Moses for a week. Talk with the Pharoah and boink his hottest concubines and eunuchs! Just 13,666 buckazoids!"

A startled Sean promptly refolds the brochure and tosses it into an open file cabinet. Pearly beads of sweat gather about his forehead and trickle down.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," my loyal aide confesses with a light caress across my electrode-dotted scalp. "You've got to get back there!"

So the Temporal Transmogrifier begins to hum like a hornet, intravenous fluid moves like quicksilver down the plastic tubing, and I am transported once more to ancient, jaded Jerusalem.

The overwhelming stench causes me to retch all over the illuminated orb. I notice a crack of light in the far wall, so I walk up to it and touch the surface alongside. With a low rumble, a boulder rolls away and I'm outta there like a greased warthog. Chased by two centurions who soon lose me, thanks to their cumbersome wooden shields and breastplates. I would've paused to enjoy their phallic spears of righteousness, were the moment more opportune.

Jogging through the twisting alleyways, I find myself sheltered in a cool garden dense with olive trees somewhere in East Jerusalem. Another Jesus that I don't recognize from the supper party meditates in silence on a stump. He looks up at me with copious tears streaming down his face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude." My apology seems to touch him. He wipes away those tears and invites me to sit on a flat stone nearby.

"Quite alright, good Samaritan. Please keep me company for awhile. My brothers seem lost in superficial revelry tonight."

Stars twinkle through the gnarly branches, and I breathe the cool air of nocturnal relief. He takes my hand and confides:

"I shall soon be crucified. May you grant me one last wish before I depart this mortal coil?"

With that, he slides a cool hand up my thigh, and my flaccid crotch- worm springs to life. Before my 40-minute window shuts down, I notice a small white tag beside his left foot. There is a number on it, and nothing else:


PART 6 (the end)

This time I awake to the present, alone in our Motel 6 room. A shower runs in the bathroom behind the closed door. I think long and hard on these recent past-time events, and conclude:

"The real Jesus may not exist, but surely there is a tremendously loving and witty God, as evidenced by the most astounding adventure I could ever imagine. And which I shall never forget."

I unplug the electrodes from my scalp, and open the drawer of the side table to find--instead of the usual Gideon's Bible--a thick black book embossed with a large pink triangle on the cover. It is entitled "The Final Testament". And just below that, in finer print: "EveryFaggotMan's Bible".

Sean finally emerges from the restroom, terrycloth towel bound around his waist. He removes the towel to tousel his damp black hair with it, and enquires:

"Hey, you're back! So whaddya think, the story of Jesus just a ruse, as you've claimed these many years?"

I pull my eyes away from his cut abs, deliciously curved hips and donkey weiner, in an attempt to present him with the best conclusion possible, considering the recent chain of temporal events:

"I...I really can't say any more," I remark while gazing down in trembling wonder, at the palms of my hands. Silvery spears of stigmata begin to pierce through, and the heady scents of frankincense and myrrh fill the laboratory. A few drops of blood spill onto the carpeted floor, from which lilies sprout.

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