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Date rape Jesus

A baking sun baked yet another mid-day, baking landscape. With The Rapeocalypse, well, more specifically the atomic warheads deployed by the military, South Carolina and a little bit of Georgia were no longer host to temperate to sprightly Summer weather, but now rather harsh, beating temperatures that would drain a man of some level of body fluids provided he was without water and food and unable to find shade within a twenty mile radius; if he wasn't careful it was likely to cause sweats and a bit of stinging in the eyes. Don't even let me get started on the women, with no inbound compass, sense of direction nor ability to calm down in a time of crisis. These were dark, desperate times indeed. Mad Max times a million.

Thankfully, buildings patchworked the terrain, allowing survivors of The Rapeocalypse to seek shelter from the blistering heat. But to what avail? How long could they hold out against the maddened dwarf tracking their every movement? Eleven years this Hell had endured. Eleven! Across two States. His movements were slow, his progress minimal, but Goddamn could he put the innings in—the impact of his labour was steadily increasing; if there was one thing you could say about Jesus, it was that he was a consistent piece of shit.

Thirty-seven civilians either raped, dead, raped and dead, or just unaccounted for. And Steven Seagal. Then there was that whole thing with the military blowing away a small chunk of the Nation's East Coast. Yeah, that was pretty bad too, but it was mainly that Jesus bastard making families weep as to the whereabouts of their loved ones.

Most were unaccounted for because they were hobos and had no family to report them as missing. BUT MAYBE THAT'S WHAT HE WANTED! Fear blinded the victims as to the logic of their plight; they could just walk over to the next State. Or drive! But no, lo and hath and beholdeth the wreckage and curse and plague of The Fucking Rapeocalypse!

In the dismal wreckage of Brunson, SC, population I dunno, around 600, a shadow skirted between the houses, trying not to be seen but moving as quickly as one could manage in such unbearable, hostile weather. Quick-footed, the figure's darting appeared random, but to anyone who knew Peter, Jesus' first disciple, his number one bro, his pimp Apostle, they would tell you that there was never anything random about the man, his motivations. “They sure have nothing to do with serving that bastard Jesus Christ,” they would say; “Peter'd have my nuts nailed to a cross if he ever heard me say that.”

Exiting the local convenience store in about as little time as it took him to swoop in, Peter fled across the barren sands of the town's desolate roads of which the people had long departed. There weren't that many folk in the streets, is what I'm saying. Coming to a halt at the ground floor of a small, homely residence, Peter lifted his cagoule off from over his head, reached into his pocket and removed the bounty he had retrieved from the convenience store.

“Sorry God. I really wanted me a fucking Snickers bar. What is it you were saying?” asked Peter halfway through gorging on the delicious caramel and nutty dessert, spitting peanuts all over a carpet ruined by what appeared to be wine or ketchup or cranberry juice or something like that. “I should have got a coke with this…” said Peter, almost to himself. His eyes dilated at the thought of getting some Skittles as well, mirroring the house's dank interior the reality of which was just dawning on Peter. Something had been in here. Something had happened here. Was it corn syrup, maybe?

A silence filled the household with an atmosphere that parents only know too well, the times a child has been scolded but wants you to know how much you've hurt them, sulking and standing in the corner but ever-aware of your presence, awaiting that moment of realisation when you see that you were wrong all along for telling them not to stick forks into live electrical sockets. The silence ensued.

“Goddamnit, God, I said I was sorry! I wanted a fucking snack!” Peter said, thinking whether he had the time to dash to the store and get back again without angering God too much more than he already had.

A booming echoed around the walls, reverberating inside Peter's skull with excruciating clarity. “DO NOT TAKE MY NAME IN VAIN, PETER, DESCIPLE OF JESUS, DESCIPLE OF GOD!”, it said. Peter's response was swift and steady, “Shit, sorry dude; real sorry, I wasn't thinking. Okay. We cool? We cool? Dude… Was. Not. Thinking.”

“Okay. Good” The voice said, a little too smug for Peter's comfort. “Did you get me anything from the store?”

“Erm…” Peter, looking sheepish as ever, proffered what was left of his candy bar, about an eighth of it remaining.

God sighed and sat down in the Heavens. “Why have you asked me to meet with you, Peter?”

“It's getting out of hand, God. He… He was just supposed to rape people, but look at what's happened. Look at what he's made people do. He's made them turn against each other, God.” Peter licked his lips with what he thought was a well-prepared, well-presented argument.

“And?” God replied, eyebrows arching questioningly but not questioningly, for God is omniscient. It was as if all was going according to His plan.

Peter, alarmed at God's repost, shot a quick, scatty glance about the room desperately searching for an answer to such indifference. “It's wrong! It's just wrong! I know he was supposed to bring judgment to those unrighteous. The sinners. But… humans are… good. Making them fear for an incredibly slow-coming but ultimately inevitable raping at the hands of a psychotically driven, antisocial midget is not the way to make them see things any clearer.”

God pondered this last statement as Peter eased into a more comfortable posture, his breath becoming shallower as he realised he might have actually temporarily knocked God off balance with the strength of his argument—but then how foolish could a man be?

“Peter,” God lamented, “He is doing good work, see. God's work. MY WORK! People aren't good. Sometimes a Rapeocalypse is the only solution to put forward.”

“BUT HE'S RAPING EVERYBODY!” Peter exclaimed, almost deliriously.


“God, you have to do something. This is wrong!” Peter, agonizing at the thought that he had come ill-prepared to this battle of wits and desperately clutching at straws, finally just stood there, looking up at God and struggling through an insufferable silence. Desperate measures were called for. He proceeded to manically wave his arms about.

“DO SOMETHING!” he screamed, once the waving of the arms proved to yield nothing.

“I move in mysterious waves. Rays? Ways. It's ‘ways', isn't it.” God said, musing.

“Take some fucking responsibility for your actions, you fucking freak!” Peter, his voice escalating in tonality as the air gradually drove itself out of an ever-tightening airway at the fear of his final push and the potential consequences of his actions. He was trying to go up against and rationalise with God. This could end disastrously.

“Hmmmm. I can't,” God said.

“What do you mean, ‘You can't'? You're omnipotent.” Peter, calming down once more at the suddenly unexpected benevolence of the God he loved.

“He's… erm… off the reservation. AWOL. In too deep and out of reach. I couldn't find him even if I wanted to.” God said, his face reddening as he realised the game was up.

“But… you're God. You're… omnipresent.”

“Yup.” With this, God let out one long exhalation, something he appeared to have been withholding for several minutes, and allowed his cheeks to turn an embarrassingly even darker shade of crimson.

“So what can we do? He's already killed nine of us… Jude hanged himself the first chance he got, said he'd ‘rather serve an eternity in Hell smoking blunts with mah dawg Satan than get butt-fucked by that absolute animal of a man!'… I mean… what if I'm next?” Peter asked, hanging his head low as the gravity and shear hopelessness of the situation became evermore evident.

“I can keep an eye out.” God said, hopeful-like. “Would you like me to do that, eh? Keep an eye out for you? Eh? Peter?”

“Fuck off, God.” Peter, sinking to his knees, let out one long sigh. “What can you possibly do?”

“Buddy, it'll be alright. Look, I know it will. As a matter of fact, I'm going to get on it right now. Don't you worry.” God, donning his sunglasses, waved at Peter with a big, beautiful, bright smile. “Take good care Peter. All will be well.” With that he jumped on his Harley, performed a wheelie and a crazy-eight in the sky before speeding off into the distance, leaving a trail of hearts and butterflies in his wake to the sound of angel tears cascading over the heads of newborn babies in biblical, baptizing fashion.

Peter got up steadily, wincing ever so slightly at the cracking of his knees that exposed his age, how long he had been running from the chaos wrought by the cock of Jesus. He realised then that he still had an eighth of a Snickers bar in his hand; the chocolate had melted some into his palm, which he generally liked anyway, to lick off a finger at a time, but it was always nicer when it happened as a surprise. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe God would handle the situation.

His eyes accustomed to the gloom of the house, scanning the décor and heirlooms adorning the walls, the leather upholstery that screamed ‘economy-buy' but still looked as though it had hosted many a comfortable, loving, family microwave-dinner in front of Jeopardy and Columbo repeats, or maybe even the odd softcore porn film whenever the parents would read to their children, await their slumber afore quietly edging their way down the stairs, shutting the living room door and making passionate love on a tarp used to coat and prevent the setting in of odour.

Fucking sinners. Looks like they got what they deserved. What was originally thought of as corn syrup staining the carpet turned out to be, according to taste, blood smearing the building's few rooms; family portraits and photos exhibiting smiling, happy faces now slicked in the macabre, the kind of havoc only Jesus could bring by making a human vessel explode outwards from the inside. Peter rustled up his Marlboro Reds packet, withdrawing one of the two cigarettes left him, and lit up.

Fucking sinners.

It was at that moment Peter felt something slump on his right shoulder. Startled but not daring to move, Peter gazed upwards to see that the floor of the house's second level had partly crumbled away due to the rot of so much fucking blood seeping into the woodwork. Looking down at him was a stout figure, grinning like a jackal that had separated itself from the pack yet somehow fortunately found an entirely dead and fresh hippopotamus by the roadside. Peter inhaled sharply, fearfully, hoping that what lay on his shoulder was in fact an arm, but the seven foot distance between him and the roof combined with those deep-set, dark and sparkling eyes rimmed with bloodlust and sharp, white teeth dribbling strings of saliva down a matted, scraggly beard only to have a pool form by Peter's right foot indicated that such was not the case. Tears began to form in Peter's eyes as his body began to shake uncontrollably.

“Hello, old friend,” the grin ever-widening, the saliva running ever thicker.

God was pissed-the-fuck-off. How dare that measly, runt-cunt talk to Him that way? He tried not to dwell on it, but the more His mind tried to settle on the cool breeze flowing through His grey-silken beard and smooth, Wintery locks, the more Peter's words etched into his brain with searing, humiliating precision. “You're not omnipresent. You're not omniscient. You're not omnipotent. Just fuck off God.”?!?!?! Who did that little squirt think he was talking to? Well, fuck ‘em; fuck all The Apostles.

I mean, He was a swell guy, wasn't He? Sure, He would always have to slink off home when it came to buying the next round. And he'd forever be borrowing money and paying it back two weeks later than absolutely, positively and definitely guaranteed, but wasn't he “God Too Cool for School, Awesome at Pool” anymore? There was a time when they'd let Him have his way with their women whenever He wanted, when He thought He was their friend. Well, not anymore. Let Jesus sort them out.

But then what about Matthew? And John? They were alright, weren't they? They'd been a solid shoulder to cry on when things got too tough to handle down there, that's for sure. Goddamnit, His head was in the clouds today; He didn't know whether to be wrathful or compassionate. He needed some cheap liquor and He needed to get laid. His bike sped off into the distance ever-faster, destination Mexico.

* * *

Detective Matthews stirred in his sleep. He had suffered countless restless nights ever since the beginning of The Rapeocalypse, especially following his assignment as primary detective on locating the wayward Son of God. The order had come straight down from the White House, the President's reasoning being that Detective Matthews was the only authority close enough to Jesus to know how his mind worked and hence the most reliable person to anticipate his every move and strategize an offensive.

Jesus was fucking immortally indestructible though, something that didn't seem to compute too well with American intelligence.

Matthew also didn't know Jesus as well as Peter, the nomadic monk who gave up his life as temp stunt-cock for bangbros.com close-ups only to follow in the teachings of his friend and occasional co-star, then known as Juses to maintain his secret identity, during the videos of a more fetishist variety. But Peter was dead now. Killed at the cock of his once dearest chum. Matthew was the only disciple left other than John, and he had disappeared off the radar completely; Detective Matthews was the only one the nation could depend on now.

Peter's body had been found in a field in Atlanta, fucked so hard that it had been catapulted over a hundred feet in the air, its trajectory crossing State lines to a point situated absolutely miles away from Jesus' last estimated position. Most astonishingly of all, according to the forensics report, it was the impact with the ground that had killed him.

The bulging eyes and inhuman grimace, blood gushing from a jaw either clenched too tightly that all the teeth broke out or, more likely, from where all the teeth had been mercilessly fucked from the mouth by an uprooted street-lamp (“street-lamp” not quite being in accordance with the final published report's findings, but close enough); these images were what haunted Detective Matthews' dreams this night.

Because Peter had been Jesus' favourite.

He awoke with a start, sitting upright as he tried to shake the memory of Peter's distorted facial features from his still drowsy vision. He blindly fumbled by the bedstand for his cigarettes, not wanting to turn on the light lest he wake up his childhood sweetheart and now lovely wife, Sharon. They'd never had kids—God had made all of the Apostles sterile in the hopes it would dissuade them from spilling seed (unfortunately for God, this was the 21st century). But Matthew's infertility never seemed to have bothered Sharon, an ex-heroin addict now born again Christian with a heart of gold. She loved him. And he kinda loved her. At least her jibbly bits. And that was all that mattered.

Detective Matthews and his wife currently resided in Georgia, near the blast-zone where the US military had foolhardily blown up where they thought Jesus was hiding (somewhere in South Carolina), all around where they thought Jesus was hiding and then just a little bit beyond even that just for safe-measure. But then that's how the US rolled. He had to admit he admired such a modus operandi. To track and kill with absolutely no compromise; to operate with almost no thought whatsoever. That took balls.

Of course, they hadn't managed to successfully assassinate The Messiah. Matthew could have told them that much from the second they cooked up “Operation: Hunt the Fuck Out of Jesus Christ.” But then what would be the point? He knew they wouldn't get him; couldn't get him! All the more disconcerting now that Matthew lived so close to Jesus' latest rape-spree locations. He exhaled slowly into the shadows set by an early dawn's light seeping in via the hints of space awarded by the window's wood-coloured slats. His mind turned once more to the case as often it did during the early morning hours.

“Jesus always gets what he wants…”

Such was the last thing Matthew had heard Jesus say as he fled the scene of Jesus butt-raping Mark atop of the poker table. They knew they shouldn't have let him drink that night, but it was his birthday, seven days away from The End of the World circa 1999 (Jesus would always snigger at that, like there was some kind of inside joke between him and his Pops). Might as well party it up like it was the end of days, no?

The ghostly sight of his best friend's face covered in blood as he furiously sodomised some chap he wasn't too keen on anyways was enough to make Matthew flee The Den (otherwise known as The Rape Den, but Jesus soon found women to be incompliant to come up for coffee once they'd discovered the nickname assigned his crib).

How many casualties? Just the two; he had felt pretty guilty leaving Bartholomew taking a shit in the bathroom, seemingly unawares as to the outside chaos; probably still reading the newspaper's entertainments column while thinking of the adverse repercussions of too many Doritos, pots of dip and bottles of Corona.

Maybe a massive shit was just what the Doctor ordered before a most hardcore anus-poundage. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad for him; he might enjoy it. Matt knew that such was a fool's way of thinking, but what the fuck did he know as he sprinted down the street with tears streaming down his string-top sleeveless vest, pizza-stained jeans and bare feet? He was a pussy. That much he did know. And if it stopped his asshole from dilating four feet in circumference, he could live with that.

Jesus had vowed to hunt down all the Apostles who had “let him down” since that night, and apparently this included those who weren't even at the game. It just never seemed to sink into his head that sometimes you win at poker and sometimes you lose. In this sense, Matthew knew that his time was coming, and it filled him with a dread so potent as he rolled over and tried to shut out the demons plaguing his thoughts.

“Jesus always gets what he wants..”

He shuddered at the memory, placing his cigarette that was too stale anyhow in a nearby ashtray. Smoking usually stung the back of his throat for the lack of saliva; his mouth always seemed too dry these days for the raping he knew was always just around the corner.

So then why not just take Sharon and skip town? Fly to Europe? Everyone knew Jesus wasn't permitted to use modern technology (with the exception of that daft headband of his), and he couldn't swim because of a childhood fear of water. Why didn't Matthew leave the mainland and settle down, let someone else handle it, live the rest of his days with Sharon, in happiness? Because he was Detective Matthew Matthews, that's why the fuck not!

Extinguishing his cigarette hurriedly for the bitter fire that now tampered with his tastebuds, Matthew felt a stirring below his waistline as thoughts began to wander and tarry on the luscious form sleeping next to him. Omnipresent? Fuck you God. He'd masturbated enough times to know that that wasn't the case—up to three times a day sometimes, and still in God's good graces, invited round for Hanukah and other such social events. Omnipresent, his fucking ass. He was going to enjoy his wife, the woman who loved him so much she gave up heroin for him.

Well, he got her hooked on heroin thanks to his connections as a crooked cop, physically abused her while ensuring that he remained her only viable supplier (thereby making her entirely dependent on him and essentially his emotional sock puppet), and then they'd married once she'd cleaned up. Because drugs were wrong in the eyes of the Lord. Now he would simply enjoy the fruits of his handiwork. It was as if a tale lifted from the pages of The Good Book itself. A match made in Heaven, so to speak. The play on words only aroused his engorgement further. He was pretty much ready to cum.

Reaching across to Sharon's left breast, making sure he didn't grope it too fervently lest he push himself over the edge, Detective Matthew Matthews moved his head in closer for the kill to take a nipple into his mouth. He ran his tongue over the bumpy flesh of an areola seduced by alternating currents of hot and cold air. The groans emanating from the darkness were those of utmost feminine exhilaration, eagerly mounting at the prospects of further workings on the one of two erogenous zones Detective Matthew Matthews knew about.

Odd though. His wife's tits seemed to have reduced in volume. And there was hair brushing against the inside and up along the outskirts of his mouth. He moved his hand down and inside her pubic mound to make sure everything was still up and running and ready to go, only to find a third person in bed with them.

Not a third person.

Oh Dear God!

“Hello, old friend,” said a voice from the darkness.

High-pitched, almost schoolgirl-like giggles shrilled increasingly louder, drowning out the final cries of Detective Matthew Matthews.

John sat in his EZ-chair, smoking a cigar and drinking some smoked whiskey, smoking away in his dressing gown out on his porch. John lived in Atlanta, but nobody knew this. He'd disappeared. Well, he'd actually faked his own death by travelling down to South Carolina for the day and picking up one of them hobos Jesus had so notoriously raped. Unfortunately, the hobo hadn't been dead. John found this out the hard way by the time he'd removed the poor sod's third tooth, in the middle of taking out the fourth with Home Depot custom pliers.

More unfortunately still was that, being a messenger of God, John didn't believe in killing people. It was in The Ten Commandments. So he had to finish the job; remove the man's entire set of teeth, cut off the fingers and toes because he'd read once people could be identified by their feet (on Wikipedia, of all places), dry-skin razorblade all of his hair off and cut off his testicles lest they identify him through seminal DNA.

All he did subsequently was extinguish his cigar on a rather unfortunate, flammable patch of ground that just so happened to be ten feet away from a snivelling, hunched over old drunk who finally thought he was going to be left alone yet whose position was alarmingly the setting point for a trail of inflammable liquid that led away from his person to where John was standing at the time. Accidentally dropping his cigar wasn't murder, was it? Then stamping on the motherfucking thing when you realised the petrol you'd bought from a Czech street vendor (literally operating from the boot of his car down some dark alleyway) was in fact cheap as chips bacon grease? That wasn't murder. It couldn't be! Then urinating “John the Apos,” then spitting “tle” into the hobo's seared flesh so that police could hastily identify the body without raising any questions? Nope. Not murder.

“Tell God that John said hello.”, John had leered before letting go of what was probably one of the cheapest brands of cigarillo a man could buy. A bystander observing this unfolding chain of events would think such to be a real corny line from a real bad action flick, but they wouldn't know who John was. Then he was one of the three surviving Apostles, and he had seen the need to take measures into his own hands; he was going to survive this fucking Rapeocalypse.

The only people who knew of his scam to vanish off the face of the Earth would be those disciples left alive, of which now there was only one. Detective Matthew Matthews had been recently found on the White House's front-lawn, bleeding out through a wound you could see through, connecting his ass through to his stomach; he'd had the President's balls in his mouth, and the President's whereabouts were still unknown). John knew that Matthew would have spilled his guts even before the raping had commenced; maybe Jesus knew of John's still being alive. It didn't look good.

John blew out a thin cascade of smoke into the chill night air, sensing a change in winds that indicated He was coming.

“Bssshh. ‘Ello, John.”

“God?!!! What the fuck?!!” John stammered. Then, after taking a long look at his friend, enquired “Why are you here? Are you drunk?”

“I've jusht gotten back from Messhico,” God spluttered before proceeding to laugh into his own beard. “I gotshme sho mush pusshey!”

John looked on aghast. “Er… God, you're peeking out from under your robe.”, panicked, John promptly averted his gaze to stare fixedly at the floor.

“Oh. Shorry,” God said, redressing himself by forcing his penis down and in between his legs, securely out of view. “Bettcha?”

“Yes, thank you.” John sighed. “I'll put the kettle on. Want some coffee?”

“Yesh pleashe,” God responded, remorsefully staring down before snickering further into his facial hair.

* * *

Two hours had passed since God's first visitation to John's house that night. John had walked out onto his porch to find an empty night staring back at him, Harley screech-marks scorching the midnight clouds with a mixture of rainbows and vaginas. So, with his two cups of coffee, John sat down and pondered over how many more days he had left on this Earth. If God could find him, then so could Jesus.

“I mean, I'm an alright kinda guy aren't I John?”

“Jesus Fuck!” John exclaimed, startled.

“No. Not quite. It's me. God.”

“You scared the fuck out of me!” John, having spilled both cups of coffee over his trousers, stood upright with a jolt, trying to get as much of the piping hot brew away from his genitalia.

“Sorry about that, John. But, I mean, I'm a good guy, aren't I?”

“Yeah, God, of course you are.” John would have to examine the damage later. It was going to hurt sitting down to pee for the next couple of days.

“It's just that… Marta says I'm emotionally distant…”

“Who's Marta?” John asked, trying to ignore the burning itch around his perineum.

“A prostitute from across the border. I mean, she gave me crabs, and yet she says I'm the one who's emotionally distant! That's just crazy.” God said, almost self-questioningly, sitting down with a touch of despair and a faint glow in his eyes. “We're friends aren't we John? I mean, you'd still let me fuck your wife, wouldn't you?”

“Oh, y… yes, of course. You have crabs?” John, trying desperately to change the subject of discussion.

“It's not like you do it with her anyways, is it, John. You can't have children.”

“Yup. Yup. All about preservin' mah seed, here.” John hastened to explain, sweat beginning to form under his collar. His balls being temporarily boiled in coffee was Sweet Heaven in comparison to what God would do to them if he ever found out John still masturbated profusely, like a rabid chimp coated in vaginal musk.

“Oh, I don't know. I guess it would just be a rebound fuck, anyway… I think I might actually love Marta, John.” God tried to laugh at the notion, then hung his head ever so slightly and closed his eyes, a solitary tear running down into his beard.

John sighed heavily, as if his entire life were flashing before his eyes, and thanked the Heavens for the second chance his testes had been granted in not being removed with the sensitivity of a wrathful God ripping them out with his teeth. “Well, you were always about the fiery-tempered ones, weren't you, God.”

God chuckled to himself. “Yes, yes I suppose I was. They have the tightest coochies, don't they.”

Both laughed at that, John slapping God on the back, ever-wilfully wanting to steer the conversation away from his testicles and what should happen to them if God found out he still used them.

God then let out a deep, drawn out breath. “I've fucked up John. Fucked up big time. This Jesus thing is getting out of hand.” He said while thoughtfully stroking His beard.

“What's happened?” John asked, finally resting into the matter at hand, no longer thinking about his bollocks other than the cold air matting his long-johns to his nether region and making it apparent to all just how ill-equipped he was as a man, let alone an Apostle.

“I've lost control of him, and I've lost sight of him as well. But then I only have myself to blame for the latter. It's true I should have made him taller to fit in with modern times; it sure would've made tracking him a Helluva lot easier.”

John stared wide-eyed and disbelieving at God's words. “Are you not going to take some responsibility for your son's actions as well, God? I think these people want answers.”

“What? No. My fuck up was purely making him so fucking small. What is this? What is this bullshit I'm hearing? Peter said something along similar lines. It's like y'all want me to fix somethin' up in hur.” God said bombastically, waving his arms exasperatedly in no direction and at no one in particular, rolling His eyes to over exaggerated, dramatic effect.

“You let this mad-midget get away with anything he pleased. Maybe you should take some responsibility for your actions.”

“Ermhmmmmmmmmmmmno. Nononono.” God put his sunglasses on before finishing this prolonged, intoned response. “I gave you all free will,” pushing the center of his Ray-Bans to the peak of his nose's ridge on this last, preposterous statement. “You decide what to do with it, not me; I just masturbate to the chaos that ensues.”

“Free will?!” John exclaimed. “You've sent an invincible, rampant psycho to butt-fuck us all to death!!!”

“Er… erno… you would have… you would have done it all on your own. Eventually, that is. With or without Jesus.” It appeared to John that God's left eye twitched slightly at this last remark, but he couldn't tell for the dark shades covering them. His eyebrow sure seemed to have moved upwards a tad, though, in an erratic and spasmodic fashion.

“But don't these people deserve something better? The benefit of the doubt? There's an innate something to people you must help flourish. Something that can help them rise above their more bestial side. I mean, what of love?” John persevered urgently, thinking that God was inherently a good God, but goddamn was he a stubborn bastard. His sick sense of humor didn't help humanity's advancement, certainly. “You must know what I'm talking about, God, you're in the middle of a break-up yourself! Can't you sympathise and let them sort it out in their own time?”

God sniffed at the sudden change in atmosphere with the pensive disgust of a man who's just found the testicles of Satan himself placed right under his nose. “They don't know the meaning of the word. As soon as they see it in someone else they try to rip it out of them, all for their own entertainment and some belittling sense of purpose. The only people they truly love is themselves.” Then, under his breath, “Oh Martha, my fire-breathing, whorish Fajita, why did you have to leave me?”

“Not true. Not true. People love. They love for sex. And money! Money's always a good source of love. And children! The Pope, your divine messenger on Earth; he fucking loves kids!”

“Hmmmm. I s'pose.” God, now despondent, thinking deep thoughts that could not once nor nearly be comprehended by the deepest of philosophers, the holiest of evangelists, the most sexual of priests. “You're right. Fuck ‘im. Let the humans take care of him. They're generally unforgiving, ignorant bastards with an exceptionally flawed legal system anyways. He's as good as fucked.” God prepared to saddle his Harley.

“You gonna take away his superpowers?” John had to know; failing to take away Jesus' seven foot penis could mean he'd still win the war and realise The Rapeocalypse to its fullest. He would still be indestructible, as any man with an enormous cock would gladly testify.

“No, I'll leave him that one luxury…” God started; John's head sagged forward in anguish before raising itself once more at the sudden, comical tone taken by God's voice at that moment: “Actually…” God continued…

The bellows of laughter that then followed rung higher and louder than any atmosphere. Birds began their morning song, even though it wasn't morning, as a result of the sweet, Holy music that accompanied, as if from nowhere, such a merry melody. The saccharine harmonies produced sounded like Jimmy Hendrix being backed up by John Bonham, Phil Lynott, and the sound of a million female orgasms.

“Oh, God,” John said, smiling at what source of amusement might be concocting inside that sick and twisted head of His. “You sick and twisted son of a bitch,” he chuckled.

The news broadcasts on the 21st of December, 2012, around the globe, went something along like this:

We got him. We got the little bastard. Well, we haven't quite got him yet, but there's a mob of around ten thousand or so civilians chasing the little blighter over a stretch of desert that spans around five kilometres or so. Fucking dude can run, but it won't be long now before we catch him—he has nowhere to hide. Our reporter in the sky filming the entire event has said that he abandoned his clothing some several hours ago to be able to withstand running in such extreme weather conditions. Historians have said that the uniform he was wearing is an authentic Roman guard's uniform that would have belonged to the elite service of Pontius Pilate himself. Remarkable. Our reporter also says that he is still wearing his Agassi signature Adidas headband, and that his cock is tiny. I mean, literally miniscule; I've seen pictures taken from exclusive, direct-line camera feeds, and it's like he doesn't even have one. Again, truly remarkable. How will the rest of this story unfold?

* * *

Jesus was panicking. He didn't know what was happening. HIS FUCKING COCK HAD DISAPPEARED! Mid. Fucking. Rape. The hobo had actually dared laugh at him! This was the work of God. It had to be. Fucking sick bastard fucking comedian sick fucking bastard!! He'd have him for this. Well, he'd have to die first, but then let's see how Daddy likes it when he didn't use a coaster on the polished oak wood living room table?! Or didn't turn off the TV, just left it on Standby!? Or left dirty plates, not by the side and neatly stacked up, BUT WILLY-FUCKING-NILLY IN THE FUCKING SINK! LET'S SEE HOW FUCKING FUNNY HE'D FUCKING LIKE THAT!?!

The air was starting to leave him at a rate faster than he could recover to maintain his pace, so he decided to slow down a touch. The sun was hot today, beating down on his reddened face, his sunburnt belly and… Jesus looked down, only to burst into a flood of tears at the sight of the stump jutting out from his crotch like an inverted belly-button. “My penis,” he thought, “My precious, beautiful little Turtle-Dove!” Spittle and snot started to run down into his moustache as to the direness of the situation as he gradually broke down mentally, but he had to keep running. He had to prove he was worth every bit of man even without his schlong.

That's when he noticed a figure away in the distance. His tears began to cease, his vision began to clear, his pace began to pick up as to what lay ahead—a cloaked and hooded, tall and lean figure robed in black. “Darth Maul?” Jesus thought to himself. Wow! With or without a reputable cock, he was going to grab himself one last piece of booty before being torn to pieces by an insatiable gathering in hot pursuit. Especially if it was one of his favoritest of Star Wars figures next to Bobba Fet, or of course Darth Vader. Nobody could top Darth Vader.

“OR JABBA!” thought Jesus, temporarily forgetting his worries.

Approaching the silhouette in the distance, Jesus heard a voice in his head only to halt suddenly. “Halt.”, the voice said. “Do you know who I am?”

“Darth Maul?” Jesus asked, his voice raising several octaves at the mere thought of meeting one of his heroes. Then raping him.

“No, I am not Darth Maul. I am Chuck. Chuck of the Norse. I have come to deliver thee to mine employer, Earth.” Upon saying this last word, Chuck punched the world as if with the power and fury it would take to fist it to its very centre. Jesus stumbled back, falling over and kicking up grain and grit. Lying on his back, gasping with fright, he farted into the ground, blowing up yet another cloud of dust.

“N-no. Why are you doing this? Are we both Gods not?” Jesus despairingly enquired, trying to lure the man into a false sense of security pre-having his vengeful, malevolent way with him; before the collective brought Jesus to his timely demise. He would have to be quick.

Chuck laughed aloud, a ridiculing gesture that made anew the tears form in Jesus' eyes. “Come. They are calling for your blood. And they shall have it.”

Jesus' eyes widened, partly in the disgust he shared for all of humanity and partly in the ever-engrossing fear that consumed him as the shadow loomed over to claim its prize.

* * *

“Look at his willy; it's fucking tiny!”

The crowd roared with laughter as Jesus lay straddled onto an X-shaped cross the likes of which you can find with little searching at www.electrosluts.com. The complete sight of the circumstances taking place was an exceptionally shameful and disgraceful one. Jesus hadn't stopped crying since Chuck the Norse, now standing beside Jesus with his arms crossed, had captured him.

“No! No!” Jesus implored. “I wished for a tiny penis so that I should be more aerodynamic to guarantee my escape from you ungrateful bastards. I purposefully asked for God to do it! Beware, for He shall smite thee for this. Once He finds out, that is!” he whimpered.

“Look at ‘im. ‘is God's abandoned ‘im.”, observed an onlooker, sharing his knowledge with a self-satisfying nod to the rest of the crowd, all of which was now looking at Jesus with hungry, angry eyes for the rape he had reaped upon their lands (well, just South Carolina, a bit of Georgia, and the President of the free world). “What should we do with him?” several others asked in unison.

“Nothing!” spoke Jesus. “For I am thy bringer of The Rapeocalypse.” His voice, then breaking a touch, continued. “It's a good thing this day landed on the 21st of December 2012, eh? You know, as prophesized in the Prophecy? Of Rape? I mean; this is the day I stop doing it, innit.” Bloodthirsty eyes begged he follow-up from such a weak, self-serving statement. “What I mean is, I won't do it again.” The looks intensified. “Promise,” he gulped, his pleading eyes seeming to drive them harder in their determination to rape him the fuck right back. Right in the dick!

But then lo, a woman piped up. “But shouldn't we be humane, compassionate and understanding? Shouldn't we follow the teachings of God? Love and forgive as you would wish to be loved and forgiven?”

To which Jesus replied…


At this, the mob's decision was settled. At a nod from the Vice President, Chuck of the Norse kicked down the cross. In accord, the crowd gathered around him and stared affectionately yet maddeningly downwards.

“We love you Jesus,” they choired, as one man dropped to his knees and began hammering a nail into Jesus' hand. “I love you too, Jesus,” the woman of just seconds ago said, kneeling to Jesus' right and executing the same procedure.

“We all love you Jesus,” they started to chime, their voices climbing ever higher to drown out Jesus' pitiful wailings as more nails were then applied to his feet. Chuck the Norse looked down with sorrowful eyes, pity shrouding the black, deep-set marble of too many years being witness to mankind's folly, but what was happening was what needed to happen.

The final nail, inserted into Jesus' urethra, was hammered in as if by a carpenter wanting to make the foundation of a small, framed portrait as accurate, steady and level as possible, or a first-year undergrad artist trying to recreate an immaculate replica of Michelangelo's David. The chip-chip-chip sounded in tandem with the motion of Jesus' now alternately gaping and closing mouth, like a baby being playfully denied its food, or a fish hooked into a boat and gasping away from its final breaths, with no sound being issued forth.

“Braaains,” a member at the back said.

“Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains,” said another.

“BRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINS,” all now in agreement, a thick, black bolt of love shooting skywards to the God for whom they all acted.

* * *

Looking down, God masturbated furiously at the scene, thinking of Marta.

Continue to Episode 2 »

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