Second Coming? Do Me A Favour

Story contains references to Bible that religious readers could find offensive / sacriligious

Second Coming? Do Me A Favour

Imagine the worst hangover ever and times it by infinity. Death by crucifixion is not something you ever want to wake up from, believe me. An eternity of sleep: that’s what I’d earned. But wake I did, and now, here I am in this stone tomb, fumbling around in the dark on my knees. I don’t know what’s worse: the pain in my back and hips, the stinging holes in my hands and feet, or the dryness of my mouth and throat. No. It’s none of these; it’s this bloody crown, digging in my temples. I manage to pull it off, but ouch, those thorns are sharp. Like shaking hands with a holly tree.

There’s a little shaft of light starting to get through, so I can see where the stone cover is. One small shove with my shoulder and it gives – grave sealers these days, honestly, no pride in their work. Not like me in my carpentry phase. Speaking of which, I wish they’d let me make my own cross; I’d have done a better job of planing it. I’m never going to get these splinters out of my back.

Blinking against the early morning sun, thanks Dad – just what I need with this head, I begin to get a picture of the state I’m in – like I’m a SOCO taking polaroids at my own crime scene. Let’s just say there’s a lot of blood.

Still on my knees, I do a painful 360 to get my bearings, then head in the direction of the nearest stream. By my estimation, a mile or so.

That might not sound so bad, but it’s already quite warm and knee walking in a blood-crusted loin cloth quickly becomes insufferable. I try using my arms to get a bit of extra propulsion, but my muscles are stretched like loose elastic, the only way I can keep my hands from dragging in the dirt is to keep them tucked firmly in my armpits.

After four or five rest breaks, I come to a well. And as luck would have it, there’s a couple of togas draped over the side. One is a slinky little number with a slit up the side that is definitely not the look I’m going for; the other is a shapeless off-the-peg affair. I manage to struggle into it; it’s a bit on the large side, but in my condition, the roomier the better. I go up and under and whip off the loin cloth. That’s better.

The stream’s close now – I can hear it. The well water will be more palatable though. Pulling up the little bucket is hard work; my hand-holes smart from gripping the rope, but finally I have water within my grasp. I cup my hands and let the clear, cool water minister to my wounds. But as if to mock me, it trickles back through the holes before I can get any into my mouth. It’s rather undignified, but I drink straight from the bucket.

Feeling almost human again, I hide the loin cloth under the bushel and head for the running water to bathe. If I had even a mustard seed of faith left in me, I might try to flatten the mountainside that drops down between me and the stream. I’m contemplating my descent just as the owners of the two togas are climbing to the summit of their carnal pleasures (hidden from view thanks to the thick foliage, but by no means out of earshot).

Well, this is awkward.

I decide to just go for it: get onto my side and roll down, hoping they’re too swept up in the throws of passion to notice. I squeeze my arms in tight and stretch out my legs. It’s good to get them out from under me. Here goes. Doesn’t seem five minutes since I stood upon that hill and delivered my greatest hits to the multitudes. Now I’m stifling cries of pain so as not to attract the attention of a couple of Sodomites. What was I saying about the persecuted?

The momentum I’ve built up would have carried me right into the stream, were it not for an olive sapling that breaks my roll. Once I’ve recovered from the impact, I notice the toga has ridden up above my waist; I’m trying to wriggle back some dignity when she catches me.

“Enjoying the show, were you?” She asks, walking down to the stream. “You know by rights I should charge you.” She slowly eases herself into the water, no regard for modesty.

“It’s not like that,” I say. I’m wondering if I should tell her some elaborate tale: perhaps say I’m a gladiator, escaped from the Tiberium… leading a slave rebellion.

But it’s too late – she’s clocked me.

“Hey! You’re that Jesus bloke, aren’t you? We met once; not that you’d remember. Thought they crossed you out… Escape did you?” She calls back up to her beau, “Gaius! Come see who it is!”

“Shh. Don’t,” I whisper, before remembering what day it is. Not even the tax collectors would be up at this hour on a Sunday.

“You don’t half look a bloody mess,” she says, her water-rolls far more graceful than my earthly tumble. “Why don’t you come in and get cleaned up?”

I look back towards the well. Gaius shouts something about his missing toga.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and with just a hint of maror, “he’s had what he wanted. He’ll be back to his goats now.”

Thinking about it, there is something familiar about her. “Did I baptise you?” I ask.

“You tried,” she says, and flipping on her back, opens shop for me. 

 At which point I abandon any attempt at decorum, wriggling out of the damn toga and gripping it between my teeth as I get close to the edge of the stream. Draping it in the olive branches, I knee walk down to the shallows. It’s very pebbly. What I wouldn’t give for some knee sandals.

But, wait - I’m still the guy that walked on the Sea of Galilee, aren’t I? They might have killed me, but they can’t take that away from me. I had witnesses. I raise my left knee; it’s hard to balance with my hands still tucked in, but here goes. I raise the right…

There – still got it. Now I’m knee sliding over the stones and above the surface of the stream. When I get to the middle, I lower myself gently down and into the water. I let myself float, remembering my other magic tricks: the water into wine; the loaves and fishes; and my personal favourite, healing that servant who had manflu.

My resurrection was supposed to be the ultimate proof of Dad’s powers. And according to His Great Plan, I’m now supposed to spend the next 2,054 years saving the fools who put me on the cross. For what? So they can carve my death from Cypress wood and plate my suffering in gold. No. They won’t get to eat hot cross buns: warm, cold, buttered, unbuttered, with cheese, with jam, with sausage and egg, nor will they enjoy a hotcross bonanza of salted caramel ones, vanilla ones with passionfruit glaze, spiced stout ones, prosciutto and parmesan ones, maple and bacon ones, boozy rum and raisin ones, sour cherry and pistachio ones, strawberry brioche with lemon cream ones, fig and walnut ones, red velvet ones, dulce de leche and pear ones, nor square ones, loaf sized ones, butterscotch sauce smothered ones, nor overpriced gluten free and vegan ones. Neither will they get to dance at weddings to Errol Brown, singing, “I Believe In Miracles”. Consider The Full Monty erased from film history.

I hope you’ve got a Plan B, Dad. Because I’m done with martyrdom. They’ll come up with something to believe in.