Messiah Complex

The heat was unbearable. John took shelter in the relatively cool shade of a small grove of petrified trees, which was situated well away from the River and its attendant swarms of blood hungry insects. He reclined on the ashen ground and gazed blankly over the sluggish unhealthy waters… over the scattered blocks of rubble, upon which mad flickers of heat haze danced, like the tortured spirits of the ruined City’s long dead inhabitants… over the black, depressing wilderness beyond…

He noticed an indistinct figure striding along the opposite bank of the River. He sat up abruptly. The figure appeared to be… He was! He was walking on the water. It could only have been one person:

Jesus raged out of the wilderness with all the speed and fury of a desert sandstorm. Presently, he stood, hands on hips, glaring down at John.

“Where the heck have you been?” he demanded petulantly, radiating the rank odours of sweat, halitosis and urine. “I’ve been up and down this foul River all day, looking for you.”

“Talking to me?” John asked blandly.

“You’d better believe it, John. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do…” grated Jesus through clenched teeth.

“I do?” came the innocent reply.

“Oh, come on, John. You’re supposed to have done your big spiel about how marvellous I am. Drummed up a bit of enthusiasm for when I got here. Pimped me a big audience. Done your famous ‘prepare ye the way’ and ‘make your paths straight’ speech. Surely you couldn’t have forgotten?” he wailed, seeming almost ready to cry.

“I remember,” stated John, shrugging his shoulders. “But I got pissed off with it all.”

“You what?”

“I said,” repeated John, with patronising emphasis. “I got pissed off with it all.”

Jesus literally shook with emotion. He looked down in disgust and disbelief at the decadent figure sprawled before him. Opulent in a spotless white robe and solid gold jewellery. Cynical, profane and obscenely smiling. This was surely the Devil’s handiwork.

“You bloody degenerate!” he exploded. “You commie bastard! You devil’s advocaat!”

“Advocate,” John corrected him, pedantically.

“You slimy little gentile sucker! You…!”

“Tut, tut, tut,” admonished John. “What will Daddy think of you then, eh? Smack botties and straight up to heaven without a resurrection, no doubt.”

Jesus took a deep breath, folded his arms tightly across his chest and whimpered feebly. His face turned an apoplectic shade of purple.

John grinned up at him. In a strange way, he felt a certain amount of sympathy or pity or whatever. He thought of suggesting that Jesus should pray for strength, but decided not to be so petty. Instead, he merely affected a contemptuous, world weary yawn.

Eventually, Jesus exhaled, relaxed and opened his eyes again. “I believe that this situation may yet be salvaged,” he stated calmly.

“Ha! Why bother?” sneered John. “We know only too well it wouldn’t be worth the effort. How many incarnations have we suffered? How many times has everything seemed perfect, then totally collapsed? The best we ever managed was a brief burst of religious mania, followed by the inevitable slow rotting away of our every ideal, the misinterpretation of our every word and deed… Surely you couldn’t have forgotten?”

Jesus sighed meekly. “Who could forget?” he asked softly of no-one. “But there can be no excuse for bitterness, for giving up hope. We still have all of infinity and eternity in which to set things to rights.”

John’s self assurance suddenly began to fade. Jesus was displaying some of his old charisma.

“You have, maybe,” he replied sullenly. “I quit, remember? Don’t expect any help from me.”

Jesus looked down at his sweaty, mud caked feet. “All right,” he said, in a voice choked with bitter disappointment. “But I still forgive you. Will you let me baptise you, at least? For old times’ sake?”

John waved an indifferent hand. “Yeah. Why not? I might as well be on the safe side.”

He stood up and allowed his sumptuous robes to fall, leaving him wearing just a scant loin cloth, then started to follow Jesus to the River. Incredibly, the heat seemed to have become even more oppressive. The sun gouged at his eyes. The sand burned the soles of his feet. The parched air shrivelled his lungs.

He stepped expectantly into the River, but was dismayed to find that its waters were lukewarm and viscous. The smell was absolutely vile. In fact, as Jesus pushed his head down, he could barely withhold the base impulse to vomit.

The brackish, ordurent liquid closed over his head. The universe became dark and silent.

After a while, he became aware of a peculiar buzzing sound in his ears. He started to panic. His lungs were desperate for oxygen. Colours swirled and gyrated before his eyes. Thrashing about wildly with his arms and legs, he tried to stand. He had to breathe. He had to have air. He had to…

Jesus tightened his fanatical grip, determined to wash away every last vestige of sin.

Soon, the bubbles ceased to rise.

He dropped John’s slack, pathetic corpse. He staggered off into the blazing radioactive wilderness and hid there for about five or six weeks…

But that was another story.