Part II

Self portrait by the son of a god.

Jesus is eating some plump dates, sticky sweet but he doesn’t get his fingers dirty. This man is a professional. The wine is still excellent, the bottle still full. Whatever powers he does have he uses well. I give him time to finish, he has enjoyed his bread and cheese, his first baguette, who can blame him? He eats like one accustomed to having eyes on him, like a King, with complete indifference. He rips pieces of bread, swipes them through the Brie like a Frenchman born and down it goes. A delight to watch, the performer is a master. Any common person seeing him like that will connect with him, see him quite differently, if you’re looking for the likeness, there it is. See yourself, see your God. Marvellous, I am pleased and impressed. He looks at me sideways and finds me smiling again.

Jesus: Pandor, Satan, for a demon you eat like a God. This bread is magnificent, I’ve never had anything like it, where is your baker?

Satan: In Hell. But this loaf will last forever, take the rest of it with you. Wrap it up, don’t let the peasants eat it, don’t try and multiply it. Or do, and see what happens.

We both laugh. Top up our glasses, add wood to the fire, he sighs and stretches his legs out. My minion scurries in and removes the, mess, we wait patiently. He leaves.

Satan: Well, I hope you’re refreshed Jesus, and ready to answer some more questions. Let’s start with an easy one. Have you ever been to heaven? What evidence do you have that you are, in fact, the son of a god?

Jesus (sighing): This is the reason I don’t give interviews, questions like these. On that note, what did you give Peter to get access to me? Tell me so I can make sure it never happens, I want  to teach him a lesson. Whatever you promised him, I’m worth more.

Satan is laughing, this is lovely.

Satan: You price yourself high for a magician. I had to promise he’ll take your place when you die. At the head of your followers, with all the requisite Marys, the right to a few of your tricks. A better tailor.

Jesus: Fuck that, he gets nowhere near my Marys, they’ll come with me. I don’t care what my father says. You want proof? Have you met my Mother? This is the thing, Pandor, and I tell you this in confidence, so don’t fuck with me and let this get out. Keep this bit out of it until I’m dead and gone, then I don’t care what you do.

I Jesus, personally, have no idea that I am a son of a god. Which god? How does he let me grow up without knowing him? I have only the word of my mother, and though it’s easy to think she was covering up something nasty, she really wasn’t. I swear to you, the woman is a Virgin. Nothing can get to that, not Joseph, not anything. It would be like trying to fuck a saint, no one can do it. So, how did she carry and give birth to me? No one argues that part, out I came, I can probably find a memory if I look hard enough. Don’t make me.

So, unless we consider the supernatural, well, there’s nothing else to consider. I have powers, I can do lots of things that normal men can’t do, part seas, raise the almost dead, multiply regular bread, and a few others I wouldn’t reveal to you, as such. With all respect. Maybe I’m the son of a powerful Magician, who chooses to remain hidden for now.

Satan is really laughing now, you know how he feels about Warlocks. Jesus wants in on the joke but I don’t think he can handle the truth right now. Jesus has Daddy issues. Who could have predicted that? I’d like to let Freud have a crack at him for his mother’s sake, but I’m not that kind of guy.

Satan: Let me be frank with you. I know it’s tough being divine, I know what it’s like to have latent powers and special talents that you’re forbidden to use. Yes, the Devil has his Master. Never think otherwise. So I know how you feel about your father, and I understand completely.

Jesus: Do you?

A slight flush on his cheeks now, perhaps the fire is too hot. I call for a light breeze, the flames leap but the air cools a bit. Because I can, I sweep the sky over our heads, he looks up to the heavens, the stars are stark and powerful.  A look at me again, something hot and latent rising. I scroll my pagan face with the purest, gentlest empathy, just enough.

Jesus: You think you outgrow these things, but you don’t really. They circumcised me. They told me all the stories but my father never appeared, not even for my coming of age.  What do I care if he is a god? What is that to me? So I earn my way with tricks I had at birth, I grow without his guidance, knowing nothing of his plans for me. We have names for fathers like that.

He comes to a stop, a few deep breaths, and asks for more of my special blend. I pass him another one and sit back in my chair. Looking at him. Ah Jesus. None of that now. No sounding sane and serious, no making sense for god’s sake, we can’t be friends. Keep going Pandor, you have a lot of questions to ask. Maybe you’ll find something to despise soon enough.

Satan: Well, if you’ve read his book, you’ll know that your father is what we call a hard ass. Not a nice guy, and from the sounds of it, not a good parent. Perhaps father isn’t the best name for him. Do you know his real one? Is it Jehovah? Allah? Yahweh? It can’t just be God, since he’s not the only one, regardless of what he puts on his dressing room door.

Jesus flushes, he clenches his beautiful fingers around his glass, long white spider’s legs. I am fascinated. His sideways look again.

Jesus: Do you really want to talk about my father?

Satan: No. Just tell me his name and I’ll let it be.

Jesus: Fine. His name is Colin.

Satan sighs with pure bliss. When I open my eyes, Jesus has the slightest trace of a smile on his handsome face.

Satan: How are you holding out my guest? Can I get you anything?

Jesus: No. I’m comfortable, this breeze is lovely, you have some nice parlour tricks yourself.

Satan: You don’t know the half of them, consider yourself lucky I’m not in my own body or you would be hearing some interesting music now.

Jesus: I’m sorry for it, then. I love music.

Of course he does.

And thus we end part II.

Jesus and I are just getting cozy, what will I ask him next?

More importantly, will your clickage entitle you to it? The Devil gets pissy about that when he wants to. You should consider that I may invite Jesus to stay for dinner, that he may, indeed, enjoy a sleepover with Satan. Perhaps you’re not as curious as I thought.

“Chasing Inspiration”  by Demented Sound Mafia 

This song could as well be named Finding It.