and He Had Risen

“And they shall kill him, and the third day he shall be raised again . . .”

I remember the day; I was walking to his tomb the sun was high in the sky, it was a warm day, a slight wind hit my toes and swayed my robe. He promised he would be back, I was more curious than anything. My friend Jobe was following this man’s every word since he watched him turn water into wine.  Mere parlor tricks, but if he can rise to life after a crucifixion I will follow him, that would be a miracle not seen since Moses and his burning bush (I’ll explain that one in my next entry, it’s actually a funny story) and the greatest thing I have seen since I first travelled time.

Yeah, I travel time; I’m a journalist comprising a masterwork of live articles written when the events of history took place. Yeah, I know that shit is cooler they Billy Dee Williams. My time machine is on the fritz, but I am fixing it and soon will head to some other point in history, maybe I’ll stop home for a cheeseburger first. The food here is awful. Anyway, I was an atheist in my time, so seeing “God’s” son rise from the dead may change that for me and after it is written in modern times it would most likely convert the world since I made it a point to have my first travel be broadcast live from MSG.

I arrived at the tomb, a large boulder stood in front of the entrance and outside of the tomb was Jobe and a harem of former prostitutes that now followed the dead man as well : he sure had no problem in that category it explains the children in villages I visit in my travels that share in his name. The man got around like Tupac and surely has my respect, but not my loyalty.

The woman in his harem all were familiar, I’ve had most of them in my time here. I laughed loudly at the thought of Jesus enjoying my seconds. And I wondered if they showed him the things I taught them. Sex sure changed from then until the time I came from.

“Ah, Sir Michael we welcome you. Will you not join us in a prayer for our messiah?” obviously not in English, I took precautions to learn Aramaic, by watching The Passion of the Christ over and over again.

“Sup Jobey, how’s it hanging?”

He laughed, “Such a strange tongue you have friend. The kingdom of Michigan correct?”

“Go Spartans!” I shouted in English.

“Yes,” he paused confused, “well, come sit. Mary Magdalene has prepared bread and wine for all on this joyous occasion.”

Mary smiled awkwardly at me; I taught her anal a few nights back. She loved it, but I think it shamed her in a deep spiritually way that I would never understand. They frown on sodomy around here. I grabbed a loaf of bread and a handful of her ass.  

I really need to make a note to get myself tested when I get back to 2006.

We sat outside that tomb for hours they only talked about things the crucified guy taught them, while I tried to explain the fundamental rules of basketball and why the Spartans are the greatest college team despite only two tournament championships. They looked and laughed wishing one day they would be able to visit the mystical kingdom of Michigan and meet the mighty King Izzo.

As the sun was hitting its highest point a noise erupted as the rock began to slide to the right and we all stood up and waited for something to happen. With the rock aside the tomb was open, but nothing but blackness peered out, I was taking mental notes because if I pulled a pen and journalist notebook from the jeans I wore under my robe I’m sure I would be looked at as some sort of witch doctor.

Did they fear witches during this time and place in history? Or would they think me a mighty wizard and give me my own harem of women and all the royalties fear brings? Maybe I’ll find out before I head back.

We stood standing looking into the tomb, when we heard a grumbling, and saw him for the first time. He sure as fuck had risen from the dead. No he was not alive when they put him in there I was there when a Roman Centurion ordered three Legionaries to remove him from the cross and put him in the tomb: he had less life in him than Abe Lincoln attending Our American Cousin.  He came out his tan skin had faded to a white, his dark mahogany hair now a light brown. He came out and grabbed Mary Magdalene on the shoulders. We all waited in awe for his first words, but he stood as silent as Marcel Marceau.

Jobe spoke first, “My lord.” He began to cry as he dropped to his knees, the rest of the group followed except for me and Mary who was still being held by Jesus, but tears of joy still ran down her cheeks.

“So, are you just going to stand there? What’s the word homie?”

Jesus turned and looked at me with his eyes which were now black, but he said nothing. He turned back to Mary and leaned in closer. I leaned in to try and catch what he was going to say into her ear, instead he Mike Tysoned her, but instead of spitting the ear he swallowed it, and then made quick work of the rest of her neck.

He had risen but not as the king of men but as a fucking zombie.

I made a beeline for my home wishing I had my Nikes instead of these shitty sandals. I could hear Jobe as he screamed “Halleluiah” as he was savored by his savior.