“POOR, POOR JESUS”

Jesus had been out taking a walk, just minding his own business when the car came out of nowhere and struck him. Struck him true, it did. And the Angel of Death appeared and screeched an unholy screech. You get a screech free with any death, while supplies last. Jesus had been walking to the convenience store to buy some Skoal. Jesus had forgotten his ID, and he knew that the asshole clerk would card him even though Jesus had a full beard, so Happy Transistor Man went into the store to buy the Skoal for him. They were in Concrete Prefecture, an urban region of the Shadow Kingdom. The Angel of Death dropped strange Mexican hard candies over Jesus' corpse. This is also free of charge. Happy Transistor Man stuffed the candies into his mechanical mouth-- not to eat them, but just to store them inside his abdominal cavity for safekeeping. In case Jesus woke up. Because the candies really belonged to Jesus, after all. He had earned them. The car that hit Jesus was full of crack cocaine, and since Happy is a nice pseudo-person, he gladly obliged when the occupants of the vehicle asked him not to involve the police. Besides, it seemed like what Jesus himself would have done. Jesus had had a bad experience with authorities in a neighboring county on trumped-up public nuisance charges. So the car went off on its merry way and Happy dragged Jesus' corpse through the filthy streets of the Concrete Prefecture, all the way back to Jesus' apartment. Along the way, tramps and hobos began to walk behind, attracted by the scent of the freshly dead body. Happy threw Mexican candies to them to keep them from gnawing on Jesus too much. Poor Jesus. All he had wanted was was to go for a walk with his friend Happy Transistor Man. Get some fresh air, clear his head. And get some Skoal. And now he was dead. Poor, poor Jesus. When they finally got back to the apartment, Happy laid Jesus' body out on the couch, then poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat at the coffee table for the longest time, just staring at the wall. The next thing he knew it was four o' clock the next morning. Happy had fallen into sleep mode. There was a warm dampness on the floor around him-- the orange juice had spilled. Jesus was still asleep on the couch. No, Happy reminded himself. Not asleep. Dead. Unable to go back to sleep, Happy tried to play Jesus' Playstation, but found that it didn't hold his attention and shut it off. He picked the orange juice glass up off the floor, made himself a screwdriver, and downed it in one twelve ounce gulp. Then he put on his fedora and went outside, into the foggy predawn. It was early autumn. Very chilly. Happy's thought-processor cycled through the same path over and over, returning briefly to the thought of Jesus' stiff, bloody, bearded body lying on the sofa once every seven and a half minutes. Happy chewed the Skoal.