MESSIAH TROUBLE

I awoke one night to a clattering sound outside my garage. I bolted out of bed, took my gun out of the dresser drawer, then realized I had no time to get the bullets out of the kitchen.

I timidly pulled one blind down, and looked outside. There, in the driveway, rummaging throught the trashcans, was a bearded man with eyes of fire.

"Oh, shit," I said to myself in the dark.

I went outside, wishing it was a raccoon. Even a burglar.

I gathered my robe around me, stood in the doorway, and yelled, "Get out of here, Jesus!"

Jesus yelled, "I am the Messiah!"

"Look," I yelled back, "We're not going through this again. This time I really will call the cops."

"I am the Messiah!" he screamed, flashing something green in his teeth. "I am the way and the light!"

"I know that Jesus," I said, trying to calm him down. "But we've been through this before. You have to stay out of my trash."

"Love one another!" he screamed, running off down the street in tattered sandals.

A few nights later, Jesus was back again, this time without a clattering. He was getting more subtle. Lord knows how long he'd been eating my garbage before I caught him.

"Jesus!" I yelled in my robe, startling him. "Get the hell out of here, Goddamnit!"

"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain!" he shouted, eyes looking like a bad Kodak, hands full of eggshells and coffee grinds.

"Get out of my trash!" I yelled. "How many times do I have to tell you?!"

"Apostate!" he screamed, a vein popping out on his neck. "Idolator!"

"That's it, I'm calling the cops."

I turned and went inside, with every intention of calling the cops this time. As I went into the kitchen, I heard him screaming, running away, "I am the Messiah! This means my body!"

"Not this time, you old bum," I said to myself.

The next time Jesus went through my trash, I was prepared. "Jesus!" I yelled from my customary doorway. "I have already called the police. You'd better run."

Jesus looked up from an old jar of mayonnaise he was licking and said, "Truly I say to you..."

I didn't even let him finish. I pulled the loaded gun from out of my robe pocket and shot him in the gut.

He wailed in great pain. He prayed aloud for a minute as I watched him writhe in the driveway. I think he even said "Jehovah" once or twice. Then, right before he stopped kicking, he said, "I'll be back."

"I bet you will," I said, putting the gun down on the kitchen counter. "I bet you will."

© Kenan Hebert 2002