When I first met him, he really was like a modern day prophet. We connected over late night adventures where he would “find Jesus. ” Hunting down objects that had Jesus’ face or likeness naturally growing on it. He was so good at it. It was like this radar that directed him. Each new collectible had me thrumming with excitement.
I would drive my Ford Pick-up truck to his family double wide trailer, just past the large pond where I first met him while fishing for catfish: this skinny, blonde haired, waifish creature being tugged along by a droopy mouthed basset hound. (At first I thought he was insane, too. I think it helps if you knew his background, especially his alcoholic father that believed he could speak to the dog and had an alien living in the coal cellar adjacent to the decrepit living space—this information should be enough to know what kind of nut jobs he had to deal with.)
The first meeting he walked up to me, looked into my eyes, and then went straight into the water. He dunked his hand in and pulled out a mammoth catfish lightning quick. I’m not religious but that thing had a stain on its fishy scales that looked just like the Lord’s Son. I knew right then he was the real thing.
He even had a few children who would follow him around like puppies, eager for a relic to take home. But I pushed them all away. I wanted him for myself. I wanted to see the face of God. I was selfish and he was willing to let me be his only disciple.
But now it’s just too much. We just returned to my one room apartment with a freshly flayed cow hide. He had me drive out into the surrounding farmland, past the fresh painted barns into the boondocks. He had a sharp parrying knife resting on his lap but I just kept driving. He told me to pull off at a random spot, jumped out the truck, climbed a fence and went into the dark like a shadow. When he returned, his body was covered in blood, and a freshly peeled cow pelt was slung over his back like a king’s cape. It was hard to see the face of Jesus through the fresh gore, but I felt a strange power. Like this was the closest I’d get to heaven. In the excitement I made promises, and we fucked on the juices of the freshly flayed skin. (I have to tell you this part because it felt like Jesus was pushed right into me, like I was accepting the real communion. I was hypnotized by the vulgarity of it.)
But now, he’s locked himself in the bathroom. He said, “I’m going to sew this to my chest.” I agreed , he said. But in the moment of cumming, I felt like he was a genius. I would have agreed to killing him to see if he would resurrect. Damn, I was so deep in his little tricks. What should I do? Should I call the police, 911? I changed my mind. I need to save him but should I stop this?