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Judas was the last of the disciples to show up to their annual supper, and he staggered in unceremoniously, clearly already drunk as his eyes darted around suspiciously. “Happy Passover, guys!”
“Ah, fantastic timing as usual, my dear...” Jesus greeted him no differently than the others as he signalled towards the only available seat right next to him, which he had clearly saved. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Reluctantly, he slithered into the seat, taking the opportunity to roughly grab Jesus’ thigh under the table. This naturally earned him a brisk slap to the hand as Jesus gave a startled hiss, “Not here, Judas!”
Andrew sat on the other end of the table, accompanied by his older brother Phillip. His brows furrowed upon seeing actual pizza on the table. “Surely this is a joke, my good sirs? Where in the name of Lizzy, may her soul rest in peace, are the child-”
“Chilis, he meant chilis,” Philip cut him off by slamming a hand over his mouth in sheer panic as disapproving murmurs began to rise across the rest of the room, “I sincerely apologise for the misunderstanding.”
Wiping away beads of inexplicably produced sweat from his forehead, Andrew scowled and snatched a slice of Meat Lover’s up, violently stuffing the entire thing into his mouth. “I knew I should’ve stuck with Pizza Express. Somebody arrange me an immediate lift to Woking once this whole fiasco is over and done with.”
“You two should probably just leave right now. Go back to Britain where you belong, I hope you end up in the most desolate slums of Slough instead.” Jesus growled at the two elderly royals, who began to rapidly scuttle out of the room in utter humiliation as the rest of the apostles began to chant anti-monarchy slogans in unison.
Andrew attempted to discreetly stuff an entire pizza down his trousers in disgrace as a final act of rebellion, angrily muttering to himself, “The brothels are the only part of this blasted town actually worth visiting, anyway.”
“Right, so now that’s over and done with,” Jesus slowly rose from his seat and pointed his finger across the room with spite. “One of you is a lying, horrible, disgraceful TRAITOR and you’re going to admit it by the end of this supper.”
Gasps echoed across the entire room as everyone recoiled, mouths covered in shock and hands up in the air in desperate displays of innocence. Judas merely gave a casual shrug and sighed as if inconvenienced, “Well, it wasn’t me.”
“Ay caramba!” Bartholomew was already piling his plate high, taking a little bit of everything as he defended himself through an ambitious mouthful of cheeseburger. “Not guilty, your Honour. I’m gonna have to plead the fifth here.”
“There are no amendments to save you here in Jerusalem, Bart.” Simon leaped up from his chair and began pacing around the table like a starving shark. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, treacherous sinner.”
“Fine, I didn’t want it to be under these circumstances, but since my hand has been forced in the matter…” Entirely unasked, James rose from his place and rested a perfectly manicured hand on his chest, wiping away a stray tear as he held a glass of Prosecco up high. “I’m coming out as a proudly GAY man...”
Matthew scowled as he stood up to firmly push him back down by the shoulders, giving him a stern warning glare and towering over him. “Like it wasn’t obvious from the very first moment we met. Silence, you foolish twink.”
“Please could you pass the salt, Thomas?” John interrupted, straining across the table and trying to reach the shakers to no avail. “Oh, and the Nando’s peri peri sauce. No, not mild, extra hot.”
Thomas passed them over as requested with a tired sigh, clearly done with the entire conversation. “Come on, this is serious… We need to focus-”
“Jesus, do you have any gluten-free options?” Peter asked with his plate empty, holding his cutlery up in anticipation as his eyes scanned around the table. “At least something vegetarian?”
“Yes, I brought a freshly baked loaf of my signature homemade vegan, organic, low calorie, gluten free sourdough!” Jesus excitedly signalled towards the edible centrepiece of the table, which Peter immediately began to ravenously dig into.
“However, my child,” Jesus tried to slow him down to no avail as he had to raise his voice to be heard over the obnoxious chewing sounds coming from across the table, “Know that every bite of this sacramental bread you take represents a bite of my own flesh.”
“Tastes normal enough to me,” Peter sprayed crumbs across the entire table as he spoke like soggy confetti, saturating a large chunk with an obscene amount of olive oil, with the entire serving bowl being soaked and gobbled up within a matter of seconds. “Is it keto friendly, though?”
“Hello? Did anyone hear me? I said that I am a HOMOSEXUAL male!” James threw up his hands, waving in exasperation as his voice began to break. “And I am in LOVE with someone at this very table!”
Matthew’s head suddenly snapped up as he wordlessly dragged James back down by the sleeve, leaning in to hiss something that sounded suspiciously like “We’ll be discussing this later, you absolute gaylord.”
Simply shaking his head with a poorly concealed smile, Jesus summoned another bottle of Prosecco and floated it over his way. It was accepted begrudgingly with a sniffle. “We’re very proud of you indeed, but there are more pressing matters of urgency as it stands.”
“Like your imminent capture and the inevitably brutal execution?” Simon chimed in with furrowed brows, already filling a notebook with various escape routes, strategies and plans.
Judas gulped, subconsciously caressing the bag of 40 silver that laid concealed in the pocket of his robes, trying to take a sip of red wine to look casual, but he ended up gulping down the entire glass at once. “Now, now, that’s a bit dramatic. I’m sure it’s all just a big misunderstanding.”
Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Jesus signalled towards the wine stains that now dripped down Judas’ mouth and onto his robes. “The red wine you’ve been guzzling down all night also represents my blood, by the way.”
Dropping the glass in panic, Judas yelped and immediately reached for a bottle of white wine, pouring it directly into his mouth to wash away his sins as he tried to scrub away the evidence with the tablecloth. “Hold on, that’s just freaky, pal.”
“Get your treacherous feet out,” Jesus promptly delivered a swift flying drop kick straight to Judas’ balls before ripping off his sandals and using one to whack him directly on the head with the force of a million angry Hispanic mothers, “How’s that for freaky?”
Collapsing to the floor in agony, Judas could only let out a wine-curdling scream as he rolled around, desperately clutching his damaged package with the utmost despair. “No! You know I’m not into the foot stuff! It makes me uncomfortable!”
“Did somebody mention feet?” Suddenly, Dan Schneider burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid man, but Jesus immediately neutralised the threat by turning him into a pair of flip-flops and casting him straight down to the deepest abysses of Hell.
Peter anxiously raised his hand, talking through a mouthful of bread with about half of the entire loaf gone already; it was originally intended to feed the entire room several times over. “This is really ruining my appetite, let the dogs breathe, sure… But right in front of my supper?”
“It’s fucking symbolic, okay?” Jesus snapped as he dove below the table with a large water jug, beginning to forcibly yank everyone’s shoes off so he could effectively waterboard their feet with a mix of arousal and utter hatred, secretly pissing in the jug when he got around to Judas.
Right at that very moment, however, the door was suddenly broken off its hinges and practically obliterated as hundreds of Roman soldiers crowded around outside. Within seconds, the entire room was packed to the brim as they charged forth with a cacophony of battle-ready roars.
Terrified screams filled the venue as the apostles tried to scramble for safety, but they found themselves surrounded with no escape. Jesus remained safely hidden under the table for now, though it was only a matter of time before he was captured too.
“I had absolutely nothing to do with this at all,” Judas gasped as he scrambled up onto the table to try and assert vertical dominance over the situation. Unfortunately, he immediately slipped on a plate of spaghetti and landed directly into the arms of a bemused soldier as the bag of silver slipped from his pocket, with the coins flying across the room like a Sonic boss fight gone awry.
“Eat my robes, dingus!” Bartholomew was able to break free, leaping onto the table while pulling a moony and producing a slingshot from his pocket. Loading up with as many silver coins as possible, he rapid-fired at the soldiers with gusto, but it wasn’t very effective.
“Wait, stop! I’m one of the apostles too!” Thaddeus spoke up as one of the soldiers began to usher him out of the building like a lost civilian, determining him irrelevant to their investigation.
“Ah yeah, I always forget that one exists,” Simon continued to hold his notebook close to his chest as he added in new details to his plan, with the presence of the Romans shaking things up quite badly, the removal of Thaddeus… not so much.
“Get your filthy hands off of my man! Yes, that’s correct, I said it. MY MAN!” James cried out whilst uselessly fighting against the soldier holding him in place, still reaching his arms out as far as possible to try and reach Matthew.
“Please, if we make it out of here alive… would you do me the absolute honour of… Oh, it’s all just too emotional!” Tears streamed down his cheeks as he threw over a substitute engagement ring in the form of a partially eaten curly fry. “Just marry me already, you stupid idiot!”
“What? You senseless, socially inept diva, how I love you so!” Matthew yelled as he managed to break free, immediately sprinting over to wrestle his lover back from the cruel grasp of the soldiers. “Unhand MY FIANCE at once! We have a wedding to plan, you scoundrels.”
Jesus saw this as his opportunity to escape whilst the soldiers were distracted, so with all the grace and decorum of Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball, he leaped out from beneath the table and began to enthusiastically push the soldiers over like bowling pins. “Better luck next time, losers-”
Before he could even finish taunting them, Jesus had been hoisted up into the air by a particularly large and high-ranking soldier who had began to dangle him by the scruff of the robes, lecturing him as if he were a misbehaving house cat. "Nice try, kiddo."
“You’re worse than Satan! I should’ve exchanged my soul for world domination like he told me to!” Jesus cried out for mercy, but none was spared as he was choke-slammed down onto the table with enough force to break it, and face-down in the butter to make matters worse. Now he was going to have a nasty acne flare-up during his crucifixion.
Peter took a shaky step forward, cradling what remained of the loaf, a singular chunk. Slowly, he reached out with trembling hands, sobbing out an apology in advance. “Jesus, please forgive me for my greed… But I simply cannot eat this without throat lube!”
“Are you trying to say my sourdough was dry? That was my father’s recipe, you pretentious prick.” Exhausted and quite frankly insulted, Jesus lifted his head up from the butter, only for Peter to swiftly swipe a generous serving of butter directly from his beard whilst babbling profuse but unintelligible apologies.
Uncannily resembling an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner, Peter hoovered up the bread with inhuman speed before falling to his knees and holding his hands up in prayer. “Help us, oh good Lord above! Your son is being arrested and our supper has been entirely ruined!”
“No need to bother with any of that bullshit any more,” Jesus shook his head as he barked out a bitterly bemused laugh, holding up both middle fingers to the sky with righteous fury, “Clearly the deadbeat’s already forsaken me.”
“I know that you got daddy issues, and I do too,” the head soldier who was restraining him melodically murmured in sympathy as he gently guided Jesus’ arms down in order to handcuff them behind his back. “But you’ve still disrupted the lawful order of the Roman Empire, and for that, you must be terminated.”
“Objection! I am a sovereign citizen which means it is my God-given right to be exempted from the cruel laws of Jerusalem!” Knees weak, arms heavy, the entrées were on Jesus’ robes already as the head soldier began to gently place an intricately weaved crown of thorns on his head. Yelping out in pain, he immediately used his powers to subtly smooth down the sharp points.
“You have the right to remain silent, and I strongly recommend you utilise it. Come on, you’re under arrest. Off to the cross shop we go.” Hoisting him up, the head soldier began to roughly drag Jesus across the floor like a limp rag-doll as the apostles began roaring with outrage, using their full strength to fight against the soldiers and save him.
Except Judas, who was now being cradled by a deeply disturbed battle-scarred veteran as he screamed and sobbed at the top of his lungs, having realised what happened during his pedicure due to the unmistakably unholy scent of piss. “Kill him! Give him the Tungsten cross! He non-consensually pissed on me!”
Stifling a laugh, the veteran responsible for the handling of Judas shook his head and calmly answered, “We only have one Tungsten cross and it’s already been reserved by the local dungeon for the weekend. It'll be seeing some rather heavy use during tonight's Pisstravaganza party, actually!”
But out of nowhere, a group of soldiers began to screech in agony, covering their eyes as John began to mercilessly douse them in extra hot Nando’s sauce. “I know, I’m their most depraved regular,” he evilly cackled and continued to do so even after being violently tackled in response.
“Just stop! Stop it already!” Thaddeus interrupted the chaos after managing to sneak back into the room unnoticed, standing up on the table in only his boxers as he held up his white robe to frantically wave it around as a makeshift flag. “Please, just kill me instead!”
“Cheers, dickhead, you could’ve said that a bit earlier,” Simon growled and tore out a page of his notebook, scribbling down a revised escape plan as the soldier loosely holding him just watched on with intrigue.
“No can do,” the head soldier shrugged as he straightened the crown, quirking a brow in suspicion when the thorns didn’t feel as sharp as they were supposed to, but he chose not to bring it up. Simon screamed in exasperation and wrote yet another update while the head soldier continued, “We only have a warrant for Jesus’ execution, but that was VERY brave, little buddy.”
“Could you at least delay it until next week so he can attend our ceremony?” Matthew inquired with concern as he held James protectively close, with the soldiers having left them alone to celebrate their engagement in relative peace. “I wanted him to be my best man.”
“No, that’s not fair, I wanted him to be MY best man!” James immediately began stomping his feet and whining in protest, cradling his face in his hands as Matthew held him against his chest, comfortingly stroking his hair.
“There, there. You also wanted us to use a Winter colour palette when it’s a Spring wedding...” Matthew sighed and muffled any further complaints with his hand, coming up with a compromise, “How about we get him in as the priest, instead?”
“Yes, but it was the much brighter end of Winter, the colours you’re picking out are horrible and don’t do ANY favours for my complexion!” James sniffled and threw a weak punch with no real force behind it whatsoever but did begin to calm down, “I don’t mind him being the priest, though. What do you reckon, Romans?”
“My boss would have me put on the cross next to him if I allowed that, he said the job needs to be done as soon as possible,” the head soldier looked as if he was experiencing a moral dilemma as he kept Jesus firmly in his grip with a guilty expression, “That being said, I agree with the twink, a pastel palette would really wash both of you out.”
Peter anxiously stepped forward, holding a handful of breadcrumbs, falling to his knees in front of Jesus and tearfully begging whilst clutching his stomach. “Can you turn these crumbs back into a whole loaf of bread before they take you away, please?”
Jesus sighed a non-verbal admission of defeat and scowled while complying with the request, and in an instant Peter had a restored and revised loaf in his arms, which was now so large he was struggling to even carry it. He turned to the head soldier, trying to ignore the voracious munching sounds coming from behind him, “I suppose you’ll be executing me now, then?”
Yawning, the head soldier cracked his knuckles and gave a curt nod of confirmation, gently hauling Jesus up against his shoulder in a supportive hold. “Good reminder, we were getting a bit behind schedule. Let’s get this Messiah on the road…”
With a quirked brow, he looked down and saw Judas pathetically crawling around on the floor, trying to pick up his silver like a malfunctioning Roomba. “And one of you help that snitching neek collect his little coins.”
Jesus dangled helplessly, still glistening with pore-clogging butter like a tragic glaze as the head soldier marched forward and out onto the street to the dismay of his apostles, with the others immediately falling into line and banging their shields together in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously similar to the beat of Caramelldansen.
Exploding into cheers, the street soon began to fill with a scornful crowd who were relentlessly booing and throwing objects at Jesus. The fact the apostles were violently booing back like twelve rabid racoons defending a bin wasn’t exactly helping with crowd relations, and the whole situation was rather undignified and undiplomatic.
“Serves me right for trying to have myself a merry little Passover, huh?” Jesus’ tone dripped with furious sarcasm as he began to kick and punch the head soldier, but he only earned a laugh and a light-hearted bonk in return for his efforts. “That’s the last fucking supper I ever host.”
Gordon Ramsay appeared in front of him, almost seeming to materialise out of thin air, arms crossed with a stern and disappointed expression. “I bloody hope so, that was a miserable excuse of a buffet spread. Where was the lamb sauce, for starters?”
“There wasn’t even any lamb available for saucing, Chef!” Jesus burst out into tears at the feedback, reaching out and grabbing at the empty air as if trying to catch his sanity, which he could feel flying further away by the second. “Peter has a severe mutton allergy, and EpiPens don't exist yet-”
An abrupt slap to the face stopped Jesus mid-speech, with Gordon giving a deafening howl of rage as if he had just been served a poison sandwich. Even the head soldier seemed to lose his balance and recoil a bit from the sheer force of the secondary impact as he exclaimed, "Sir! You can look, but you cannot touch the political dissidents!"
"I can do whatever I want, I have eight Michelin stars and counting," Gordon began squaring up and defensively posturing, but turned back to Jesus to give one final critique. “That means I am allergic to mediocrity, and anaphylaxis would be a mercy compared to taking another bite of your so-called 'cooking'. You'll be seeing me from up on that cross, cheering on from the front row during your final moments.”
Jesus blinked in confusion, tilting his head. "You took that one a bit too far, don't you think?"
Gordon bowed apologetically. "Sorry, Jesús."
"It's Jesus, not Jesús..."
"Sorry, Jesus."