St. Christopher’s driving a 4by4 down the rattling madness of a mud-baked highway stone sweating pathway and Cain holds him up with Excalibur in one hand and a burlap sack with his brother in the other. Chris and a kid who looks like Jesus help him dump the body in the backseat and they go flying off down the East Lancs road with American optimism in their hearts. Crossing over time and asphalt grass-painted lines and stones and alleyways and shiver sweat their way past police officers with black tits on their heads. Over river city cement waves and between smashed in faces of glass caves tricklin’ over fleshless scalps meeting with jagged ragged stones sagging with grey matter. Tree branch bones hangs overhears cast shadows on unmarked roadkill graves and Excalibur prays lets bury the fucker right here, you can use me as a shovel and Jesus spouts some homily before Chrissie slaps him from the front seat for speaking too loud and pushing his religion on other people and Jesus starts crying like he’d been stabbed in the right hand side of his stomach. A red race range leaf comes in the passenger window and worms into the burlap sack and wakes up Abel, who sits up boasting syphilitic insanity and Jesus cuts his head off with the flat of his hand, cos’ Jesus hates communists and Jesus invented capitalism, don’t you know that? Jesus hates dead people not staying dead. He tries to tell the wolf pack about Lazarus, but Johnny Cash is playing on the radio so they shout for him to shut the Hell up and his white robe says it’s Hades, cos’ we aren’t pagans so Cash shoves a middle finger through the radio and says shut the Hades up and Jesus shuts the Hel up. They find a clearing with a fireplace and light it up with the lashing pattering bloody-minded rain that happens when Romeo kills whoever the Hades Romeo kills in that teenage drama and Cain says more people would’ve followed Jesus if he looked like Leonardo DiCaprio did in that Shakespeare film, you know, Shakespeare presents Trainspotting. There’s a creeping warm/old air in a second-hand atmosphere and Cain throws ten years in an open-necked shirt onto the fire, cos’ he likes his poetry quiet and slow, but he won’t stop reciting the advert for chips – Cain’s proud to say that he likes Motorhead and it turns out he’s wearing a t-shirt from the first waves of Judas Priest’s Epitaph tour and he’s complaining that that was three or four years ago and they’re still touring and do they think they’re fucking Bob Dylan? They bury Abel’s body with his feet pointing north and build a church over his chest and Jesus calls it the stone, the family planning centre the stone on which he’d build his church. Cain’s crying cos’ he can’t find is brother’s head and he thinks he’s too pretty to go to prison and what’s so really wrong with filicide anyway? St. Chrissie drives him all the way back to Wigan, and the lead singer of Merry Hell’s having a Guinness with Abel’s head balanced on a shovel and he keeps calling him Delia and planting kisses on his eyelids like copper coins. Meanwhile, Chrissie sells Jesus to some bloke called Peter for a tank of diesel which costs twice what petrol costs/even though its made from fag ends and scraps of diaries from Greece/and a coca cola life and a pint glass full of salt and vinegar crisps. Chrissie’s on the A85 when he realises the crisps are cheese and onion and he pulls a U-turn when he gets hit by Noah and the mystery Machine coming the other way. So Jesus levitates himself outta the hole and goes for a piss in the long grass like some black-skinned pygmy and comes out covered in ticks like a Parson’s terrier in a tartan necktie and Peter chases him around with a stolen Legionnaire’s spear and don’t you know he used to be a fisherman of men so catching a bearded dwarf shouldn’t be too much of a hassle and there’s a low-speed chase happening in the jungles north of England. Chrissie and Cain? They wrote a few songs and sold them to these four likely lads from Liverpool and told them to ditch the leathers and the quarry attitudes and the drummer and maybe try something a little smarter, like black suits and white shirts and, hey, cut your hair around bowls why don’t you?
J.W. Carey When I first set up this little thing, I wanted to be a Gaming Journalist - I wanted to explore my hobby with more than just basic intentions. Then, after reading extensive amounts of contrasting fiction and philosophy, I wanted to be a political writer. After getting drunk on a bus, I just want to be me.