I was bitten by a radioactive Jesus

(continued from 3: My Secret Origin, continued some more)

In St. Louis I learned a valuable lesson. Walking through a lovely little park running along the banks of the Mississippi, remembering the enchanting story of Huckleberry Finn in King Arthur’s court–especially savoring the recollection of the whimsical interlude in which Huck tricks Merlin into painting Huck’s racing frog, so that Huck can go convince Becky Thatcher to teach him what it is to be a man–when I witnessed an amazingly tall man staggering and clutching at his chest. It was clear to me from his movements that he was experiencing a dissecting aortic aneurysm, which aside from hurting like the Dickens can kill you right off without a second thought, so I leapt to his aid.

He was shuddering and grimacing and breathing rapidly, and smelled really good. As his motions ceased and he fell limply into my arms, I unleashed the biggest dose of super Jesus power healing that I had yet attempted. The force of it knocked me away so hard that I landed in a thicket across the river, some two miles away. By the time I got back, soaking from my swim (which I didn’t yet know I could have avoided), he seemed to be gone, but there was a crowd of people standing around another, similarly dressed, but much shorter and stockier African-American gentleman. I approached to ask what had become of the seven-foot tall man with the nice cologne, but I noticed that this man was wearing clothes far too long for his limbs, and a bit snug in the waist.

At that point I realized what I had done. I didn’t yet know that this man was Arthur Stiles, power forward for the Atlanta Hawks basketball team, but I could tell that I had somewhat rashly completely cured his Marfan’s Syndrome.

Marfan’s Syndrome, made famous by the death of the amazing volleyball player Flo Hyman, is a genetic abnormality involving the softening or weakening of the body’s connective tissues, and in addition to truly upsetting cardiac problems, it tends to lead to being really, really tall and lanky, and having cool-looking, long, spidery fingers. You see, it turns out that without the strict discipline of authoritarian tendons and ligaments, the bones of a growing human will grow amazingly long. Unless stifled by these restraining connective tissues, your average juvenile humerus, say, will giddily extent a quarter mile or more. Well, perhaps I overestimate the limits somewhat, but in any case they will blithely grow to NBA proportions and beyond.

The five foot six inch but amazingly healthy man before me would never again play in the NBA, and would have plenty of time to think about it in his long, long life. Oops.

In retrospect it’s clear to me that I should have healed him a bit less. Enough to eliminate his heart disease, without effectively regressing his genes past the moment of conception and removing any genetic abnormality whatsoever. In my defense, I must say that I had no idea that I could do that.

I hope Mr. Stiles is not bitter. He has not given up basketball, which is a good sign. He’s an assistant coach for the Knicks now, I believe, and it may well be that he does not blame me and my super Jesus powers for the loss of his prior career. He did convert to Islam, but that’s hardly conclusive proof that he holds a grudge about this matter.

It was some time before I even discovered my other powers. And even now they don’t get as much use as the curing the sick thing does. Walking on water is fun, but if you’ve ever been rammed in the femur by a Jet-Ski while strolling across a lake then you understand the drawbacks. I could be a peach of a lifeguard, but I sensed that that was not the best use of my new super Jesus powers. I had much to learn about their use and potential, so I have kept moving, always on the road, like Richard Kimble or Bill Bixby, helping people where I could. What with the problems at the air show in Oklahoma and that nasty business among less than thirty trees, I still haven’t seen made it up to see Terry, but if my upcoming, desperate Trial among the Giants doesn’t kill the heck out of my quasi-messianic ass, I plan to make the time.

to be continued…