2: My Secret Origin, continued
(continued from 1: My Secret Origin)
Before I could even begin to react to this phenomenon (by closing the windows, or screaming like a banshee, say), the crudely painted little Jesus figurine on the dashboard pulled himself free of his sticky base with a sort of ripping noise and flung himself with an appalling little fierce gurgling sound upon my neck, where he fell to a savage fit of biting, causing my blood to spurt out in a pressurized stream powerful enough to blow out the windshield, and causing me to lose control of Gilgamesh, who spun off the roadway and into a large roadside rock that I immediately named Enkidu. At some point I was thrown free of the car, which was busy blowing up at the time. An unknown interval later I found myself lying in the damp grass. Gilgamesh, sadly, was all but vaporized, with only a few fist- and pebble-sized chunks of hissing carbon remaining of his once puissant body. The little messianic figurine had vanished, or perhaps been hurled into low earth orbit by the force of Gilgamesh’s explosion.
1: My Secret Origin
I’m not Jesus, nor do I think I am. That would be delusional. And blasphemous, too, for whatever that’s worth. See, this is the thing that people don’t get. I am by no means claiming that I am Jesus; I was bitten by a radioactive Jesus, giving me super Jesus powers. It’s an entirely different thing. Is that so hard to understand? It certainly was for the people at that place I hate to dignify with the name “hospital,” but Psychiatrists are often, surprisingly enough, not the sharpest tools in the shed.
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