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Jesus wearily opened the chrome-laden door of the road-side diner. His boots smeared mud across the linoleum floor as he trudged to the nearest stool at the bar. He slung off his dusty cloak, draping it over the stool before taking his seat. Fluorescent lighting flickered above him. He ordered a twenty-ounce stout and a bacon cheeseburger with spiced fries from the young brunette waitress with sparkling silver eye shadow. Jesus thought she must still be in high school to wear makeup that tacky.

While waiting for his food, Jesus pulled out his yellowed hand-written memo. This wrinkled old paper documented, in red ink, the two prophecies - his life's mission. Each time he read it, he pleaded with himself that it would finally make sense. Perhaps something that happened earlier in the day would add the last piece of the puzzle, thereby answering his existence. Maybe something as simple as the bright smile of a child would finalize his purpose. Or maybe an offer of a toke off a jay from a gypsy band of hippies. This thought made him smirk.

The bar maid lay his dinner in front of him, and Jesus gorged it down like a starving Ethiopian. He chugged his pilsner as if it were loaded in a beer bong, wiped the foam from his chapped lips, and ordered another drink. Jesus was looking forward to the reliable wave of content that arrives shortly after a greasy meal. Instead, the jukebox distracted him. It was playing a lo-fi record of the White Stripes. Jack White sang, "I got your phone number written in the back of my bible."

Jesus rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Where does that Jack get so much faith?"

"He chooses his faith," replied a raspy voice to Jesus' right. Jesus jumped, almost falling off his stool. He didn't realize someone was sitting in the adjacent stool. Fifteen seconds ago, he was alone at the bar. Now he found himself accompanied by a pale skinny ghost of a man wearing a gray suit with a gray tie. The stranger sported dark bags under his eyes, sharp facial features, and long black oily hair slicked straight back to his shoulders. Sitting on the bar in front of this shadowy specter was a martini glass full of bright green liquid, like one of those artificial juice boxes the kids suck on at lunchtime. The stranger continued, "He may be a victim of his circumstances, being raised Catholic, but he voluntarily chose to never question his denomination throughout his adult life."

Jesus curiously eyed the stranger's fluorescent glowing drink. The stranger

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