Jesus’ Son: The Musical
We heard the voice of the prophet of Jack, the Son of the Son of God.
“Blessed are the first two thousand stoners to die on or after the second Tuesday of the month, for theirs is the kingdom of Jack!”
The prophet was tall and muscular, with flowing light brown hair and a square jaw, the kind of guy you’d see on the cover of a romance novel. He wore tan trousers and a white poet’s shirt, loosely tied to reveal plenty of pectoral cleavage. Given his halo, he appeared to be an angel, but instead of hovering in a loop above his head, the golden glow appeared to be tied off around his forehead like a headband. Where else had I seen that?
He preached on the shore of a great lake, his hair whipping around in the cold wind. A crowd of hippies in raggedy patchwork clothes were strewn over the riprap, nodding along.
I stood at a distance with Jack and my husband Bob, listening as the prophet continued his sermon.
“I get you high with marijuana, but one who is way cooler than me is coming, and he will get you high with the Spirit! His packed bowl is in his hand to be passed ‘pon his left hand side, but those to his right shall burn with unquenchable sobriety!”
“Dude!” the crowd acclaimed in unison.
“Not quite what I expected,” I said to Jack, “but it tracks.”
“Wish me luck,” Jack said, “I’m going in.”
Jack moseyed toward the crowd, and the prophet noticed him.
“Behold! Here is the Sloth of God!” the prophet declared dramatically, climbing up the boulders to greet Jack. “I am not worthy to lace his sneakers!”
The crowd murmured with awe.
“Sup?” Jack asked.
“Lord—Dude,” the prophet stammered, “I would kneel, but I know that kind of thing annoys the shit out of you.”
“It’s cool,” Jack chuckled, “you can kneel if you want to.”
“Oh thank you, my Dude!” the prophet said, falling eagerly to the ground.
Jack addressed the crowd.
“I don’t know what this guy has told you, but I’m not looking for worshippers, and I didn’t authorize any prophets.”
“It’s cool, my Dude,” one of the hippies called back. “We just want to chill!”
“Okay,” Jack said hesitantly. “I can’t argue with chilling. I’ve just had some bad experiences with prophecies in the past. I’m not going to let myself be part of anyone’s master plan to save the world.”
“Only monotheorists care about that shit!” another hippie shouted.
“That’s right,” Jack nodded, surprised by the answer. “That is...exactly right. Ok. But I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. I can’t perform miracles. Whatever signs he’s shown you—”
“It’s all just technology,” the crowd said in unison.
“Sounds like they’ve got Jack pegged,” I said to Bob as we looked on.
“Then what’s the big deal, anyway?” Jack asked.
“My Dude,” the prophet said, looking up to Jack in supplication, “we seek only to party while the groom is at the wedding.”
Jack turned and examined the prophet with curiosity.
“Dude, who are you?” Jack asked.
Cautiously, the prophet stood up.
“You really don’t recognize me, my Dude?”
Jack shrugged.
The prophet made the sign of the horns over his head with one hand, scrunched up his face into a grotesque scowl, and let his other arm flop down between his legs and swing suggestively.
“Uh...Satan?” Jack asked.
“Holy shit,” I said to Bob, “he’s right!”
“Hot,” Bob grinned.
“It’s Lucifer now!” the prophet explained. “Ever since that most holy day when you purified me with your blessed light!”
“You mean when I zapped you,” Jack said.
It happened back in my very first life. Satan crashed a party Jack and I were hosting, and Jack cast him out using his strange inner light. It was the first time the zappy superpower had ever fully manifested. Jack had used that power many times since, but we still didn’t really understand what was going on with it.
“You saved my souls!” Lucifer insisted. “All of the hatred and corruption that had eaten away at me since the Fall was washed away by your radiance! I resurrected a changed man, no longer an idol of the damned, but rather an icon of your sacred slack! And ever since the day I learned you were starting your own heaven, I’ve dedicated my existence to preaching the good news of the salvation of stoners on a first come, first saved basis!”
“That might explain the population boom,” I said to Bob. The reason Slack Heaven had to have a monthly cap on the number of souls saved was that we couldn’t grow the place fast enough to keep up with demand. We hadn’t realized we had a recruiter actively working the field.
“So,” Jack said, “does that mean you’ll get us high?”
“Oh no, my Dude!” Lucifer said. “My weed is schwag. It is I who needs to be smoked up by you!”
“Yours will do for now,” Jack said. “I only brought one joint, and I already smoked it with Akhenaten. I’m sure your weed will be proper and righteous.”
Lucifer invited us all back to his flat to get high. As we walked along the city streets, Bob and I stayed at the edge of the crowd; the center of everyone’s attention was Jack. The pack of hippies danced around him without any particular steps or rhythm as they sang.
Let the Son shine!
Let the Son shine!
“Should we be worried?” I asked Bob.
“Why would we be worried?” Bob asked back.
“Well, y’know, we’re literally following Lucifer at the moment,” I said. “That should probably at least give us pause.”
“Nah, this guy’s a pussy,” Bob said. “Total bottom, I can tell.”
As we approached his loft, Lucifer cautioned us, “Don’t go into the vestibule unless you’re with someone who has a key. Both sets of doors lock automatically, and you can get trapped between them. Sorry, it’s not exactly up to code.”
I burst out laughing and threw my arm around Jack. The building we were approaching looked exactly like the abandoned factory Jack lived in when I first met him. I could tell this made him uncomfortable—it obviously was no coincidence—but I couldn’t help finding it hilarious.
“Just remember, dude,” I said, “is not Chicago!”
“Hrmm,” Jack grumbled.
We all plowed up the stairs to the second floor “loft” that was, to be fair, decorated way better than Jack had ever accomplished, even with my help. An eclectic mix of second-hand furniture filled the space. Wooden platforms elevated some seats, creating the sense of an amphitheater focused around a couch and a recliner in the center. Hanging fabric and strings of mini-lights brought color to the scene. The walls were covered with spray-painted graffiti, but it was the sort that a kindergarten teacher might use to give the suggestion of the inner-city, with tags like “Love” and “Peace” and nary a swear word or crudely-drawn penis in sight.
The hippies at first seemed to clump up into small conversational groups, though I overheard one pair doing nothing but mumbling the names of vegetables back and forth to each other. Then, once Jack, Lucifer, Bob and I had taken seats at the focal point, as if on cue, everyone immediately shut up and gave us their full attention.
Lucifer sat in the recliner and started packing a bowl. Jack sat on the couch nearest to him, with me in the middle and Bob on the other end. Lucifer passed the bowl to Jack, letting him have greens.
“So, uh, Lucifer,” I said as Jack smoked, “you were just, like, one Satan out of many, right? There are still other old-fashioned, unpurified idols of the damned out there, yeah?”
Every idol had multiple copies spread throughout the mind-bendingly large continent of Atlantis (though this didn’t include Jack or his Dad, who were unique human descendants of the singular God.)
“Unfortunately, yes,” Lucifer replied. “Other Satans remain. You have nothing to fear, though. They are as helpless as I was in the face of Christ the Younger!”
“Zappy zappy,” Jack said, passing me the bowl.
“But you’re still an idol, yeah?” I asked. “You’re the combined consciousness of all the damned souls you tortured. What happened to them?”
“They now worship Jack,” Lucifer said matter-of-factly. “As do my daemons, the ones you would have called devils. They’re all angels now—angels of Jack!”
“Nice,” Jack said, nodding with approval.
“Hey Ranger Rick, how long are you planning to camp there?” Bob asked me. Embarrassed, I took my hit and passed the bowl to him.
“So what did Jack’s light do to you, exactly?” I asked. “I mean, I get that it made you worship Jack. But can we be sure it actually made you stop being evil?”
“I don’t know the details, dude,” said Lucifer. “I’m not a Jack’s-light-ologist.”
Jack snorted a laugh.
“Are we couching this?” Bob asked, having taken his hit.
“But look,” Lucifer said, “you and I both know that Jack hates talking about this shit.”
“I’m going to couch it,” Bob said, taking another hit.
“I think Jack talks about this stuff when it’s important,” I said. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I was talking about my best friend as if he wasn’t there. Jack looked at me and shrugged sheepishly, because Lucifer was right.
Damn it.
Bob passed the bowl back to me. I lit it, but it was cashed.
“My Dude, if it pleases you,” Lucifer said, “some of your followers have prepared a hymn they would like to perform for you today.”
“I think that would please me,” Jack said with a smile.
A dozen or so hippies lined up side-by-side, giggling nervously. An extra-hippie-looking dude started beat-boxing. I recognized the beat immediately.
“You let me violate you...” they sang.
We proceeded to watch an impeccably fantastic acapella rendition of Nine Inch Nails’ Closer, including every single instrumental track reproduced by the human voice. I couldn’t help but be impressed—and I was really trying not to be.
Lucifer packed another bowl and offered it to me, but I waved him off and held up my weed inhaler. I just wanted to get there quickly. I set the inhaler to “wasted” and took a puff.
“You get me closer to God!” the choir sang.
We all applauded enthusiastically when they finished.
“Wooooo!” Jack shouted. “Now do The Perfect Drug!“
We were treated to a full concert of Nine Inch Nails covers. There were a few drum solos that put panic in the eyes of the beat-boxers, but on the whole, it was awesome. I traded places with Bob so he could stay in the bowl rotation. I was high enough that I no longer gave a fuck that I was sitting ten feet from fuckin’ Satan.
The party went on for hours, until Lucifer stretched his arms out and yawned.
“Wow, I’m really sleepy guys!” he said.
All of the hippies began to sing.
This is our sleeping song, the song we sing to sleep!
Sleepy doobie doo, the doobies make us sleep!
A doobie doobie sleepy doobie doo!
The song went on like this with increasingly nonsensical lyrics as all the hippies played musical chairs. They got into comfortable positions, many of them lounging against one another. The last few lines were sung extra slow, then everyone shut their eyes and fell asleep simultaneously.
“That was kind of cultish, right?” I asked the guys.
“Or at least choreographed,” Bob said.
“Is Lucifer still awake?” I asked.
Lucifer was sitting with his head tilted back, his eyes shut and his mouth agape.
“I can poke him to find out!” Bob offered, less than chivalrously.
“No poking the devil, please,” I begged my husband.
“Let’s step out into the stairwell,” Jack said. “Team huddle!”
We tiptoed around sleeping hippies and down the stairs as far as we could go without entering the cursed vestibule.
“I think we should take him back with us,” Jack said.
“Dude!” I said. “You can’t just say ‘Satan followed me home, can I keep him?’”
“Yeah, but my zap fixed him,” Jack said. “He’s back to being Lucifer, one of the good guys! Or at worst, a misunderstood anti-hero...”
“He totally dodged the question when I asked him if he was still evil,” I pointed out.
“Look,” Jack whispered, pulling us into an even tighter huddle. “The dude’s been begging me all night to zap him again. It got me thinking, maybe I can use him to practice on. I need to learn to control the zapping better, maybe even direct it intentionally instead of just popping off. I don’t want to risk practicing on anyone I haven’t zapped yet. And if I accidentally fuck him up, would you be upset?”
“No,” I admitted.
“See, he’s the perfect punching bag!” Jack said.
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “Bob, what do you think?”
“Is it true what they say about angels?” Bob asked. “Y’know, about the prehensile penises?”
“So Bob’s on board,” Jack said in answer.
Jack looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. It meant a lot to me that, though he clearly wanted this, he was giving me a veto. Did I really think this was a bad enough idea to say no?
“Fine,” I sighed. “But if he turns out to still be evil, it’s right back to the pound with him, agreed?”
“Deal!” Jack said.
We went back upstairs to find Lucifer on his knees, singing loudly to himself as the other hippies continued snoozing.
“He’s a duuuuuude,” Lucifer sang, “He’s just some duuuuuude! But I love him so, I don’t know why, it might be just because...he got me hiiiiiiiiigh.”
Jack cleared his throat.
“Oh, my Dude, I didn’t see you there!” Lucifer said. This was the moment that all of the other hippies started waking up—in unison, of course.
“Lucifer, I’ve talked it over with my friends,” Jack said, “and we would like to invite you to return to Slack Heaven with us!”
“My Dude!” Lucifer said, overwhelmed. “I am not worthy, but—I accept! Of course!”
The hippies expressed as much surprise and joy as they could without having actual lines at the moment.
“But my Dude,” one of the hippies said to Lucifer, “will we ever see you again?”
Out of literally nowhere, an orchestra’s worth of strings began a tremolo chord. I looked around, utterly confused.
“It’s the translation software, dude,” Jack whispered to me. “It does that sometimes. Just roll with it.”
Lucifer began to sing.
“You know neither the day, nor the hour...”
Next thing we knew, were were in a full-on production number. Lucifer sang about how sad he was to leave his friends. The hippies sang about how much they would miss him. They all sang about the items he needed to pack. This turned into a layered polyphonic medley of all the songs they had sung earlier. Lucifer walked past us and down the stairs, a backpack flung over his shoulder. The hippie chorus followed, carrying us along in the throng. When we got down the stairs and out to the street, the hippies all posed like they were waiting for a group photo, waving while Lucifer walked away.
“WE KNOW NOT THE DAY NOR THE HAAAAAAHHHHHH...”
They continued holding the final note, glancing at one another to see if they should keep going.
“I think we’d better follow him,” Jack said, “so they can finish.”
We jogged down the block to catch up with Lucifer.
“...AAAAHHHHOUR!”
The orchestra in my head played one last dramatic stinger chord, but I couldn’t tell if that was the end of the show, or just time for intermission.
Next: The Devil and Jesus’ Son
Doing Drugs with Jesus’ Son is always free.