Posted by
Sul, 15:16, 12th April 2004:
I wrote this short easter story today:
John McClane was sitting on the front steps of his suburban 3 up 3 down cleaning his soccer boots. That’s the kind of man he was, a man of men. The fact that he plays soccer should inform you of the kind of level of manliness we’re talking about here. The additional fact that he’s cleaning his soccer boots should highlight his pride. (It’s a metaphor, innit). And not wanting to tell you, dear reader, exactly what to think but it should also tell you that he’s divorced, mid 40’s, used to break the fourth wall with Cybill Shepherd before nailing her therefore ruining a good show and is in real life, Bruce Willis. A cigarette was hanging out of his mouth. A Lucky Strike. The smoke was drifting painfully into his eyes yet not a tear formed nor an eyelid battered. Yes, John McClane was cool. Like a cross between James Dean and Arthur Fonzarelli without the teenagers hanging around. “Wow, that’s mighty cool.” I hear you think like my little mind puppet. And you’re right. If you stood near this man your nipples would erect. Partly because you’d be turned on by this walking, talking, lump of pure sex but mostly because he chills the air surrounding him as a by-product of his coolness. He was so cool he was bordering on cold, which caused him problems but he’d learnt to deal with them over time. John’s ears pricked up as he heard the phone ringing inside the house. He stubbed out his cigarette put his boots on a piece of newspaper and entered his home. John may have been a smoker but he didn’t like to do it inside the house as it can lead to a horrible discolouring of the walls and net curtains.
John strode manfully towards the phone, all the while thinking “I wonder who it is”. As his firm grip grasped the handset he was still thinking, “I wonder who it is”. He raised the telephone to his ear.
“Ahoy ahoy”, said John, answering the telephone in the manner Bell had wished.
“Hello, John” came the reply. It was almost rasped and had an Italian tinge to it.
“Who’s this?”
“I wont play games with you, John. It’s Pontius”
“Pontius?”
“Pontius Pilate”
The name rang through John’s head. He was trying to place a face but failing.
“Nope, you’re going to have to help me out Pontius, sorry.”
“Come on, John. Think.”
“Nope sorry, I’m getting nothing.”
“You may have read about me”
“Oh my god, you were that guy who dished the dirt on Terry Wogan in this weeks popbitch. I’m not telling you anything!”
“That wasn’t me, John. Don’t worry. I’m known for something a little more famous.”
“Can I have another clue?”
“I’m over 2000 years old.”
“Hmmmm. No, sorry.”
“I’m responsible for the killing of the king of the Jews.”
“Who?”
“Jesus Christ!”, Pilate had intended this outburst to be a curse but it turned out to be just the clue John needed.
“You were responsible for the killing of Jesus? You little shit!”
“Indeed I was, John. Now you may be interested in something I’ve left outside. Go on take a look.”
John walked through the front door and looked down. Between his two soccer boots was a tape. A video tape. There was no label on it. If John hadn’t got a former Roman prefect of Judaea on the end of the telephone telling him he had left the tape there he would have sworn it was porn. John went back to the phone clutching the tape.
“Bit of a problem, Pontius.”
“What’s that, John?”
“I don’t have a video player.”
“Who the hell doesn’t have a video player?”
“Me. I didn’t think I’d need it anymore and it was just cluttering up space. I’ve got all my videos on DVD now.”
“What if you want to tape something from the telly?”
“I’ve got TiVo”
“Oh Really? Is it any good?”
“Yeah, its great. I love it.”
“I may have to look into getting it.”
“You should. Its well worth the money.”
“Enough of this chit-chat! In the small amount time between you telling me you cant watch the tape and this very moment I have left another gift for you. Take another look”.
John strode outside again. He looked at his boots once more. Between them was a disk. A Digital Versatile Disk. John wondered how Pilate could’ve burnt a copy of the contents of the tape onto DVD so quickly. He would have to enquire what his set up was and how much it cost. He went back to the phone. Before he could ask his question Pilate started giving orders again.
“Play the disk, John. I think you’ll find it very informative.”
“Informative of what?”
“Well it may answer the question of why you’ve got a 2000 year old ex-roman governor telephoning you.”
“I did wonder.”
John, placed the disk into the tray of the DVD player, closed the draw and pressed play. He sat tapping his fingers impatiently waiting for the various annoying copyright messages to finish. He tried pressing “Menu” on his remote but it didn’t have any effect. He would have to just wait. Finally the screen was filled with colour and the main menu appeared. It was rather beautiful. Better than some of the professional ones John had seen. John pressed play and watched the screen waiting for the answers to unfold before his eyes.
The screen was filled with white. John wondered why it looked so blurry. The answer wasn’t going to please him. The image zoomed out revealing a bloodied face. John recoiled in horror. “No!” He screamed. “No! You bastard shithead!”. He placed the receiver to his ear again.
“Oh, you do recognise who that is then John”, said Pilate with a sick sarcasm. John didn’t care for it one bit. It only added to his anger.
“What have you done to the fucking easter bunny you cunt?”
“Oh she’s fine, John. She’s a real fighter that one. I’m going to hang up now. Grab some popcorn and watch the rest of the show. Everything will become clear. Cheerio.”
Before John had time to respond the line went dead. He dropped the handset and continued to watch the screen. It zoomed out further revealing the Easter bunny to be tied to a chair. A man walked into view. He wore an “I’m Pontius” t-shirt. It suited him, not too figure hugging and it had nice green ringlets on the sleeves and neck. John assumed the man was Pilate. He cleared his throat and started to talk.
“Is it on? I thought a red light should be on. Oh your finger was in the way. Right, John. As you can see, I’m in the company of a dear friend of yours. Say hello to John.”
The Easter bunny lifted her battered head and let out a whimpered “Help me, John”. John’s eyes welled. He’d rather take to the eyes the smoke of a thousand cigarettes than what he was taking now: the bloody mess of a giant rabbit who had been beaten up. Probably with big sticks and chains and stuff. Pilate continued.
“I don’t want to hurt her any more John. And you can help make sure that’s what happens. I created Easter and I can damn well stop it too. I want you to sing for me, John. I’m getting married today and I promised my fiancé that I could get you to gig at the reception. I knew you wouldn’t do it wilfully, John, not after that disastrous Bruno thing, so I had to go to these measures. So get up, get a tux on and head down to St Gospel church. If you put this disk in your PC you can print out your invitation. See you at 3.”
Pilate walked off camera. For the next 20 minutes John watched a giant female rabbit weep and cough up blood. Was she worth the humiliation of singing? John decided she wasn’t. He’d sworn that he’d never sing “Under the Boardwalk” again even if his or someone close to him’s life depended on it. He never thought he’d have to rely on that oath but that day he did. John removed the disk from the player. “People will just have to celebrate the resurrection of the Christ instead”, sighed John as he went back to finish his boots off.