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Science fiction story involving the eating of Jesus Christ - story of living under the domination of aliens - read full text free online.

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SF story by Hugh Cook of zenvirus.com
science fiction
living under the domination of aliens

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EATING JESUS CHRIST


        As the taxi swayed round a corner, Yvonne hung on tight, hoping she would not be sick. She had no idea what drugs her new employers had used on her in the morning's hypnotherapy session, but her stomach felt queasy.
        Of course, mind-bending drugs were not the only thing that might be making her feel like she wanted to vomit.
        "I don't want to eat him," said Yvonne.
        The taxi bounced on the rutted road and her head hit one of the roll bars. Even though it was padded, her eyes pricked with tears.
        "What's your objection?" said Brian.
        "Why don't I want to eat Jesus Christ?" said Yvonne, stressed almost to the point of losing it. "The whole idea's disgusting. He's alive, to start with. Alive and wriggling."
        "They only last a few words, sorry, I mean a few hours - they only last a few hours in any case because that's how the Yakplen make them."
        By the Yakplen, Brian meant the Yakidatori Plenatoba, the all-conquering aliens who had overrun planet Earth, and who were Yvonne's new employers. Problem was, to keep her new job Yvonne had to get through the induction process, and eating Jesus Christ was a compulsory part of it.
        The taxi splashed through a broad puddle as it took a corner. Sunlight lanced through the windshield, highlighting the scar of a bullet strike. Yvonne scrunched up her eyes.
        "I don't care if he's not immortal," said Yvonne. "It's still obscene and disgusting. And blasphemous. A slap in the face of any Christian."
        "Yes," said Brian. "We need to know that you're not controlled by your cultural programming."
        "But I'm a Buddhist," said Yvonne. "Christ is a Christian thing. So why do I have to do this?"
        "Christianity has been bundled in with your cultural base," said Brian. "Along with candyfloss and popcorn. You have to do it for that reason. Also because you don't want to."
        "What button do I push to turn off the speech?" said Yvonne.
        "And because," said Brian, continuing remorselessly, "your mother's an Episcopalian. And because your father blew up that abortion clinic. That really red flags you. Now look out of your window."
        Yvonne did. A rustbucket world of trashcan fires and open air shooting galleries. Atop the visible tenth of the rusted wreckage of a mud-drowned battle tank, a three-legged dog stood and barked at them.
        "Okay," said Yvonne. "I get the message."
        Which was simple: go through with this or go back where you came from. Which, currently, was a section of sewer pipe right next door to a recycling plant where the things which they smashed up into their toxic components included old car batteries and computer screens.
        "Security," said Brian, as the taxi slowed.
        The taxi decanted them at the checkpoint. Brian paid the driver off, then he and Yvonne went through into the scanning room, which was pungent with lemon air freshener.
        "Blood test," said a guard, pointing a stubby finger at Yvonne.
        "Why me?" said Yvonne.
        "Random choice," said the guard.
        So they took blood and Yvonne sat on a chair. Supposedly it would take only thirty minutes to get a result, but first her sample got lost and then the automated lab equipment broke down, and in the end it was four hours before she was pronounced cleared, innocent of any known terror viruses or assaultive nanotechnological devices.
        Brian, who had brought along his laptop, seemed unphased by the delay.
        "I'm hungry," said Yvonne, as they walked down the Safehouse Mall, past Tasty Spiders, Octopus Roundhouse, Parrot Plumage and other eateries.
        "Good," said Brian. "JC is waiting for you."
        He's waiting. And what are you going to do? Say no? In this world, how can you say no? How can you say you don't want the blood test?
        Maybe you don't want. Don't want to take your shoes off. Don't want to be probed, touched, ID'd, interrogated. Don't want to be regarded as a suspicious threat from a zone of contamination. Well, if so, then too bad. We live in a red-flagged world. It is how it is. Learn to like it or go find some other planet.
        "Trando," said Brian.
        The term designated the fast food restaurant up ahead, a franchise of the chain officially known as Tansendoglorium Eats.
        As they entered, the tambourine man seated on the right enthusiastically tambourined them, while the giving girl standing to the right placed paper crowns on their heads, a blue one for Brian and a yellow one for Yvonne.
        They sat on stools at the counter and Brian ordered a salad for himself and a JC for Yvonne. Moments later, a lidless glass tank was placed in front of Yvonne. Inside, Jesus Christ, as tall as the height of a man's hand, no taller.
        Jesus was pointing at a dead cockroach which was flat on its back. He pointed at it and said something. Slowly, the corpse levitated in the air, glowed a soft mauve, twitched, then turned over so its legs (now moving!) were downwards. The cockroach settled again to the scattering of sand which lined the bottom of the tank. It ran to the side of the tank and hunkered down alongside of the glass wall.
        "Jesus works a miracle," observed Brian.
        "How?" said Yvonne.
        "An application of nanotechnology, perhaps," said Brian. "Don't be shy, now! Grab him! Eat him!"
        Yvonne's hand convulsed into the tank, without her having anything to do with it. A red thought flashed in her mind: post-hypnotic suggestion.
        She grabbed Jesus. Jerked him out of the tank. She bit into Jesus. Bit his legs off. His body convulsed between her fingers. She gnawed, feeling the crunchy elbows grackle. She bit into his heart and his spasms ceased.
        Some of the hair got stuck between her teeth, and that's when Brian told her, no, stupid, you're not supposed to eat the hair, you're supposed to bite off the part just short of the scalp and spit it out.
        "Still," he said, "a good job. Now there's just one more thing. A small cultural adaptivity test."
        "What do I have to do?" asked Yvonne.
        "Now," said Brian, pointing at the glass tank, "you have to catch and eat the cockroach."

The End

This SF story, "EATING JESUS CHRIST," was first published when posted online by Hugh Cook 2005 May 06 Friday. Copyright © 2005 Hugh Cook. All rights reserved.

SF story about living under the domination of aliens.

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