Chapter 1: Silent Night, Unholy Night

Anno Mundi 3755
Tevet

>;>;Bethlehem Dec/Jan ‘55<;<;

The air reeks of afterbirth and prophecy.

The boy is silent in his mother’s arms, swaddled by starlight and the breath of beasts.
But then—a slick sound, another cry, softer.

Wet. Unannounced.

A second child.

A girl.

Joseph of Nazareth, son of Abitch, stares. His face stiffens—not in awe, but calculation.

He says nothing, at first.

Then his voice claws from the back of his throat—gravel and bile.

Joseph: hisses "You said one. You said He. The Son."
He steps forward, boots cracking straw.

Joseph: softer hiss "What is this?"
He points—not at Mary, but at the girl now blinking against the cold.
Joseph: growls “What is this creeping shadow you kept curled behind His spine?”

Mary weeps.
Not for the boy. For the girl.

Joseph spits.

Joseph: "You’ve birthed a blemish beside perfection. A bastard beside a miracle. You think I’ll raise it? Feed it? Call it mine?"

He grabs the edge of his cloak, lifts it like a judge before passing sentence.

Joseph: dismissive "No. I’ll not shelter what Heaven did not name. Twice cuckolded is once too far. Keep your little secret, Mary. But that—jerks his chin toward the abomination—it dies tonight."

He turns, leaves the manger.

(Joe was a real piece of work. Around 40 years of age, a 14 year old wife? His only claim to fame was the fear his shadow inspired in animals, great and small. A little plausibility, please? Jeez!)

Outside, the wind does not howl.

It hisses.

Salome of Magdala harbors the girl child, offers to take her in charge.

Hidden. Safe.

Unholy.

Mary bids farewell. She whispers an incantation.

Mary: “Miranda. Little lamb, little flame. The curs-ed one they’ll never, ever name.”

Yeshua-the bastard.

Miranda-the banished.

The mustard seed of future-Christian family values.

Mary-the Virgin. But only in name.

(Technically a virgin-thanks to Archangel Gazpacho. He heads the Bureau of Retroactive Virginity. They’ve not been too busy since Vestal times, when they published the Decree of Outcestum Purity Emendment. [CERTIFIED DOPE Version 2505-16.0.18827.2006]. And if I premember correctly, the BRV boys will push lots of DOPE when Joan of Arc comes around. And don’t get me started on the Aztecs!)

I checked-up on Miriam. She’s now in Magdala. Simone has personally taken her in hand.

She will be raised to know her birthright.

She will be taught to summon her magic.

She will be trained to vengeance—to Justice.

Miriam the Magdelene will be absent from this story for the next decade or so. She will become known as Mary Magdelene, the Miriam moniker brushed aside, hidden. Some will call here Maggie,

And Maggie will be ready when the time draws nigh.

>;>;DECREE<;<;

OFFICIAL DECREE
From the Desk of Archangel Gazpacho
Subject: Virginity Retroactivity (Clause 666.A)
All Virginity applications filed after conception

must be accompanied by Form B.R.V-727*,

notarized in triplicate—thrice.

No application will be considered unless every blank page is so marked.
Blank pages must be inserted at the end of each section.

Note if they are intentionally or unintentionally left blank.
Non-compliance will result in a

Shame Eternal Referral Finding**.

SERFs require From BRV-991 in accordance with

the Shame Eternal Logistics Findings, Appendix M.

SELF does not call for a SERF if divine sperm is implicated.

Insemination by the Spirit earns a free pass.

*Retroactive Purity Certification

**See Appendix X: Scarlet Letters

Anno Mundi 3757
Tamaz

>;>;Bethlehem Jun/Jul ‘57<;<;

Back in Bethlehem, I took the form of wandering beggar. I crept through the shadows.

My watch has begun.

I sensed them approaching Jerusalem from the northeast, camped in an olive grove.

The Magi. Three wise men.

Come to honor the King of the Jews.

(Trinity check: Their actual title was Magidiots—a scribe ran out of ink, neglected to make the correction. That’s one. Two: Original was three wise acres, but the ink bled—translation foul. Lastly, there is already a King… and he’s going to be Mightily Pissed!)

I translated to their setting. I lurked at the edge of their camp, intent to take their measure.

Melchior.

Self-appointed leader, pompous ass. Mispronounces everything, even his own name. Convinced his bag of sulfidious pyrite is true gold.

Caspar.

Middle child energy, performative paranoia. A ghost of a man, skin pale—almost transluscent. Traded three camels for frankincense in Petra, the home of Frank & Beanz Resinary. But Frank was off that day. His brother Beanz mixed up the order. The Beanzincense smells vaguely of burned incense ash.

Balthazar.

Strong silent type, seldom speaks. Magnetic—constantly getting hit by thrown objects. Carried myrhh, or so he believed. It’s actually crushed tree bark wrapped in goat hair. Marketed as Puerr Muerr3 in these parts. Used to treat anal fissures and leper scrotumitis, among other things.

3Puerr Muerr is only available in suppository form. Not recommended for oral insertion.

I overhear snippets of their sharp dialogue.

“...know you are but what am I...rubber and you’re glue...poopy-butt...I do not!...nyuk, nyuk, nyuk…”

I was already exhausted.

(And now these bozos are celebrated in song? Heralded in scripture? I mean, only 12 lines—but that’s 4 more per magidiot than any of them rate, you know?)

We’re doomed.

>;>;DECREE<;<;

DOOMSDAY UPDATE
From the Department of Redundancy Department
Subject: Schedule Change Alteration (Auth-MXYZPTLK)

The Day of Doomsday is deemed to be undone.

Also too, the new unused up to date pristine spelling is hereby

revoked and/or canceled.

A child born in a pig trough was about to be greeted by three men who couldn’t agree on which direction was east.

This is why I drink only to excess.

They entered Jerusalem like a rolling circus—camels decked in gold tassels, trumpets blaring at inappropriate intervals, a parade of fools heralding their own incompetence.

The Magidiots.

Melchior led, chin high, robes trailing mud. His mouth was already open before they reached the palace gate.
Melchior: entitled “Where’s the valet stand? Tend to my camel! Gather my goats!”

The palace guardsman blinks. “You’re in the wrong place, cur. The Sloshed Samaritan is six blocks west. Am-scray!”

Melchior: “Where is he? The new King of the Jews! Show us to his throne!”

The guard blinks again.

Nobody mentioned a regime change. “Damn it! Why am I always the last to know?”

Guard: ahem “One moment please. I’ll get my best people working on this right away.”

>;>;Styx Rant: Triplicate<;<;

You thought crucifixion was cruel? You thought a friend’s betrayal stung?

Amateur moves.
You want to know the sharpest blade ever forged by the divine?
Triplicate.
Forms. Paperwork. Carbon-copy soul shredders. Processes designed not to clarify, but to exhaust. To leech the spirit from the willing, the daring, the brave. To grind them down to obedient, compliant mush.

My Dad invented extinction by meteor, sure. But his finest legacy? The celestial filing cabinet. The canonization of mediocrity. The enthronement of gatekeepers whose only power is the stamp that says ’Pending.’

The litany of Rejection. ‘Disapproved. Resubmit in thirty days for final disapproval. Failure to resubmit in a timely manner will result in the levying of fees and fines equal to one-tenth of your personal net worth, or $5, whichever is larger.’
And Herod? Herod thinks he’s clever. Thinks he’s the baddest beast at the trough. Nah. He’s just another middle manager. A clipboard with sandals. The most dangerous man in any universe is the one who follows policy while pretending to wield authority.
Remember this, class: empires don’t crumble because of rebels and revolutionaries.
They crumble because some sad-eyed scribe lost the right form behind the wrong parchment.
And that’s how they’ll try to kill Yeshi, too.
Not with hammers. Not with whips.
With clean hands wielding a rubber stamp.

Six hours later.

Inside, Herod’s palace gleamed with the polish of underfed servants and colorblind decorators.
The tawdry trio stumbled through security—well, stumbled after arguing with the clipboard guard for thirty-seven minutes about whether “Caspar” had one ‘s’ or two. One clerk tried to get Balthazar to change his name to Batbizaare—said it was more descriptive. His brother-in-law could file the forms, special pricing for the wise.

Finally, they stood before Herod’s administrative liaison.
Herod did not personally handle inquiries. He had people for that.

Liaison: (hemorrhoids flaring) “State your business. Succinctly, please. There’s a plague debate at noon—I’ll be arguing Pro.”
Melchior beamed like an idiot sunrise.
Melchior: “We bring gifts for the new King of the Jews. Where may we find Him?”

You could hear the record scratch from Damascus.
The liaison blinked twice, slowly.

Liaison: soft “The new King. Hmmm… I see. One moment, please.”

Their hopes for same-day gifting were dying a slow death.

Within the hour, they found themselves summoned to the Great Chamber—an ornate death trap disguised as a throne room. “Send in the Clowns” echoed along the marble corridors.

Herod slouched like a bored Persian, feigning indifference to their mission, imagining their demise. Torn between crucifixion and disembowelment. Immediately recognized the perfection of the pairing.

(You’ve seen the type—a man who thinks his own gas is incense.)

Herod: scorpion sweet “You say you saw… a star? And it told you there’s a new king? So a talking star, right?”

Melchior: puffed “Yes, Sire. East star. Big. Very shiny. Not talking as much as… moaning?”

Herod bids them to follow that star. “No matter how hopeless, no matter how far.”, he sang.

The Magidiots bowed themselves out, saddled up. Caspar consulted the maps, squinted the star, led the train due north.

In the late gloaming, Melchior gently noted that they’d been marching in the wrong direction. The star is behind them. Caspar had been following the sun, instead.

Oops.

Caspar: defensive “Follow the sun! I distinctly heard someone say to follow the sun! And the star has always been distinctly round. I thought it grew bigger as we approached our Waterloo.”

(Vowels are hard)

Melchior: “I think you mean Rubicon, right”?

(Noun retrieval is even harder)

Herod drawled to his henchman: “Better safe than sorry. Ordered: kill them all, those under age one. No—make it age two—birth records are sloppy as hell around here. And make about a dozen widows. I haven’t had a good widow walk in ages!

He considers changing the calendar to make the weekend come sooner. Never mind.

Herod: chipper “Make it so on Sunday, I think. The sound of the wailing mothers should go well with out feast day. Kiwis and keening! Watermelon and wailing!. Oooh, I can’t wait!”

He savors the coming moments yet again.

Herod: imperial “It shall be remembered as the Genocide of the Greenhorns!”

He’s not sure that lands. No worries, there’s time.

Time waits for no man—save Herod.

>;>;Styx Mini-Rant<;<;

What a guy, that King of the Jews! Executed Mariamne, Eliminated her mother, Alexandra. I mean, mothers-in-law can be a pain in the butt, that’s so. But it’s over the top to go chop-chip, right?

He slaughtered his sons Alexander and Aristobulus at around the same time. He waited until he was relaxed on his deathbed before disemboweling his heir, Antipater. Brutal irony, that.

Anti-pater. Get it?

No clue what was behind his devotion-to and loathing-of people with A-names.

Little known fact—Herod is Aramaic slang for ‘arse-hole’. Look it up!

I followed the clown car.
A wandering beggar, blending into the stink of the street.
The Magidiots wandered the streets of Bethlehem. It is hard to know precisely which hovel the star hovers over. Hovel hovering is notoriously imprecise.

Beneath the star, a window aglow. Could be divine. Could be a lantern.

They smell something warm. Could be their welcome. But more likely fresh soup.

The hear a baby’s soft cry.

So obviously—This Is The Right Place!

(Brigham Young would be spinning in his grave, but the 56 wives cramp his spin cycle.)

They storm in, robes flapping, goat trailing.

Woman: “How may I help you?”

Melchior: “We come bearing symbolic resonance!”

Capar: sniffing “You smell vaguely holy, I suppose, but I thought you’d be taller.”

Balthazar: offers gold “”

I mentioned he doesn’t say much, right?

She chased them out, wielding an oversized TORPOR4. She’d ordered it from a catalog a few weeks ago, tipped off by a vivid delusion that it might come in handy. Delusions are helpful, at times.

4 Terrorist-Ousting Rolling Pin Of Rage

They stumbled and bumbled down a narrow lane. The last house on the left is (also) directly under the star.

(Spiritual guidance my ass. The TORPOR overcame them. Then they arrived.)

They had found their way. The would honor Her—the newborn King.

Melchior: “Look! And Laugh! Stop! Look! And Laugh! We’ve made it!

(These stooges find wonder in even the most mundane. The postman finds the place six days a week.)

Melchior: “Behold the newborn… uh. Is that—Caspar, is that a penis?”

Caspar: squinting “I think girls can have a penis. A small one, anyway.”

Balthazar: shrugs “Not so small. Boy.”

Caspar: “Do we still say ’King’ if it’s a girl?”

Melchior: “Your gender obsession has become quite trying. Let’s just agree He was born this way.”

(The star guided three men through deserts, language barriers, and divine prophecy—only to fail them in the final inches. Note: already cut and healed, so older than 8 days now.)

Balthazar: nods solemnly, hands Maggie a half-eaten date.

Balthazar: suddenly lyrical "O date, jewel of the desert, compact package of caloric despair, keeper of digestive mysteries… To thee I entrust this moment of hallowed exchange between kings and the infant monarch...For nothing says honor quite like the half-consumed gift of Balthazar, humble mule of providence. To thee, O Virgin, Our first date."

He looks around, can’t understand who was talking.

Caspar: “Yeah, what he said.”

Melchior: approaches the babe "Behold, the newborn king! We come bearing gifts of great symbolic impo—"

He tripped over the hem of his robe, knocked into Caspar, who spilled his pouch of beanzincense on Joseph’s soiled feet.

Caspar: "You’ve desecrated the spice! That’s sacred resin, Mel! Sacred! It’s supposed to smolder, not scatter!"

Balthazar: stares “Au.”

(He wasn’t a chemist, but he knew enough balchemy to periodically abbrev.)

He accidentally opened the gold box upside down. Pyrite hit the floor like thunder.

Melchior: exalted “Quick, form a Triangle of Reverence! The infant will sense the TOR and grok the fullness of our alignment!”

Caspar: delighted “Wait, what do we do with our hands? Are we doing jazz hands? I love jazz hands!”
Balthazar: deadpan “…”

He pokes Caspar in both eyes.

Caspar: yelping “Yowch!”

Balthazar: shrugs.
Melchior: urgent “The ritual requires cream-filled pastry!”

He spins slowly, robes swishing, as if invoking custard by centripetal force.

They do jazz hands. Mary joins in—graceful, fluid, as if born for it.

Joseph hesitates, then flails like a man possessed by rhythm and regret.

And you know what?

Old Joe’s pretty good at jazz hands, I have to admit it.

(Spoiler alert! Joseph sometimes drinks bad wine and makes worse decisions. That’s Joe!)

Anno Mundi 3757
Tevet

>;>;Depart Bethlehem Dec/Jan ‘57<;<;

Zebulon, seventh son of Zebulon of Fecundus, had a problem. Master carpenter, couturier of cedar, architect in acacia. His bid for the Second Temple’s expansion was good, but a buddy at the Jerusalem Office of Quote-Unquote tipped him that Joseph had undercut him.

Joe must go.

Zeb saw him at a table outside a local wine bar, sidled up and offered to sponsor his sip. Joe agreed. They basked in the dappled hush of mutual loathing, sunlight spattering the stones like spilled wine and shattered promises.

He used a pinch of Raven’s Whisper to open Joe’s mind. Joe wouldn’t notice it, nevermore.

As Joe drifted, Zeb jacked in—and jacked up the stakes with voice of an angel.

Zeb: soft “I am Gazpacho, Protector of Purity, Guardian of the Hymen of Hope. The Son is not safe. You must flee! Flee to Egypt or Toledo or San Jose (if you know the way). But flee before the Sabbath or the Son shall die!”

(Zeb got the accent wrong but his minced garlic Gazpacho cadence was spot-on.)

Joseph woke from his slumber with mandrake breath and destiny in his lungs.

He gathered the Virgin, swaddled the Son, and fled.

To Egypt.

The Black Land. The Gift of the Nile.

The Land of the Sun.

And soon… of the Son.

The BioDome hums under low light during the long commercial break. Hunt and Peck huddle with Styx at stage left, whispering through the static of ego and brimstone.

Hunt: brimming “The evil-twin curve ball was a master stroke! You teed it up and hit it out of park!”

Styx: arch “Baseball metaphors are more puerile than puns, Huntley dear. Strike one.”

Peck: edgy “We’re gonna need extra innings just to squeeze in the Resurrection.”

Styx: warning “Strike two.”

I like these guys. More than the alternative, anyway. If I had to listen to Babwa WaWa for more than a minute, she’d be a pillar of salt before you could say ‘wepowting’.

I change the subject to save them from strike three.

Styx: chatty “I heard you guys talking about the Flood episode earlier. Little known fact—I was there! I spent time with Noah. In real life!”

>;>;Styx Epic Rant<;<;

You know about Noah and his boat, of course. It says in the Bible that he took the animals on two by two. And whoever converted the plans to imperial cubits must have sucked at arithmetic! The Ark was HUGE, like the size of Atlas’s shrug!

Noah was a disgusting creature, with abominable taste. His beard was white, but only if you’re colorblind. It was always filthy—there were maggots suckling lamb’s blood on his chin every Sabbath. And it smelled like boiled cabbage, cooked in rotten egg juice. Then double-dipped in cloven-hoofed excrement paste, because once wasn’t enough.

Did I mention it was really dirty?

The Flood thing happened when my Dad and my uncle were still doing business together. Uncle Weh was in charge of the rain and the lightning. Dad had to deal with gathering the pairs. That’s how I came to be on the scene.

I was still quite young—just shy of a million Earth years. Maybe six or seven in human time, give or take a plague. But I was whip-smart and loved all creatures Great and Small. The Bright and Beautiful I could do without.

Dad told me to round up the unicorns. I started my search in the neighborhood of Urartu. A rumor of a mated pair near the Durupınar Formation led me in that direction.

I found them living in a closet of a glade. It was fabulously decorated.

Emerald green accent wall paired with a perfect peach-puce. Regal. Dramatic.

Like a cabaret stage—only functional. And no feather boas. The vibe was bold, mysterious.

A little tragic, but in an artful way. It promised welcome and asserted dominance in one breath.

A jewel-encrusted gramophone whispered ‘I Am What I Am’, a ditty unknown to me that made me feel I was born fabulous.

My gaydar was pinging.

Jules: “Welcome, young stranger, to our humble abode. I’m Jules, your host. But you can call me Julie.”

Damian: “He’s such a tease! He doesn’t even let me call him that. My names Damian, but he calls me Dam-Dam at times.”

I told them my mission, and said saddle-up. They looked doubtful. It didn’t sound like a gay cruise.

I offered reassurance and sewed a nut sack out of fig bark and lies. Slipped it over Julie’s tail, a little nip, a gentle tuck. Instant hetero illusion.

The happy couple was set to sail—in style. They wore matching patterned hornlets, one blue, one pink. Camouflage, darling, in credibly-colored circles.

(embarrased) My heart melted. Don’t tell?

What they did with the Ark common room was beyond words. They brought a mix tape ranging from ‘Be Our Guest’ to ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’. The pairing of ‘I Don’t Know How to Love Him’ back-to-back with ‘I Know Him So Well’ brought the crocodiles to tears.

WANTED, DEAD OR REALLY MOST SINCERELY DEAD
From the Desk of the Mother

Gospel-Oriented Oversight of Sanctified Expression5
Subject: Nuke the Gay Baby Unicorns for Jesus

Jedediah Gross, age 42, black, brown, sallow

Poses as Holy Man. Actually a Tent Revival Preacher

Tasteless Graffiti Index dialed to 11

Reward based on creativity of execution method.

Dismemberment bonus BR-549 applies, once confirmed.

5 GOOSE

When the Ark settled on Ararat… Julie and Dam-Dam were the first to report the rainbow.

I never saw them again. But when the rainbow shows up now and then? I think of Julie’s wink, and Dam-Dam’s hum.

And I smile—but only inside.

A girl’s got to keep up appearances, right?