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How I Wrote the New Testament, Ushered in the Renaissance, and Birdied the 17th Hole at Pebble Beach by Mike Resnick So how was I to know that after all the false Messiahs the Romans nailed up, _he_ would turn out to be the real one? I mean, it's not every day that the Messiah lets himself be nailed to a cross, you know? We all thought he was supposed to come with the sword and throw the Romans out and raze Jerusalem to the ground -and if he couldn't quite pull that off, I figured the least he could do was take on a couple of the bigger Romans, _mano a mano_, and whip them in straight falls. It's not as if I'm an unbeliever. (How could I be, at this late date?) But you talk about the Anointed One, you figure you're talking about a guy with a little flash, a little style, a guy whose muscles have muscles, a Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger-type of guy, you know what I mean? So sure, when I see them walking this skinny little wimp up to Golgotha, I join in the fun. So I drink a little too much wine, and I tell too many jokes (but all of them funny, if I say so myself), and maybe I even hold the vinegar for one of the guards (though I truly don't remember doing that) --but is that any reason for him to single me out? Anyway, there we are, the whole crowd from the pub, and |
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