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Ev'rybody Must Get Stoned
The last time I spoke to him, we were just down the track from the temple. I was trying to talk him out of it, and he was lugging this old bladder filled with some horrible muck, old goat's blood and wine-barrel dregs that he'd been saving for just this occasion. I followed him, wanting to grab the bladder from his hands but not daring to, because it was old and would probably break. "You know the punishment for this." "Well, duh!" "You want this. You actually want them to, don't you?" "With dazzling intuitive skills like that, Joshua, you could be much more than a carpenter. Now, unless you want to join me, I'd advise you to stand back." I didn't want to join him. I hid behind a cluster of dying date palms and watched. The pharisees came out of the temple, and he lobbed the bladder at them. It hit the lead pharisee on the shoulder, burst open and spattered three others with filth. He didn't even try to get away. Two days later, I watched as they dragged him out into the area they reserved for executions. I stood near the back of the small crowd and watched as they pelted him with fist-sized rocks. He didn't avoid them; he stood there silently, head bowed slightly, taking the blows until one particularly well-placed shot to the side of the head felled him. Most of the crowd had left by this point, so I could edge forward and watch as the stragglers finished him off, shouting and cursing, aiming for his ribs. He had an odd smile on his face; I remember one of those odd, frozen moments where I saw the trails of blood running down his face ran into the creases from his smile and out again. His eyelids fluttered, he gasped, exhaled slowly and died. He died with that wierd smile on his face. |
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