“Listen John, Coke has offered me 50 million if I can get a shot of Him before going up, and McDonald’s is giving me 100 if I get one of Him biting into a Big Mac.  Do you know what this means?!  WE’RE RICH!”

            Her voice echoes through the air as she screams in jubilation.

“I could care less if He’s dying, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.  Don’t go getting all sentimental and religious on me.”

            With the push of a button she hangs up her cell phone.  It’s about time this goddamn Jerusalem job paid off, she thinks to herself, an American photojournalist abroad.  She walks out into the streets where crowds create a buzz of awe.  A sea of people flood down the ancient roads like raging rivers, pushing, fighting, cheering.  Without hesitation she joins the mob. 

            In the confusion of what is a single entity made up of smaller organisms she obsessively checks her camera bag for supplies to make sure nothing is lost or forgotten.

            Now outside of the old stone walls of the ancient city the crowd flocks like sheep to their shepherd, a Man bearing great pain and struggle as He carries a cumbersome burden towards the dry hills.  The frenzy of the mob makes the thousands seem like millions, and they’re only growing.  One by one, they barrage the Man, they assault Him, they suffocate Him, all in order to pay homage.

            As the photographer get’s closer she readies her gear.  Her pack is firmly around her back, and her camera is locked tightly in her boney hands.  Her long curled fingers wrap around it like the legs of a spider as she protects it from damage.

            Mostly men hoard around the iconic figure carrying His cross into the desert, and as they do they put more burden on Him, more strain.  The heat beats down on His bloody brow and back, beaten raw from His followers.  Sand blows into His squinting eyes, making stinging sweat a sweet relief.  Around Him the strong and unruly force their way with violence, and once they see Him they carry on.  The screaming deafens His ears.  If He was wearing a crown before, it’s long gone now.

            As the woman gets closer the violence grows around her.  She soon gets consumed by the crowd; not becoming a part of it, but becoming devoured by it.  As her legs give way and she is pushed to the ground she curls up and tucks the camera into her frail body. 

Feet, face, feet, face, pain, silence. 

She thinks this is death.  She fears that this is how her story ends.  Her last words: something about McDonald’s.  Everything seems to have stopped and gone cold.  She’s too scared to open her eyes.  She knows she’ll awaken in Hell, so she wants to prolong this black limbo of her judgment.  A wet palm touches her back.  Her shudder felt much too real, too alive.  As she opens her eyes she lays before the true Savior. 

“Rise.”

            She feels no pain and comes to her feet.  Her first reaction is to check her camera, but it’s perfectly in tact.  Before her, stands a Man of greatness, covered in crusted blood and sweat.  His long hair hangs in knots and tangles.  He is nothing like I imagined, she thinks.

“Are you alright?”

            His soft voice coaxes a nod from her.  The crowd stands muted in fear.  The Man is about to turn back to His duty, but the reporter shouts.

“Jesus!  Wait!”

            He turns back to look at her.

“I brought something for you.”

            Out of her large camera pack she pulls out a vintage glass bottle filled with Coca-Cola, and a small cardboard box with a slightly stale burger.  As she hands them to Him He smiles.

            As Jesus quenches his eternal thirst with soda the woman dances around him taking photos.  Each bite of His burger is captured majestically.  His poise is unrivaled.  The followers stand in disbelief.  He offered his body to them, twice now, and none of them even thought of giving anything back.  They are hit with the sting of deep shame.  As the photographer finishes Jesus turns away, tossing the garbage onto the windblown sand.