It was a day of great mourning as the sea of bodies lay prostrate near the foot of the cross. To either side, his accomplices hung dead, their corpses carrion for the vultures perched upon each crossbeam. With each laborious wheeze, the Lamb’s flyblown chest convulsed, his emaciated frame browning in the midday heat. The hours passed, first slowly, and then quicker.
At last the time for his swansong was come. Bathed in the receding Levant sun’s light, the orphaned Christ inclined his head to Heaven, and in frustration issued from his mouth a flood of blasphemies against his Father, mocking his name and all of Heaven’s host. The death rattle soon followed in the wake of the disgusting outburst, as the Saviour ejaculated, soiling and pissing himself. Dribbling down the splintered wood his excrement, mingled with piss and cum, anointed the heads of the gathered faithful thronged at the foot of the cross, dripping down their faces and chins and into the mud.
And like the others his cadaver was soon descended upon by vultures of the air, who picked his flesh clean off, leaving his bones to blanch in the desert sun, never to rise again.