Zombie Jesus Was an Oviparous Rabbit

 “And he said unto them, ‘Do not be alarmed.”

—Mark 16:6

    Easter is a confusing time of year.  So perplexing in its complexities that I consulted an oracle in downtown Myrtle Beach a number of years ago to ascertain the truth of the story.  The great diviner had a large hairy beer belly that protruded beneath a short, tattered white t-shirt with sweat stained armpits and splatters of vomit that trickled down the front.  I lucked out in finding him.  He had only recently been released from the Psych Ward after his latest psychotic break.  I had read Aristotle, so I knew this man was touched by the Gods.  “No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

    I was instructed to meet the oracle in a secluded alleyway and bring a forty of malt liquor, a brown paper sack, and a can of aerosol paint.  When I arrived, he hid his soiled hair beneath a tin foil hat, and rocked back and forth as if the spirits were playing a tune beyond my comprehension.  I handed him the bribes and he sprayed the paint into the paper sack and placed his face into the opening and inhaled deeply.  His eyes faded and I could tell he was now on a plane with the supernatural.  

    “What is it you seek, my son?” He asked with slurred speach.

    “I want to know the true meaning of Easter.” I explained.

    “Easter, huh?”  He returned his face to the paper sack.  “That knowledge is ancient and deep.  Are you prepared for the truth?”  He asked, exhaling.

    “I mean, that’s why I came here.” I replied, lighting a cigarette.

    “Sit down, my child, and prepare yourself.  The weight of truth is a heavy burden.”

    He reached for the malt liquor, cracked the cap, and downed half the bottle with one long steady swig.  Wiping his mouth with his dusty wrist, he stared into my eyes and grew close.

    “Jesus was the first vampire zombie who rose from the dead and shape-shifted into a hermaphroditic rabbit named Peter Cottontail.” He said, placing a hand on my shoulder.  “Here.” He said, pushing a book into my hands.  The cover was old and worn with faded words.  “It’s all in here.  The TRUTH!” He screamed, pointing to the sky.  

    I flicked out my cigarette and took the book and left.

    That night at my house I locked all the doors and turned out all the lights save for the lamp on my desk. I poured salt along each window and entrance and recited a quick chant to repel evil spirits.  There, in silence, I opened the ancient text and began to read.  With each verse translated from Aramaic into Latin then into the old tongue of King James, I anxiously made my way to the heart of the truth.

    While in the desert where Jesus refuted the temptations of Satan by retorting “man cannot live on bread alone,” he survived by having discovered far darker refuges for sustenance—a knowledge beyond good and evil.  At night he scoured graveyards for fresh corpses, consuming their flesh.  When he grew thirsty he sought out the living and drained their bodies of blood.  After forty days in the Sinai, Jesus returned changed.  He grew powerful and started changing water into wine at parties to sweeten up the taste of his victim’s flesh and blood.  At the last supper, when he knew the line of Van Helsing had tracked him down and he would soon meet his end, he shared his gifts with his disciples.  They feasted on flesh and blood as a sacrament and they too changed.  

    Since the spear that pierced Jesus went into his side and missed his heart, he survived the crucifixion, feasting off rats in his tomb until he was strong enough to roll away the stone.  Not wanting to be recognized and undergo yet another execution, Jesus changed his appearance to a giant rabbit.  Knowing he would be shunned by the local populace as rabbits were considered unclean and not Kosher, he made his way along with Mary Magdalene to the Pagans of old Germania.  The Celts welcomed him as a symbol of fertility.  Having both sex organs, he self-fertilized and laid an egg while on a vacation in France at Rennes-le-Chateau.  That single egg formed the basis for the Merovingian dynasty whose blood now runs through the veins of every ruling class in the Western world.  

    I was shocked.  All the signs and symbols were there in modern culture—-the eggs, the crosses, the rabbits, communion, but few, it seemed, had connected the dots.  The text I had in my possession could rewrite history and change the world as a whole.  I knew I had to keep the secret.  The oracle was right: the weight of truth is heavy on the shoulders.  I had to protect it from those who would destroy it.  After weeks of meditation and deep thought, I scoured the globe for a proper place to keep the book safe for the following generations.  There could be only one true resting place—Rabbit Island in Japan.

    Tapping into my savings I scored a Red Eye to Takehara, then boarded a boat to the island.  The captain would only go so close, so I was forced to wrap the book in plastic and swim the ret of the way.  Once there, I was swarmed by thousands of rabbits who seemed to be chanting in a Latin.  They guided me to an old Buddhist shrine that had a statue of a giant rabbit holding a child.  I opened the wooden door and wandered in.  Inside was this giant rabbit standing before an open crypt.

    “Who the fuck are you!?” I screamed, full of the fear.

    “Don’t you know?”

    “Fuck if I do!”

    “I’m Peter Cottontail.  You’ve done well, my son.”

    The Oracle from Myrtle Beach appeared and placed his hand on my forearm and retrieved the book.  He handed it to the large rabbit who placed it in the crypt and sealed it with a stone lid.

    “The world isn’t ready for the truth.” said the Oracle.  “Not just yet.”

    Suddenly Peter Cottontail vanished into a white mist and the last thing I remember was the Oracle laughing as he lowered a brown paper sack from his face.  His teeth were tobacco stained and chipped, his breath like musk and liquor.  I grew dizzy and fell to the ground which was a flowing stream of rabbits carrying me on their backs.  

    When I came to, I was back in my bed with no recollection of how I came to be there.  My head throbbed and my hands trembled.  But I had this overwhelming sense of peace.  Finally, at last, I knew the truth.  I was the vessel to carry on the wisdom for the next generation.  Here, all these years later, I finally had the courage to share my experience in hopes to share my wisdom with others.  It’s a lot to process.  But on this Easter Sunday, you too now know the truth of it all.  What everything means, down to the minutest of details.  Cherish this message, and pass it on.  Maybe one day the world will be ready for the Gospel Of Peter Cottontail.