Mullahs in the Stock Exchange

Mullahs B


“Jesus, the graphic designers are here.”

Free Market Jesus has been waiting for his secretary – Free Market Judas – to come back from his power-lunch with the marketing department of their fashion-distribution corporation – Passover Textiles.

“Well  Judy, send them in!”

Two Greek weight-lifters walk in wearing leather shirts open down to the waist. One of them is carrying a large portfolio bag with an oversized blue plastic rose sticking out of it.

As the masculine designers begin the multimedia presentation, Free Market Jesus dozes off. He has been spending too many late nights at the Year Zero health club and juice spa. When he wakes up an hour into the presentation, he can see the powerpoint has begun; there is a picture of a large crucifix on the screen with a cone-breasted drag queen hanging off it wearing a portable head microphone. The text in front of the image says, “Making It Work; Closure and the Aesthetics of Perfection.”

Jesus clears his throat, and picks a piece of glitter off of the manicured end of a long, gorgeous strand of hair: “Well, if we’re going to be bought out by the Gnostic Corporation, we can at least brand ourselves on the way out the door. It’s all about legacy… And finding shoes that match the legacy.” FMJ smiles. He is known all over suburban Nazareth for his divine taste in accessories.

The sweating, virile graphic designers explain how the cross logo will help maintain a strong visual link long after the hostile takeover by Gnostic Phallustine S.A.. Jesus is unconvinced, but sees no harm in investing in marketing to raise Passover’s stock value before selling. And even if he does know that Passover is being leveraged out of existence beforehand, no one could call this “inside” trading since FMJ can find out anything he wants to know about virtually anything anyways. FMJ is the ultimate insider because of his family connections with the invisible hand. And that’s okay, because Free Market Jesus is both God and the CEO of a marketing and design firm!

As the powerpoint presentation cuts to a photo of blue-eyed children buying crucifixes at an idealized mall, one of Free Market Jesus’s receptionists – John – walks in holding a large, saphire-encrusted Princess cellphone.

“That was Free Market Marcia calling from in front of the stock exchange, Jesus. The sale is being postponed – maybe even canceled. A gang of radical mullahs has broken into the stock market building and they’re trying to close it down and turn it into some kind of radical mosque. Anyway – long-story short – Gnostic S.A. thinks this might not be a good time to invest in textile companies with blasphemous names. Our stock sunk 46% in one hour, Mare. Looks like the mean old bear has popped our falsies.”

Jesus’s jaw drops onto the colorful-but-tasteful office-quality short-pile carpet. “Those mullah bitches are really starting to pick my ass. Tell Marcia that I’ll be over there in an hour with a taser and the appropriate leather chaps. Damn it, maybe a little free-market girl power is just the thing to get those vicious mullahs out of that stock market.”

John cuts in again: “Mary, Marcia says that it’s just a gang of teenage mullahs holding a sit in. You don’t really need a taser. Though the chaps are probably a good idea.”

Free Market Jesus looks down at his Birkenstocks and smiles – he has a pair of ass-less chaps the exact same color. He turns to the rest of the board of directors and, still beaming, says: “I’ll be back in three days, ladies.”

He hops onto his pink scooter and zips over to the stock exchange building, hair shimmering in the metal-laden traffic breeze. The vibration from the tiny 200cc engine gets FMJ increasingly excited as he gets closer to the young mullah demo. When he finally gets to the stock exchange, he changes into his leather chaps and, in a display of brutish masculinity, flips over all their folding tables and massage chairs, sending pamphlets and Qurans flying all over the marble floor. Girl, was Free Market Jesus ever ticked.

When one of the young mullahs tells him that he really needs to chill out, he confesses that he’s a bit of a drama queen, and the other mullahs all laugh and offer him mint tea. FMJ helps them pick up all of their stuff (“mythological capital,” Jesus calls it), and they kiss and make up. And after a few bongs of Moroccan consolation hash – it turns into the most exciting sleepover any of them has ever been to.

Momentarily, at least, the Year Zero health club and juice spa is a remnant of a former Jesus.

Click for more FMJ


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