The Black Jesus came storming in, dark skies and harsh winds surrounding his dismal embodiment in a form that no two people could agree upon. While certain features of the figure’s appearance were nothing short of obvious to even those with the worst of eyesight, it was still too much of an unnecessary and tiring contradictory argument to engage in when bringing up the topic of what this being represented, wanted, and even looked like. Those black bottomless pits of eyes, that blood chilling stare that seemed to be a haunting image looming over the clouds that now only projected shade down upon a world so cold, and the merciless way the being would roam through the air, so carefree yet so determined; as intricate as those features seemed that was absolutely all that the world could ever agree upon about the creature, while everything else was merely the perspective image that people envisioned when they heard the word destruction. Destruction was all that ever came about the world anymore, nothing grew and flourished, nothing came it only went. Things were leaving, withering and dying, yet nothing came to replace these fallen creations that once covered the earth in joy. The people, nothing but misery had become of them, they too would wither in time only to pass out of existence before ever really knowing why the world had become the place it was now. Questions would be left unanswered, for there could be no truth in a world that now thrived on the opinions of panic-stricken authoritative figures, authoritative figures that only thought themselves to be right anymore as they blocked out the ideas of others attempting to chime in their two cents about what was becoming of the world. As they would bicker and fight and yell and argue the Black Jesus would merely sit atop the world, fold his arms and shake his head at the people that would never learn. As time went by the people that inhabited the world would refuse to even look up at the sky anymore, for the darkness that would meet their eyes would only let down their hopeful minds that even the smallest array of light would beam down through the clouds. The letdown was just too hard to take, and the sight of the Black Jesus staring back down upon a world that it now ruled with an iron fist was simply unbearable. The people would cry, hysterically they would cry and beg for the world’s revival, for even the smallest bit of order in something called society, a word that no longer existed. Some would say that the world was in an anarchical state, however anyone with intellect would argue that and say that it wasn’t at all, this wasn’t a free for all, no, the people responded to the Black Jesus now. Time was not a factor anymore, the people had lost all track of time, they simply didn’t care anymore. Day was dark as was night, the moon and the sun were never seen and the stars were said to have been swallowed by the storm clouds themselves. Nobody ever actually knew when it was day and when it was night, because nobody ever cared. The people would just sit around and wait for their time to come so that they might pass on to a better life, for anything was better then the state they lived in now. Yet the thought that they would have to settle for death made them sick to their stomach, it drove them to the brink of madness, to the point where they avoided ever thinking about it, but if not to think about that which surrounds you everywhere you look, what is there to think about? Memories were all they had now, and even they were beginning to escape them. They would just sit there like mindless drones, they didn’t want the memories anymore, they didn’t want to look back on the good times, for that too made them sick to their stomach so that they avoided ever thinking about them as well. There were no memories to look back upon, and no future to look forward to, the present spoke for itself, there was simply nothing left to do but wait for a solution that would never ever come. One would think that after seeing so much misery and despair that the Black Jesus would eventually restore the world to the state it was once in, but that world was not acceptable, it was filled with violence and hate, and it turned the model of peace and love into what his world had become, it turned Jesus Christ into a being of darkness, into the Black Jesus. There was no religion, no one to look up to, the one man that the world believed in was however still in existence, yet his heart was broken beyond repair. His heart had turned to black, as did his soul and as did his embodiment. To the people there was no heaven and there was no hell, there was only the meaningless life that they so reluctantly carried on with and that glimmer of hope within their miserable souls that made them think for just a second that there was a savior on their way. However, little by little that glimmer of hope within the people began to fade, as was the existence of all mankind along with it; it was nearly two-thousand years later, after all the death and sorrow and after all the pain and anguish that the Black Jesus once again looked down at the world from atop the clouds and shook his head one final time before removing the crown of thorns that hovered above the world and placing it back onto his head. As he did this he knew that their pain was over, the suffering of his world he had now relieved, and he was ready to be forgotten about once again. They say that it took the Lord six days to create the world as he rested on the seventh, the Black Jesus had attempted to do the same however on the third day he realized that he could not recreate the world alone, and it was on the third day that he received a hand on his shoulder and another man looking over the world along with him, together they would recreate a world that was not the doing of the Black Jesus, but the doing of society itself. On the sixth day the world was recreated by the two beings, and as they finished and looked over their recreation, the man looked at the Black Jesus and thanked him but had to ask one last thing of the being that had taught the world so much… “I would like my crown back now, friend.” The Black Jesus acknowledged the man’s request and braced himself as he went to reach for the prickly crown of thorns atop his head, yet as he prepared to touch the sharp edge of the thorn he felt something different, a golden crown was what his hands lay down upon, and a golden crown was what the Black Jesus bestowed before the man. The man wearing the majestic golden crown then looked over the recreated world with satisfaction, yet as he went to turn to look at the Black Jesus one last time he had vanished, vanished back into the hearts of many that had now learned that the Black Jesus lives within all of us, back into the hearts of many that had now realized that there is a heaven and that there is a hell yet anyone and anything can learn to coexist, back into the hearts of many that had realized to every good there is a bad, and that to every Black Jesus there is a man in a golden crown, over looking the world that was now and always would be, His kingdom.