Book 2 - Miracles and more alliteration…

It was the miracles that were the problem.

Everybody wanted marvellous, miraculous, moments – mothers, musicians, muggers, mounties, mourners, madmen. Miracles meant metamorphosis from one state to another; child to adult, grade 1 to virtuoso, wrist to Rolex, freedom to incarceration, death to eternal life, chaos to tranquillity – everyone wanted marvellous moments of miracles.

But before we speak of the song of the sausages…

The Ju-Ju had been on earth for as long as he could remember. From the first, he knew that he was deeply destined, despite desperately declining divinity to change the world. It was the miracles you see. They just went off all around him.

From that very first awakening in the stable, his genetically modified hoodoo-voodoo heart beating hard against his genetically modified peanut chest, he knew that his life was not to be a simple one. Simplicity, so singular, so significant, sat shilly-shallying, sheepishly since some sixth sense signalled sainthood at the very least for the holy peanut. Amen.

Some are born miraculous, some achieve miraculousness, and others have miracles thrust upon them – and so it was with the holy JJJ. Everywhere he went miracles trailed behind him – fish would fly, dead ducks would quack, the faithless would find faith. His fame grew and soon he had many followers, finding fanatical fervour, flocking forward for faith. He had to get away. He knew that his fame and the miracles that he miraculously managed were beginning to be noticed by those that notice. His enemies were growing daily. He had to get away.

Out into the wilderness he wanly walked, he crept, he crawled; the hot desert sun beating down on his cactus crown until he could go no further; his hoodoo-voodoo heart heavy as he climbed upon the cross. Peace at last. He could do no miracles here; there was nothing to make miracles of. His heart slowed, each beat between taking longer, then longer, until the miraculous voodoo heart beat its final beat – Voodoomph! It beat no more.

Years passed; the Ju-Ju hung in simple, silent, solitude – dreaming, drifting, detached, and dopily devoid - until one day, a day like thousands of days had been before, he seemed to hear a voice from behind the place where he hung…

“Well lookie here. Howdy, Ju-Ju Jaysus. It’s taken me a while but I’m mighty pleased to find you. I’ve a message from Count Flavious… he means to have your hoodoo-voodoo heart, and I’m the one he’s sent to be a’getting it for him. You gonna come quietly, or am I gonna have to raise a ruckus?

It was the voice of the Cow-Poke, a voice that the Peanut had not heard in a while – he’d always known that he’d turn up eventually. The Ju-Ju felt the hoodoo-voodoo heart shuddenly shuddering in his peanut hoodoo chest - the miracles were about to begin once more… all hail the holy P!

Resurrection is resurrection - and in the distant distance dead ducks quacking…

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