Jesus Loves Whores

    Fist meets wood.
    Knock, knock, knock.
    The family stares at the door.  Father, Mother, Son.  Huge grins, big teeth shine in the sunlight.  Penny loafers, cardigans, linen dress.  Bobbed hair and two slick domes of black.
    Door opens.
    The man's brown hair rests on his shoulders.  It's greasy, with little bits of paper clinging throughout.  His white robe, stained with blotches of yellow and ash, hangs open.  He's naked beneath; wirey nest of pubes and a penis scabbed purple.  Brown sandles, Birkenstocks, on his feet.  He yawns and scratches a keg of a belly.  A cigarette is pinched between red painted lips.
    "Yeah?"
    Father makes a throat noise.  Mother's eyes move away.  Smiles remain.
    "Hi!" Son says.
    "Hey."
    "I'm Peter!  These are my parents."
    Rings of smoke.
    "Hmm.  Okay.  Nice to meet you." The man looks over his shoulder into the dark apartment then back to the family.
    "We're here about the apartment.  I'm your new roommate!"
    "Oh yeah.  The building manager told me I was getting one." Deep wet cough. "Come on in."
    The man turns and walks away, farts.  The back of his robe, down near his ass, flutters.  Mother and Father turn to each other.  Son walks inside.  Father shrugs, and the parents follow.  Mother sniffs.  The air smells of stale smoke and old tacos.  The kitchen - yellow tiles and chipped cabinets - is separated from the livingroom by a waist-high counter.  A hallway dissapears into haze.
    "So, what's your name?" Father asks.
    "Jesus."
    Faces scrunch.
    "Are you a Mexican?" Peter asks.
    "No."
    "Hmm, that's...interesting," Mother says.
    "Aren't you a little old to still be in college?" Father asks.
    "I'm only thirty-two.  Fourteen years into my degree and still going strong.  I'm almost there."
    "Well, that's wonderful."
    "Yeah it's great being more experienced than most of these kids.  I can move dope like crazy around here.  Really jack up the prices, too.  On a good weekend night, I can sell roofies for twenty bucks a pop.  When it starts to get late and the horny fuckers realize they're gonna go home alone, old Jesus is there to help with my magic bottle of pills.  You can really do anything to a girl when she's good and passed out, believe me." He points at Father. "This guy knows what I'm talking about."
    Father clears his throat.  "That's hilarious.  Would you mind closing your robe?"
    "Does it bother you?" Jesus asks Mother, holds up his hands."
    "It's like the window of a butcher shop."
    Jesus spits the butt of his cigarette to the floor, ties the robe.
    "Do you have a job yet?" Peter asks.  "I'm going to work in the cafeteria."
    "I give motivational speeches at the conference centers around campus.  People love that shit for some reason.  My dad helps me out sometimes, too."
    A tan-skinned man emerges from the hallway, dirty sheet wrapped around him.
    "Oh, this is John," Jesus says. "Now, he's a Mexican."
    "My name is Juan, fucking Juan, not John," the man says.
    "Juan's just Mexican speak for John, you ignorant burrito eating savage."
    Juan mumbles Spanish, sits on the couch.  A metal spring grows from the fabric next to him.  The sheet falls from his shoulders and gathers in his lap.  His face sheens oil and catches the dim light.  He takes a lightbulb, minus the metal base, and holds a lighter to it.  Thick fog builds, a plastic straw sucks out the smoke.
    "So you're a freshman?" Jesus asks Peter.
    "Yep."
    "Cool, cool.  You like to get high?"
    "I'd certainly like to try."
    "I don't think that's a good idea," Father cuts in and puts his arm around Peter.
    "What's that man doing with that lightbulb?" Mother asks.
    "I've got some super White Rhino," Jesus says.  He goes into the kitchen, kicks something on the floor. "Wake up, you stupid whore!"
    Father leans over the counter.  A woman is sprawled on the tile; sequined dress bunched around her waist, one breast hanging free, mascara smeared around her eyes, bloody needle hanging from her arm.  Jesus steps over her and pulls a green filled Ziplock from a cabinet, buries his nose in the bag.
    "Smells like cat piss, but it'll get you hi-agh!" He kicks the woman again, barks, "Time for you to leave, Sparkle!"
    "I told you," she moans, "My name is Mary."
    "Shut up, bitch.  Sparkle is a better name for a stupid pole dancing cunt like you." He turns to Peter. "You want to have a go at her before I kick her out?  My treat.  She's all smacked out, so you can do any dirty shit you want to her."
    "No!" Mother cries.
    "Sure?  Bitch can swallow a cucumber whole.  Her goddam asshole's the size of a donut, though."
    "Can I?" Peter asks Father.
    "No!" Father and Mother yell together.
    "Aw, come on," Jesus coaxes.  "Don't cock block the little guy."
    "Yeah, don't cock block me," Peter echoes.
    "We're leaving!" Father roars. "I'm going to have the leasing agent move Peter to another apartment."
    "No!  I want to stay here!  I want whores and weed."
    "Ya, yea-ah!" Jesus crows.
    "Stop it, Peter!" Mother screams. "Just stop it right now!  We raised you better than this."
    Father grabs Peter and throws him out the door, turns to Jesus, who's rolling a joint. "You're despicable!  Absolutely despicable!  You people should be thrown in jail." He takes Mother's arm and pulls her from the apartment.
    Jesus stands in the doorway, lights the joint as the family's station wagon screeches away.  He plays with his nipple and blows smoke.
    "Goddam.  They was a strange bunch, weren't they, Juan?"
    "Si."
    "You hungry?  I'm hungry.  Let's get some burritos.  Hey, Sparkle, you want a burritto?"
    Floor groans.
    "Stupid whore."