Jude leaves the disciples on Sabbath evening for a night on the town. He’s tired of Peter and John being picked for all the special assignments, and is seriously considering handing in his Disciple’s Badge of Eternal Glory. Before that, however, he considers that all he might really need might be a chick, so he goes to ‘Ye Olde Jerusalem Inn’. He’s wearing his best Eb & Enezer robes (which he bought from cunning disciplary budget manipulations). In short, he is the bomb (unfortunately, incendiary devices have not been invented yet, so he doesn’t think of himself as that).
So he swaggers up to the bar and requests some Cana Wedding Wine (that shit just won’t finish). While he’s sipping the Jesus juice, a girl enters in. Jude’s drink begins to slip from his fingers. This girl is FINE. She looks round the bar and her eyes meet his. She disdainfully looks away and Jude serial kills (no he doesn’t go around killing people, he hangs his head dejectedly) and goes on sipping the wine. Being Jesus juice, it keeps on filling back up. He’s already stupid drunk when he sees two overlapping beauties coming towards him.
“Hi” they say.
“How’re y’all girls doing?” Jude slurs
A finger presses into his temple and he suddenly feels acutely sober. And empty. He looks up, suddenly alert, at the singular girl that had disdained him earlier.
“Be quiet and let’s quit this joint”
“Where d’you wanna go?”
“Your place, my place, anyplace but here”
“Well, I ain’t got a chariot, but my mule’s right outside” Jude says.
So they go to her house because Jude is so not into seeing any of the other disciples at the moment. She has some really trendy gear. Her water barrel’s made from the finest alabaster. Her recliners are in true Roman fashion – covered in fine damask. And she has a full length looking-glass! Damn this chick’s got it good, thought Jude. Fuck it I’ve got it good. (Not sure if the word ‘fuck’ had passed into general Judean lingo, but you get the idea.) How lucky can a guy get?
She went in for a shower (yeah I know, I know) while a servant washed Jude’s feet and led him to an already prepared table. Choice meats seasoned with the most exotic smelling spices adorned the table. Freshly baked bread stood beside a platter of equally fresh fruit. Jude couldn’t believe his luck.
She walked in. She was stunning, wearing a stola of woven wind, linen so sheer Jude could see her in her entirety through it. He was gobsmacked.
“You like?” she said, her voice dripping with lust. It was all he could do to bundle his garments over his rapidly expanding man-bits. He managed this and twisted in the recliner – ostensibly to make himself more comfortable, but she giggled so he knew she was well aware of her effect on him.
She sat at the table and they ate – or at least she did. Jude had trouble coordinating his numerous misbehaving faculties in the presence of this amazing woman. He realised he didn’t even know her name. He asked her and she just laughed at him.
“Even if I did tell you you’d forget it before morning”.
She told him.
Then she jumped on him.
She felt even better than she looked. Her full soft breasts were tipped with rather large, very hard nipples. Jude called on distant memories of stories he’d heard when he was a lad, stories of how men were supposed to please women, the type of stories that were only spoken in hushed voices so that adults nearby wouldn’t overhear. He needn’t have bothered. She was an amazing lover, and all he had to do was follow her lead.
He was almost spent when she spoke again. She had straddled him, and was riding him roughly, those amazing breasts bouncing up and down uncontrollably.
“I need you to do something.”
“What?” Jude replied. At that point he would have done absolutely anything.
“Betray the teacher.”
“Huh?!” Anything but that.
“I know you’re tired of going around with him. All you have to do is tell the Pharisees where to find him – but it has to be before Pesach.”
“And what gives you the idea I’d ever betray the teacher?” Jude asked.
She ground him so deep into her that he temporarily left his body, looked at himself, made a victory sign and said “this is AWESOME!” before sinking back into himself. By this time he had poured himself out to her, physically and psychically, agreeing in his mind to her proposal without thinking it through. He was hers, and there was nothing he could do about it.
In later years Jude would probably wonder if there was any way he could have refused her. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. After Jude came, she continued to ride him until she was sated. Then she stood up and went to sit in her cathedra, before her looking glass, still gloriously naked, her skin suffused with the afterglow of passion. Jude looked up from his still prone position on the recliner and wanted another serving. He said so.
“First we must plan,” she said.
So they did.
I won’t bore you with what happened next, as you should know that story full well. Jude betrayed the teacher and walked away from the scene with 30 silver pieces and the girl of his dreams. Until the enormity of what he’d done hit him. He’d been with the teacher three years. In that time he’d learnt more about being good than he had in all the preceding years of his life. He’d become popular, and respected, and respect was something accountants rarely got.
And he’d betrayed the teacher over pussy. He suddenly felt a hole grow in his soul. Bigger and bigger it grew, until he could no longer think clearly. He couldn’t see what was in front of him. He ran back to the priests and threw the silver down in front of them. He was gone before they could say a word, running through the night. She was still with him. Teasing, taunting, urging him on.
“You killed him!”
Gone was the sultry seductress – this version of her accused him unabashedly. Her eyes were bulging, nostrils flared, lips pursed, arms akimbo. He realised he was terrified of her. He wanted her to go away, tried to hit her, but she wasn’t in front of him. She was in his head, his heart, his soul. He kept running.
The other disciples saw him. They weren’t together. They had scattered with the capture of the teacher, but they accused him just as bitterly as she had. Peter had screamed, James had yelled, John had cried, Bartholomew had cursed him, and each had railed at him as bad as the next. But none compared to her voice in his head. He wanted to tell her it was her idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to it. Guilt overwhelmed him. He ran into a field, tripped over a stone, split his head on a rock, and died.
She poured his glass of Cana wine over him, and lit him with a stare. Then she walked away, pitchfork in hand.