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Tupperware Jesus
by Kate Sanger
He kept piling
his belongings into the cardboard box. The desktop was already bare, and at
the rate he was
They had warned him he was risking his career when he first proposed his idea at the meeting, but he had believed in it. He’d had a vision, of sorts. Now it turned out they were right, and he was paying for it.
Tom looked up at the wall, gazing at his downfall hanging there. The Tupperware Jesus. The Crucifix Cake Pan. The Twelve Disciples Muffin Tins. The St. Peter Upside-Down Cake Pan. The Mary and Joseph Salad Tongs. The Judas Silver Set.
They had seemed such wonderful ideas at the time. He thought they were brilliant, the next million dollar products. He had been willing to stake his career on them. He had staked his career on them! He knew they would succeed; they had to. Who wouldn’t want to own Holy Cookware?
Only no one had wanted to own it. The Church outlawed him. His mother disowned him. His father committed suicide over the shame of it all. His sisters, acting under his mother’s orders, would shoot to kill if they found him. His boss had unceremoniously fired him by threatening to dismember him if he ever saw him again.
So here he was, gathering together his few things and preparing to leave. He didn’t know where he was going. Home wasn’t an option. First a few bricks, followed quickly by a Molotov cocktail or two, had been tossed through his apartment windows. When he complained his landlord told him to take it like a man. After the Pope declared him an infidel, his friends had stopped talking to him, so they weren’t really an option either. Family was definitely out of the question.
A security guard came into what had been Tom’s office until a few minutes ago. “You’re to leave now,” he said, taking Tom’s arm.
“I know. I’m almost finished.” Tom tried to take his arm back.
“No, you’re finished now.” The guard dragged him out of the room.
Tom didn’t bother fighting. The guard didn’t seem too fond of him, and probably wouldn’t need much prompting to throw him down some stairs or stomp on him, just for the fun of it. He let the guard pull him into the elevator and press the lobby button. All the way down, the guard glowered at him with a hatred usually reserved for people who kicked puppies. When they finally reached the lobby, the guard picked him up by his pants, giving him quite a severe wedgie, and threw him out into the street.
Luckily, the bus just missed hitting him, but some pedestrians recognized him, and began pelting him with mud. He ran to the garage and found his car. He had to get out of there. His car seemed untampered with, and he was grateful that he hadn’t been allowed to bring anything from his office. It would have slowed down his escape.
He pulled out of the garage doing fifty, racing past the jeering crowds that had somehow managed to find rocks to throw at him. He was afraid to slow down or stop. He figured that anyone willing to throw rocks at his windshield wouldn’t mind throwing those same rocks at him, and he didn’t really think that would be very enjoyable.
He got on a highway. He wasn’t sure which one, and knew that it didn’t really matter. He had to go somewhere new and start over from scratch. It would be from scratch, too. No one at the bank would talk to him, much less let him withdraw any money from his account, and at the time he had thought it best not to press the issue since the guards there carried guns. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he knew that he wouldn’t have anything to do with Tupperware ever again.
Tom was headed west when he spotted the red flashing lights behind him. The police might just want to stop him and give him a ticket, but with the way things had been working out lately, he wasn’t too sure. He was just debating the merits of trying to outrun them when another police cruiser appeared in front of him, blocking his escape. He decided to pull over and stop the car.
The first officer pulled him from the car and starting hitting him in the head, neck, and shoulders before he managed to get on the ground. The second one limited himself to groin kicks. A few people driving by slowed down long enough to cheer. No one stopped to help him, but on the plus side, no one stopped to help the officers, either.
"That’ll teach you,” the first officer panted behind hits, “to go around making fun of our Lord God.”
Tom wanted to protest and explain that he hadn’t meant any offense, but didn’t think he could get the words out. “Please,” he gasped, “please stop.”
And it stopped.
Tom was confused. Everything had just stopped. No one was kicking him, no one was hitting him. He thought maybe he was dead. Slowly, he realized he wasn’t dead. He just wasn’t on Earth anymore. He was in some sort of alternate universe.
He was being worshipped. People came up to him, bowing low to the ground, carrying their pieces of sacred Tupperware for his to bless. He leaned back in his throne and smiled.
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