'Herro. Can I helping you?'�

The Japanese worker stared at Jesus, expecting the Son of Man to comprehend his broken English, rife with mispronunciations and grammatical errors.

Jesus stroked his clean-shaven chin. He stood at the line's front at a Japanese sandwich shop, wearing his full-length ghost white robe and a pair of frayed Birkenstock sandals. Unfazed by the grumbling businessmen behind him, he pored over the menu's cryptic meanings, trying to identify a solitary recognizable symbol.

Roughly two thousand years after his crucifixion and a scant five days into his crusade to disseminate his teachings unto the Japanese people, Jesus sighed and lamented his inability to communicate with the indigenous people. Jesus had long decided against consuming the unappetizing fare of traditional Japanese eateries. He craved something more filling.

'I just want a cheesesteak,'� he said, sighing.

'Eh?'� the worker asked.

Jesus slapped himself on the forehead.

'How hard can it be to get a fucking cheesesteak?'� he asked, careful to articulate the '-ing'� at the end of the expletive. He was, after all, the Messiah, and he thought it only appropriate to expend the nominal effort to properly enunciate his language.

Jesus turned and left the establishment amidst a crowd of gaping spectators.

*

Jesus stepped into a subway car in Shibuya station, holding a recently purchased stick of fried pork in his hand. An enticing aroma wafted from the food, attracting further attention to this big nosed, olive skinned stranger. The homogenous people of Tokyo stared.

A pair of schoolgirls at the car's other end, one dressed in a baggy yellow fabric 'Pokemon'� costume, the other wearing black and white striped tights, giggled and whispered to each other. Jesus felt as if they were driving the nails.

'What?'� Jesus asked in a loud voice, arms held out to his sides, palms upward. 'What is it?'�

The whispering hushed and the heads turned away, but Jesus was certain they still looked at him from their eyes' corners. An old man peered around his newspaper, a high school girl sneaked glances while pretending to look at her cell phone, and a pair of old women stared at Jesus' reflection in the car's glass windows. Jesus could still feel the countless eyes like a thousand burning candles held to his flesh. A bead of sweat broke out over his forehead; it was too hot in this car, overcrowded as the businessmen were released from work.

'Racists,'� he muttered to the unhearing crowd, and glowered at a random passenger. He raised the fried meat to his lips and tore an angry chunk from it.

'Who are you to judge?'� a familiar voice asked. 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.'�

It was Satan, having pursued Jesus all the way to the Far East just to bust his balls. Satan stepped out from behind a group of high school girls, still dressed in the day's uniforms, but with the standard issue skirts hiked up several inches.

Satan laughed, looking regal in a long silk red robe that went to the floor. Designs in dark black ink portrayed long, serpentine dragons crawling over the garment's surface, weaving in and out of its folds and each other. A hood covered Satan's hairless pate and left most of his face in shadows.

'I didn't say that,'� Jesus said, even though several eyewitnesses could have attested otherwise.

'I'm sure I can find it written down someplace.'�

'Don't quote me out of context, then,'� Jesus snapped.

'Watch your temper,'� Satan said, and pulled his hood back, revealing long Greek features and a pale white complexion. His green eyes glittered and danced in the reflected light of dozens of watches and the clasps of designer handbags.

'You've changed in the last two thousand years or so,'� he added, raising his eyebrows. The expression turned Jesus' stomach.

A growing number of Japanese people had turned from their cell phones to the commotion between the two oddly dressed strangers.

'Change?'� Jesus asked. 'Change is merely an illusion.'�

Using his teeth, he ripped off another chunk of meat.

'You've lost it,'� Satan said, shaking his head. 'That's Buddhism. Do you even know what you're saying?'�

Jesus began to reply, but a blockage in his throat prevented it. He coughed several times. His face turned red, then crimson. Satan looked on, amused.

'Help me,'� Jesus croaked, his eyes welling with tears.

'Why would I help you, after that attitude you gave me? No, you're on your own. Besides, in the worst case, you'll just be back in three days. You're like a bad penny.'�

Jesus doubled over now, struggling to breathe. He continued coughing, with index fingers gesticulating towards his throat.

The old man, who had been reading his newspaper this whole time, folded the periodical and placed it on the seat beside him. He stood, tilted his neck in either direction as if to crack it, and walked up behind Jesus. He placed his arms around Jesus's torso, below his ribcage, and delivered a short, powerful bear hug to the Savior. Jesus's upper body convulsed and he exhaled sharply, projecting a large fatty mass of pork into the crowd of bystanders. Jesus remained hunched over for several seconds, recovering his breath.

When Jesus looked up, the Good Samaritan had returned to his seat and resumed reading the newspaper as if nothing had transpired. Jesus caught his eye.

'Arigato,'� he said.

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