The Kiss of Death: A Lower Room Conspiracy

By Joe Noland

A Note from the Author:

 

The writing of this story began in the form of a script for a stage play. In my mind's eye, the setting was the actual room beneath the biblical Upper Room. The Bible says nothing about this room or its purpose, though historians and archaeologists do debate the accuracy of the building's present location, along with its various possible representations.

 

Setting the debate aside, there had to be a Lower Room. What did it consist of? Were people gathering there when Jesus and his disciples dined above on Maundy Thursday for their last supper together before the crucifixion? If so, who were they? What else might've occurred in that room on other occasions? Is this where Judas conspired with the authorities, receiving the kiss of death as his signal? These and a host of other questions began to flood my imagination.

 

I began writing, letting the story creatively unfold, not knowing where it was going to take me. At first, I saw the various characters on stage in biblical period costume. Everything would take place in this Lower Room, with Dr. Luke to one side, narrating. You would never see the Upper Room, or what unfolded there, except through the imaginative mind's eye. The focus would be on how those in the Lower Room were observing it, some negatively, others positively, paralleling a typical church congregation, in my thinking.

 

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. (William Shakespeare)   

 

A curious thing began to occur. I started to see these characters, contemporarily, rather than historically. Before I knew it, there was a merging of the past with the present. It began to take on a different feel. I had a historical stage play and a modern semi-fictional novel duking it out with each other. Who was going to win? Read on.

 

What they're saying?

 

"Eye-'blinkingly' bold, head-'shakingly' offensive, heart-'turningly' redemptive." –Stephen Court

 

"A novel approach—poetic, prophetic, and freshly presented, taking the reader down a road not yet traveled." –James Knaggs

 

"A jaw-dropper with a surprise on every page. Outside-the-box thinking at its imaginative best!" –Art Johnstone

 

"Edgy, irreverent, sharp, and astute. Safe to say, you have never read a book by a Salvation Army officer like this. The end is a bombshell that took me off guard and caught me unawares.  Man, I didn't see that coming." –Richard Munn

 

"History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes." –Mark Twain

 

ENJOY!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Noland
• Release date: Sep 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215538746

Joe Noland

Joe’s ministry can be summed up in three words: Chaos, Creativity and Controversy - three elements implicit in any successful innovative endeavor. Cecil B. DeMille, renowned producer of Biblical epics, once wrote, “Creativity is a drug I cannot live without.” Joe’s mantra reads, “Creativity is my drug of choice.” Look for this creative opiate to make itself increasingly apparent in ongoing innovative endeavors.

Book preview

SETUP

THE EVOLUTION

LUKE 1

So many others have tried their hand at putting together a story of the wonderful history that took place among us here in Mt. Zion, Utah, using reports handed down by the original eyewitnesses, some giving their very lives in doing so. Since I have investigated all the reports in close detail, starting from the story’s beginning, I decided to write it all out for you, narratively, so you can know beyond a shadow of a doubt the reliability of what you are about to witness.

By way of introduction, Dr. Luke is my handle. Being the one-and-only physician in town, you might say that I know the people here rather intimately. This old doc knows all and sees all in Zion. The centerpiece of this town is a two-story building, almost biblical in its structure and historical presence. Some believe that it is eerily similar to the one featured in the Good Book where the Last Supper was held, me included. It is here where my story begins and ends.

Allow me to introduce you to its colorful cast of characters, beginning with its iconoclastic innkeeper, a middle-aged man with handsome features, sporting a handlebar mustache and granny glasses on the outside. On the inside, he is an entrepreneurial, poetic soul.

Howdy y’all. My name is Benny, short for Benjamin, and I’m the proprietor gent of this here establishment. Some might call it a saloon, others a salon, depending upon the tune they sing, know what I mean? It’s the town gathering place where gossip is queen, scuttlebutt reigns supreme, you’ll see what I mean. Not to worry, though. What happens in Zion, stays in Zion, I’m not lyin.’

Pausing, Benny glances toward the swinging salon doors. Maggie, the town floozy, has just entered. She is biracial and knockout attractive, with a mixture of brown and blonde, wavy hair. A brightly colored sleeve tattoo fills her left arm, a serpent with its head extending over the hand, breathing flames out across her fingers with red and yellow polished fingernails to accentuate the effect. With that hand, she flirtatiously throws kisses to the patrons as she moves toward Benny who is standing behind the bar.

"Hot damn! Wham-bam, thank you ma’am!" exclaims Benny.

Ooh la la! Not ma’am or damn, Benja. It’s Madame … Maggie Magdalene, damsel in distress at your service.

Maggie pauses by a man sitting near the bar.

Hello. Muy guapo! You’re very handsome! Can I be of service to you, señor? Meet me in the upper room later, por favor, she says, winking.

"Quite an interesting crowd you have here tonight, Benja. Más interesante. Again, she winks at handsome. Any action in the Upper Room?"

Not tonight, business is light. But Passover’s coming, when things will be humming.

Let me break in here to add a little historical perspective if you don’t mind. Some 33 years ago, Benny’s father was the proprietor of an inn in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. A young couple stopped by for a room. She was heavy with child. It was a holiday and there were no rooms available in the inn or anywhere else. The father, feeling sorry for the couple, put them up in his RV, which was stored on the back of the property. That night, their soon-to-be famous child was born right there in that RV, believe it or not. Later his father migrated here and established this inn with Benny eventually taking it over. Now continuing…

Speaking of Passover, what’s with this JC hombre, traveling around the state making miracles, like turning water into vino? Ay, caramba! You should hire him, Benja. Pronto!

You’re reading my mind, and with healing the blind, he’d be quite a find, the upper showroom redesigned. And on the marquee, ‘Illusion, delusion, confusion, see JC 3-D.’

Sí, and I will be his assistant, scantily costumed, the one he saws in half and puts back together again. Milagrosamente! This means ‘Miraculously,’ for all you gringos out there.

Yes, and Bartimaeus, AKA blind, black Bart to be the first miracle, not only biblical, but theatrical and amusingly satirical.

Maggie chimes in. And as the town beggar, accusingly stereotypical!

As if on cue, Bart, the town’s one-and-only black man, enters through the salon’s swinging doors wearing a tattered black outfit, with frayed cowboy hat, sunglasses, and red-tipped cane. The stench is all-consuming, causing the patrons to lean away from him. In his outstretched hand is a tambourine, as he cane-taps his way across the saloon, singing in a deep, resonant voice…

Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve (never) seen

Nobody knows my sorrow

Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve (never) seen

Glory halle-moolah (he thrusts the tambourine toward patrons each time he sings the word ‘moolah,’ causing them to lean back even further).

Sometimes I’m up and sometimes I’m down

Oh, yes mon

You know sometimes almost to the ground

Oh, oh, yes mon

Sitting by the tem-temple gate

Oh, oh, yes mon

Don’t forget to tell all your friends to fill my plate

Whoa, oh, yes mon

Still, nobody knows the trouble that I’ve (never) seen

Nobody knows my sorrow

Nobody knows the trouble that I’ve (never, never) seen

Glory hal, glory halle-moolah

Bart takes a seat at the bar. Benny brings his usual drink, paying for it from his tambourine moolah.

You’re welcome here, Bart, ’cause we’ve got a heart for the poor, no delusions of grandeur. No bigotry, hostility, explicitly, even though colored, we’ve got you covered, don’t you see?

No, I don’t see… but… (he starts singing again)…

They say I black

When I born, I black

When I grow up, I black

When I go in sun, I black

When I scared, I black

When I sick, I black

And when I die, I still black

Bart pauses, looks at his drink, and then drains the glass dry. Continuing…

They say you white, Benj

When you born, you pink

When you grow up, you white

When you go in sun, you red

When you cold, you blue

When you scared, you yellow

When you sick, you green

And when you die, you grey…

They say…

And you calling me colored!?

Bart cocks his head as he hears children singing in the Upper Room above…

Jesus loves the little children

All the children of the world

Red and yellow, black and white

They are precious in his sight

Jesus loves the little children of the world.

Bart sings to the same tune…

Nice singing. They sound like children?

Yep, they’re the Good News Club 3:16. In the Upper Room weekly, cheaply, uniquely, our contribution, charitably, discreetly, children from the bordello, inspired by this JC fellow, raps Benny.

Dios mio, Benja! exclaims Maggie. The Upper Room is sacred space, not to be desecrated with religious gatherings. Venga! Come on!

Bart sings: Red and yellow, black and white, then he pauses before adding, even the religious right? He pauses again and then says, Changing darkness into light? Where can I find this JC soul brother?

He leaves quickly, tapping his way out through the swinging salon doors. Bart is heading for his favorite begging corner just outside of the church courtyard gate through which everyone enters, thinking, ‘Surely here is where this JC fellow will be passing by.’

A brief pause for a word of clarification is probably warranted here. This JC fellow’s full name is Jacob Emmanuel Christiansen. He is a modern-day itinerant preacher who goes by the initials, JC, as the full name is a mouthful. Besides, formality just isn’t who he is. He’s about six feet tall with handsome features and a full mane of blond hair. And loaded with charisma.

Bart can’t see it right now, but an eye-popping surprise is awaiting him. And to you so-called biblical scholars reading this, there’ll be a surprise or two there for you as well, so hang on.

LUKE 2

The intrigue begins to build. If you’ve read the Good Book, then you know the inspired story of the Last Supper in the Upper Room. What you don’t know is the uninspired story of what occurred in the Lower Room among its inhabitants—intrigue, suspense, subterfuge. Now fast forward some 2000 plus years. It was Mark Twain who said, ‘History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.’ With this in mind, the plot begins to thicken, and I’ve been chosen to narrate the thickening. So, let’s get on with it.

It is the following day, and a brute of a man is sitting near the bar silently nursing his drink, staring off in the distance as if in deep thought. His features are stark, his countenance uninviting, suggesting an angry disposition. His eyes are dark, and the downward curve of his mouth conveys one that seldom smiles, except under very inviting circumstances. He is the same man Maggie winked at the day before. She saunters over to his table, invitingly.

Hola! May I join you?

His head turns quickly toward her with a sullen look. The sullenness quickly turns into a broad Cheshire grin, as his dark eyes light up, taking in her curvaceousness and comely features. She sits before he can respond, laying her left arm and hand on the table, the serpent looking up at him, ferociously, as if ready to pounce.

Seen you around, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Me llama Maggie, and yours?

Ahem, uh, why howdy, ma’am, he says, looking at the serpent cautiously. Malchus is my handle, but everybody calls me King.

Malchus, that’s a new one on me.

It’s a biblical name, ma’am. Y’all familiar with the Good Book? My ma was readin’ it just before I was born. Saw that there name and interpreted it as a word from God. That’s how I come by this here name. Malchus translated from Hebrew means King, that’s why they call me King, which I prefer. But that’s where it ends for me. You might say I’ve strayed a very long way from the Good Book.

Another slight pause here to educate those of you readers who have also strayed from the Good Book or perhaps have never read it at all. The biblical Malchus was a servant to the Jewish high priest, Caiaphas, who played a very active role in the crucifixion of Jesus. Truth be told, he was more politician than priest, also wielding enormous judicial power. Likewise, Malchus was much more than a servant. He really acted as spy and enforcer for his boss. Now, with this clarification, please continue…

So, what keeps you in Zion, King? asks Maggie. No monarchy here.

The smile fades and his disposition changes quickly back to sullen and angry.

Not accordin’ to the followers of this fake preacher dude, JC. They’re worshippin’ him like he was royalty. Not sure what those initials stand for—Jim Crow, I don’t know? Says he comes representin’ the Prince of Peace, along with a slew of other fraudulent claims. The local Ministerial Association petitioned the town judge, who also has the initials JC, for Joseph Caiaphas, to investigate him and his shady dealins’. That’s where I come in. He’s hired me to do the investigatin’. That’s his term. I’m more of an enforcer, know what I mean? he says, flexing his muscles.

She reaches over, the fiery hand pressing his right arm biceps. "Si, muy fuerta! But I’m only hearing good things about this JC padre. Like Jesus in the Good Book, he’s healing the sick, feeding the poor, turning agua into vino. Ay-ay-ay!"

Don’t get me started, ma’am. That socialist communist thinks he’s God, goin’ around causin’ a ruckus, claimin’ to raise people from the dead, flippin’ those tables over at the church fundraiser and everything, getting people all riled up. Claimin’ to be the savior of this here town and nation. Delusional. And dangerous! He’s gatherin’ his Antifa gang together to take over this town, mark my words. But we’re on to him. From the evidence already gathered, there’ll be an arrest warrant comin’ soon. Get those gallows ready.

Oh my, I must find out more about this terrible man, as you so describe. From what I’ve heard, his following is growing by leaps and bounds. One of his most fervent followers is a guy they call Rocky, because, the way I hear it, he is built solid as a rock, big, muscular, and mean with a fiery temper. His real name is Pedro. And another of them frequents this place, a stubby, wily, rascally looking one. He goes by the name of Izzy, an abbreviation of his surname, Israel.

Yep, I’ve been payin’ close attention to his gang of chummy Antifa followers, ’bout a dozen at last count if not mistaken. Thick as thieves, which got me a thinkin’, bet there’s one thief in that bunch we can turn if the price is right.

Benny suddenly appears at their table. Overheard what you’ve said, the word’s spread with many misled. He’s playing hell with my clientele, his soothsaying conveying an unhappy ending for those unbending. Bending down, he whispers something into Maggie’s ear. Looking up, he says, Now take your fellow to the Upper Room bordello where you can, uh … pillow-talk quietly, privately with this fine fellow.

Let’s mosey on up, King, where we can, uh … talk privately. Benja has just given me a couple ideas that might be helpful to you in nabbing this JC character. I think you’ll find it all, uh, very satisfying.

King accepts her offer and they ascend the spiral staircase, every head in the Lower Room turning their way. Dear reader, I discern that your eyebrows have just raised a notch. Please let me clarify to ease your concern. According to the very reputable Thayer’s Greek-English Lexicon, in biblical times the Upper Room was where the women generally resided. It was her place of residence, that’s all.

The Good Book is not clear regarding the configuration of its most famous Upper Room. Was there just one large gathering room, or were there sleeping rooms adjoining? We don’t know. But then again, our room is not located in Jerusalem; it is here in Mt. Zion, with sleeping rooms adjoining. Thus, we take some liberties with the telling of our story. And I can guarantee you that Maggie has something very satisfying to offer King.

LUKE 3

Several days have passed since Maggie and King’s little rendezvous. Her offer to him, as suggested in Benny’s whispering, was too tempting to turn down. Fortified by her flirtatious and seducing spirit(s), Maggie is the perfect one to set the trap and she revels in the opportunity. This, along with the promise of 10 large ones, sealed the deal.

If King, in all his worldly wisdom, could be seduced so quickly and easily, then this JC ‘person of interest’ doesn’t stand a chance under her spell. Having just returned from her first surveillance mission, the plot continues to deepen.

Hola, Benja. This JC hombre is something else. Muy impresionante! I went to the Zion Chapel service on Sunday because I heard he would be preaching, the perfect opportunity to begin scoping him out. And what I witnessed. Ay-ay-ay!

Heard all about it, no doubting it, the talk of the town, they’re shouting it, high and low, anywhere and everywhere by anyone who tarried there. ‘A man with a shriveled, crippled hand, thrilled to be healed, all aglow’ they declare.

Sí, Benja, saw it with my own eyes. That hand was so disgusting, shriveled and shrunken, a defect from birth they tell me. Abracadabra, hocus pocus, presto! Now it matches the other hand perfectly. Think there’s some trickery going on there?

Prestidigitation, premeditation, concealing, beguiling. Here’s the situation for consideration, find his weakness, and between us, reveal and revile him.

Hey Benny, another round for me and my mates here, interrupts a voice from a far corner of the room, right on cue.

"Ay, dios mio, Benja! A voice from hell. In