I’m Gonna Bust into Jesus Camp to Find Out Where They’re Holding Him By Veronica Toone I like to help people. I’ve been helping people for as long as I’ve been able to keep my head up. When I was a baby, I would hold my vomit in my mouth for hours so as to not stain Mother’s fine blouse. I hold open doors for women who don’t even thank me. People never thank me for my deeds, but I know they’re grateful anyway. After all, people love it when people help them. That’s science. I’ve worked really hard to act so charitably toward people because I hate being bored, and I hate being social. I know what you’re thinking: “Steve, how can you be such a generous soul when you don’t like socializing?” The answer is simple: stop thinking and let me talk. Because yesterday, I attempted the ultimate act of charity: saving a life. Proud doesn’t begin to cover it. I am a damn mastermind. I’m on a mission to save Jesus. Here’s the concept: every year, just before the school year ends, a few of my suspiciously polite classmates tell their friends they’re getting ready to go to “Jesus Camp.” While
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overhearing their conversation, I managed to get the location of this so-called ‘camp’ that they’re retaining the aforementioned Jesus in. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but no great plan ever is. You think Napoleon conquered Russia in a day? You think they built the Death Star while the Resistance was off taking a group shit? Things like this take time. After I got to the camp, I told them I was a new camper and was eager to learn all about the place. I used a fake identity and a complex disguise, so no one was clued into the fact that John Catholic was not my real name. I fooled everyone. I even fooled myself. I was the biggest fool that stupid fucking camp had ever seen. Once they let me in, I went straight for the mess hall. I had assumed the reason it is called the “Mess Hall” is because that is where they make the mess (read: torture this poor Jesus), so I hit there first. Did you think I was gonna waste a single minute while Jesus was being subjected to God-knows-what at the mercy of some straight-backed normies? I think not. I heard a girl say that at the end of the week, they have this sick ritual where
they cut him open and drink his blood. Just—do they just drink it right out of him or do they let him bleed into little cups, like when the doctor steals your pee from you? I didn’t really know Jesus that well but he seemed like a really nice man with not a lot of blood left. Doesn’t a guy like that deserve to live? Have someone try to take your blood away, see how you like it! I knew that if he wasn’t in the mess hall, I would intergrate—interrograte?—as many of those imbeciles as possible. Boy, girl, apostle, disciple,—it didn’t matter. No one was safe from my keen eye and even keener mouth. They told me their secrets without even realizing it! “Jesus isn’t here,” they said to me. Fools. Now I know what you’re thinking: that there was no way I got away with this. And you’d be right. Kind of. Mostly because I couldn’t find Jesus and left that day feeling pretty empty. But I pushed my worries aside. You know why? Because this plan is fucking awesome. And because I like to help people.