I had a very strange dream last night. It was, essentially, the Gospels, as they might have been done by Peckinpah or Tarantino. I was Jesus (of course), the most enlightened, wise and quick-drawing, crack-shooting philosopher-gunfighter of the Wild Judea. I had a band of rough, tough disciples and we roamed the land, speaking parables and
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Mary Magdalene was the sympathetic dance hall girl, too. You know, the one from _every_ mid-20th century Western, who has a heart of gold and stands by the hero when the supposedly-righteous townsmen all quail before the Bad Guy ...
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QT could play Pilate. Or Harvey Keitel. Yeah, imagine looking up into Harvey's face while he decides your fate; talk about your blood running cold.
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