Jesus and Tupac were having an early brunch on a Thursday afternoon in Reno, when Jesus dropped his knife on the group for the third time. "Fiddlesticks," he said, disgusted. "It's these bloody stigmatas. They make it impossible to hold anything."
Shakur laughed that famous handsome laugh of his. "I too know the pain of messianic sacrifice. Have you heard my oeuvre?"
"There you go again," Christ replied, waving his frustratingly un-buttered croissant in the wind, "it's always something, comparing your creative output to my role as a figurehead for love and salvation in the Western world. Drop it Shakur, just drop it."
"I will," Pac responded defiantly, "much like you keep dropping that slippery-ass butterknife," before breaking into another inappropriately loud fit of laughter and slapping his gold rings against his black Chinos. They ate their omelettes in silence as "Who Let the Dogs Out" played on the dusty jukebox next to the men's room in the corner.
The front door swung open.
"Oh Christ," Pac said.
"What?" Jesus said, scrolling lazily through his iPhone.
"No, I mean, oh God... don't make eye contact, don't, look who just showed up." Jesus turned around.
"Table for one?" the portly man in the colorful sweater and dark sunglasses said to the hostess, before catching Christ's eye.
"Yo Big!" Jesus shouted across the diner. "There's room here! Come join us!" snapping his fingers as a third chair appeared instantly.
“I hate you,” Pac said to his friend, burying his face in his hands.