In a Stable

Warning: Snark and irreligious use of Nativity characters

“How much longer?” Baby Jesus whined in his manger.

“Shaddup, kid. At least you are lying down,” Joseph snapped, “My feet are killing me.”

“My knees ache,” The Virgin Mary sighed.

“You didn’t have to spend weeks riding a damned camel,” Melchior muttered, “My royal ass is-”

“You can’t say ‘ass’ in front of the baby,” Caspar interrupted.

“You just did!” Balthasar snickered.

“Can’t you posh gits stop squabbling?” the token Shepherd complained.

“Missing your favourite sheep, are you?” Balthasar snapped back.

“I’d take weeks riding a camel over giving birth,” The Virgin Mary muttered.

The Three Kings snickered.

“Shaddup, you three!” Joseph snarled, “At least you had a camel to ride.”

“I walked here same as you,” the token Shepherd protested.

“Bet you rode the sheep along the way,” Melchior smirked.

“I rode the donkey,” The Virgin Mary said brightly.

“Shaddup!” Joseph growled before the tittering got out of hand. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” He muttered angrily to himself.

The Angel smirked but did not say anything.

“I had three sheep when I got here,” the token Shepherd remarked to no one in particular. His eyes flicked to the Angel and away again.

The Angel just smirked more.

“What do you think an Angel would do with a sheep?” Caspar rolled his eyes.

“Got very long tongues, do sheep,” the token Shepherd stared at the manger intently.

All eyes studied the two sheep standing beside the manger eyeing the wisps of hay hopefully.

“Really?” Melchior drawled after a long silence.

“I thought it was the other end that you’d be more familiar with,” Balthasar didn’t aim the words at anyone in particular but the token Shepherd sniffed anyway.

“This really isn’t a suitable conversation in front of a baby,” Caspar muttered.

“I’m two thousand years old,” Baby Jesus snapped, “I’m part of the Holy Trinity. You think you can say anything that I’ve not already seen or heard?”

“Well… when you put it like that…” Caspar huffed.

“Just because none of us have got laid for weeks…” Melchior started to say and all eyes rolled to look at the Angel who just smirked harder.

“You could hide a lot under that dress,” Balthasar pointed out.

“Shaddup!” Joseph ground out.

“I never did get laid,” The Virgin Mary pointed out.

“Not as if I didn’t offer,” Joseph muttered resentfully, “But you were too full of the ‘holier than thou’ crap to take me up on it.”

“My innocence is legendary,” The Virgin Mary said piously.

“The Holy Spirit must be well hung,” Melchior glanced questioningly at the Angel who was still smirking but looking a little more glazed than normal. The Angel didn’t comment.

“Shaddup!” Joseph snapped.

“Maybe you’ll get put in the box next to a sheep this year,” the token Shepherd offered sympathetically.

“Better that than married to one,” Joseph muttered, his eyes fixed on the back of The Virgin Mary’s head.

“Maybe you’ll get the camel this year, Caspar,” Melchior smirked nearly as much as the Angel.

“If I do it won’t be my ass that’s sore,” Caspar snapped back without thinking. He ignored the speculative looks and stared at the manger.

The Camel, the Ox and the Ass all shared a sympathetic look. The Ass was just thankful that the jokes had moved on.

“How much longer?” Baby Jesus demanded petulantly, “They drag us out earlier every year.”

“They’re looking more frantic out there,” Joseph reported hopefully, “So it can’t be much longer.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Balthasar sighed, refusing to look at the Angel whose eyes had crossed as he spoke.

“Don’t thank me for this,” Baby Jesus snapped, “This wasn’t my idea.”

“Shaddup!” Joseph sighed. He really, really hated Christmas.

The End

Disclaimer: All stories on this site are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of any story found on this site may be reproduced or reposted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

© Copyright Mara Ismine 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

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