A Crowd-Sourced Crucifixion Experience
Somehow, it always ends here. Maybe it’s the same guy every time—a little older, a little more tired, blinking under the lights. He’s had other names. Adam, once. The Chosen One, for a while. But by now, nobody bothers to check. All the crowd wants is someone to bleed for the story, to keep the show going. New number, same cross, same old ritual.
The square was jammed with folding chairs and tripods. A laminated sign flapped in the breeze: “LIVE CRUCIFIXION — Sponsored by FaithFlex™. Take a selfie, get a coupon.”
The protagonist adjusted his event wristband. The number “666” blinked red on the LED display hanging over his head.
A woman with a clipboard swooped in. “You’re up next, right? Smile, the drones are live. Pain sells.”
He tried to hand her his water bottle. “I think you have the wrong person.”
She rolled her eyes. “They all say that. You signed the consent form by showing up.” Her radio crackled. “Martyr ready at Zone Three!”
As she dragged him toward the plastic cross—ergonomically designed, adjustable, nails swapped for smart zip-ties—he saw the crowd queuing for phone chargers and redemption tokens.
An influencer checked her angles: “Can you move left? Your aura’s messing with my live filter.”
From behind the barrier, a teenager yelled, “He doesn’t even look crucifiable!” Another snorted, “Do a miracle, then I’ll subscribe!”
The protagonist cleared his throat. “I never volunteered for this. You keep putting me here.”
The crowd booed. Someone pelted him with a “Crucify!” foam finger.
A squad of event staff swarmed him—one stuck a headset to his ear. “Customer Service? You’ll need to answer complaints mid-execution. Try to sound forgiving. Higher engagement means better metrics.”
A bishop in business-casual wandered over, clutching a branded FaithFlex latte. “Have you any experience in redemptive suffering, my child? Can you provide testimonials?”
The protagonist: “I—look, none of this is—”
A priest-trainee materialized with a clipboard. “On a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you being publicly scapegoated? Have you worked through your martyr complex in group?”
He tried again. “No one wants to be up here. You keep building these crosses—”
The crowd heckled, louder now, voices jagged with hunger: “Not authentic! Bleed more!” “This is why I don’t go to church.” “You’re just another provocateur!”
A man in a “SECURITY” polo leaned in. “Can you please hurry it up? We have a resurrection scheduled at seven and a closing DJ set at eight.”
Someone shoved a feedback tablet in his face. “Rate your crucifixion experience. Five stars means you’d recommend us to a friend.”
His inner voice screamed: You can’t even die without a survey. Why the flying fox am I even here?!
A woman livestreamed from the front row: “I just want to say, if this Messiah’s legit, I better get a miracle before my phone battery dies. Hashtag #BlessedOrBusted.”
He called out, “You want me to save you, but you never listen—you just want the show.”
A guy with a custom halo hat snorted. “We paid for the spectacle, not a TED Talk. So keep your wokeness to yourself, shithead!”
The execution committee gathered. “Is he bleeding yet? Someone hand him the branded crown. Not that one—the one with the affiliate link and the composite spikes.”
They pressed the crown down—hard, until real blood welled up and trickled over his brow. The crowd gasped, electric, then erupted in satisfied applause. The priest-trainee smiled in approval and slipped away.
The crowd’s mood turned, feverish, faces shining with hope and bloodlust. “Maybe this time!” someone shouted. “Let him suffer for us!” “Yeah, let’s see some real pain – We want blood!”
As the zip ties tightened, the chant began—a mumble, then a howl, then a wall of noise:
“Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!”
“Not real! Fraud! Provocateur!”
He tried to shout above them: “You could get off the ground! You could carry your own weight!”
But his words were swallowed in hashtags, emojis, and livestream lag. No one heard. No one wanted to.
Lights flickered. Someone threw a gluten-free communion wafer. A boom mic crashed down, narrowly missing his head. The manager grumbled, “Production value’s tanking. Next time, more suffering, less monologue.” Then, a bitter thought: The old days were better—when people actually died for the crowd.
When the frenzy faded and the crowd drifted away—bored, unsatisfied, already posting complaints—a janitor in an “Ex-Messiah” t-shirt swept up crown fragments and feedback tablets. He gave the protagonist a tired, knowing nod.
The staff unstrapped him, prepping for the next act. No one looked up.
He pulled off the headset, dumped his “666” wristband in the trash, and walked away, bloodied but breathing, into the shadow of the stadium lights.
In the Messiah Management Console, a digital notification pinged: ‘Crucifixion event completed. Audience engagement: 41%. Now serving: Ticket #667. Please hold for execution.’