“And now, ladies and gentlemen…JESUS H. CHRIST!!!”

The spotlights swirl around the stage while the band plays the theme from “Jesus Christ Superstar.” Jesus enters from the left, arms spread wide. His hair is cut in a feathered short ‘do, and he sports a neatly trimmed goatee. He wears a snug-fitting white suit with a black tie. He looks somehow preppy and Vegas at the same time.

There’s a smattering of applause. Someone yells, “Seen it! When you gonna update the act, JC?”

Jesus high-fives Elvis after his big entrance and slides onto a barstool next to the King.

“I learned a helluva lot about marketing from YOU, my friend. What’s a deity gotta do to get a drink around here?”

Buddha, mindfully washing glasses behind the bar, shrugs and says, “Manifest it yourself, big guy.”

The TV was tuned to CNN. The regulars at the bar like to watch the news to make bets on who’s next. Elvis is nursing a drink and watching, bleary-eyed.

“How about Roy Scheider?”

Jesus, always the know-it-all, says, “Not yet. You’re thinking of the Law and Order guy.”

“Yeah, I mix them up. Reagan hasn’t been as much fun as I expected.”

“The man was cheerful for a long time. You don’t expect him to stay chipper for all eternity, do you?”

“That Tammy Faye’s a pistol, though. She stayed at the karaoke machine for about three days after she got here.”

“The really sick ones always party hard. They just feel so much better, I guess. That’s the part I wish the families knew. They’re all mooning around wearing black and feeling bad while the dead ones are up here doing the limbo.”

“Uh-oh. Here comes Steve Irwin. He’s still mad at me about losing that bet. Gotta fly.” Elvis slaps his money on the bar and shambles off. He’s wearing rubber flipflops with the white jumpsuit and gives a little hop as he pulls the fabric from his butt and walks away.