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Easter: Come here, sweet Shadow. Allow me to impart some wisdom. There's far too many secret societies out there. They have no loyalty and no love. They range from barely competent to deeply dangerous. Wednesday: You don't sound like one of us. Easter: I'm not one of you. Wednesday: Oh, yes you are. You're as forgotten and as unloved and unremembered as any of us. Easter: I'm doing just fine. Happy Easter. Christ is Risen. Hello, boys! [the many Jesuses approach] Wednesday: Well, you were before these assholes were born. Until the day that Jesus Christ crawled out of his stinky old grave, folks would paint eggs with dandelions and paprika for her. To exchange as gifts at the first sign of Spring in her name: Ostara. Easter: Oh, they still do. They still do! On my festival days they still feast on eggs and rabbit and candy and they do it in my name. Wednesday: Serious question, my dear, I have no doubt that millions upon millions exchange tokens and observe the rituals of your festival all down to the hunting of hidden eggs, but does anybody pray in your name? Do they say it in worship? Well, they mouth your name but they have no idea what it means. None whatsoever. Same every Spring: you do all the work, he gets all the prayers. Easter: What has gotten into you?! Jesus of Nazareth: I feel terrible about this... Easter: [comforting him] No! No! Wednesday: It's her day! You took it. You crucified her day! When they started following you, everybody else got burned, in your name! Happy fucking Easter! [Easter and the Jesuses are shocked]

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