SkatingJesus turned. His holographic crown of thorns flickered, switching between RGB color modes. “Faith, Andaroos. Faith is just a kickflip you haven’t landed yet.” From the cracked culverts emerged the Static Priests —former tech-pastors who had deleted their own souls to become living antennae for the Ad-Blocker God, a silent deity that fed on lost attention spans. Their robes were made of tangled charging cables. Their faces were QR codes that, when scanned, led to 404 errors.
Behind him, Andaroos—his reluctant disciple and former competitive eater—wheezed. “Jesus. I mean… SkatingJesus . Can we not do the thing where you ollie over a pit of obsolete guardian angels?”
He pushed himself upright. The sludge boiled away from his presence. He grabbed his board, snapped the tail off, and used the broken piece as a shank to carve a new commandment into the handrail: VI. The Final Trick Father Buffer summoned a giant firewall shaped like a Lazarus animal—half lion, half terms of service agreement. It roared in legalese.
SkatingJesus smiled, revealing teeth filed into miniature church spires. “I don’t pay to skate. I skate to unpay .” SkatingJesus Andaroos Chronicles Chapter 3l
The Static Priests screamed as their god dissolved into a puff of ad-free silence. Andaroos helped SkatingJesus climb out of the ditch. The disciple’s eyes were wide. “That was insane. You almost died.”
His board hummed. Not wheels on concrete—but shrieked with the frequency of a thousand deleted prayers. This was no ordinary deck. It was the , forged from a splinter of the True Cross and recycled aerospace carbon fiber. On its grip tape, a faint ichor glow spelled out: HEEL FLIP FOR SALVATION .
SkatingJesus winked. “We always do, brother. We always do.” SkatingJesus turned
SkatingJesus laughed, spitting up a little light. “You think I do this for belief? I do it because the grind is the only honest prayer. When you slide metal on concrete, the universe makes a sound. And that sound says: I was here. I fell. I got up. ”
The MegaDitch filled with gray sludge—the physical form of doom-scrolling. SkatingJesus lost his edge. His board wobbled. He bailed hard, shoulder-first into the Staircase of Schisms, cracking two ribs and one of the Ten Commandments (the one about graven images, ironically). As he lay in the sludge, the ghosts of forgotten prophets gathered—Ezekiel on rollerblades, Jeremiah with a broken scooter. They whispered: Why do you still skate? No one believes anymore. The last church became a vape lounge.
SkatingJesus didn’t flinch. He rode straight at the beast, popped a massive ollie, and mid-air, converted his board into a hover-crucifix. The wheels became rotating blades of grace. He landed on the beast’s back, rode it like a mechanical bull, and executed the —spinning the board under the beast’s snout, flipping it inside out, and reducing its terms to a single, readable sentence: Faith is just a kickflip you haven’t landed yet
Their leader, , spoke without moving his lips. “SkatingJesus. You trespass on sponsored terrain. The MegaDitch is now property of VoidCorp . All tricks require prior prayer approval and a non-refundable micro-tithe in crypto-remorse.”
Andaroos sighed. “We’re going to need more hot dogs, aren’t we?”
Next time on SkatingJesus Andaroos Chronicles: Chapter 4 – “The Half-Pipe of Hades” – A descent into the underworld’s skate park, where demons compete for sponsorship and the Devil himself runs a barely profitable shoe brand.
I. The Concrete Wasteland of Echo Park The sky above Andaroos bled a sickly orange. Not from sunset—but from the Glitch , a perpetual data-storm that had frozen the city’s atmosphere between 5:47 PM and 5:48 PM for the last three years. SkatingJesus rolled to a stop at the lip of the Echo Park MegaDitch, a decommissioned neural-waterway now used as a proving ground for fallen deities and sponsored punks.
Andaroos watched from above, clutching his holy hot dog (mustard as prophecy). “He’s going to try the Christ Air 360 into the loop, isn’t he?” Halfway through the handrail, SkatingJesus hesitated. For the first time in twelve eternities, doubt infected his bearings. A memory surfaced: his previous incarnation, nailed not to a cross but to a billboard for a soda brand. The betrayal of mass production. The moment they turned his blood into a limited-edition flavor.