Bob: I’m ready to accept you, Lord.
Jesus: Not so fast there Bob. I need you to do something first.
Bob: Name it Lord.
Jesus: I need you to rub out Jimmy Gravante.
Bob (stunned): The hitman?
Jesus: Your successor in the Duluth family, after you got out and became — this (gestures around). You know Jimmy — the sniper who blew you off your motorcycle in 1966 in Woodstock.
Bob: He hit the bike, man, not me. Sniper my ass.
Jesus: I’m going to need you to check your tone.
Bob: I’m sorry Lord. It’s just that he wasn’t even at 200 yards. He’s more like a potshot expert than a sniper. And my divorce is killing me. I just got off a world tour and my adrenal glands feel squeezed dry like little raisins. Think I’m coming down with something (sniffles).