Jesus, Buddha and Socrates Walk Into a Gun Show

This is the fourth installment of this satirical reimagining of three world changers experiencing modern America.

Three world-changers walk into a gun show.

The line snakes out of the Greater Des Moines Armory and Event Center, winding past food trucks, flag vendors, and a man in a tank top selling "1776 Was an Inside Job" bumper stickers.

A banner above the entrance reads:
2nd Amendment Freedom Festival – Sponsored by AmmoXpress and GloryBeans Coffee.

Socrates adjusts his robe and peers ahead. “I still don’t fully understand what a gun show is. A weapons bazaar?”

Buddha inhales deeply, already catching notes of patchouli from the CBD booth near the entrance. “It is… a market of fear and fantasy.”

Jesus sips lemonade from a plastic cup. “Just try not to get us kicked out this time.”

Inside, the convention hall is a sensory assault: rows of folding tables draped in camo, a steady hum of country music and pre-recorded Fox News celebrity endorsements, and cardboard cutouts of Ronald Reagan posing with shotguns. Crowds swarm from booth to booth—buying, bragging, laughing.

Socrates stops at a table near the entrance where an elderly man hands out miniature Pocket Constitutions. He opens one reverently, flipping through it like scripture.

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State…” he reads aloud. “Curious phrasing. They begin with a regulated militia, but cling only to the right to bear arms. Not sure they get the idea of reading older documents within the cultural and linguistic realities of the original author and audience.”

Jesus chuckles. “Well, these are the same people who think that a literal talking snake caused all of the problems on earth.”

Socrates smirks. “Remind me again—whose book is that story in?”

“Shove it,” Jesus quips back.

Buddha smiles. “You two really should start a Substack together.”

They pass booths with names like Bulletproof Patriot, Red Dot Revival, and Liberty Tactical Ministries. One man wears a shirt that says God, Guns, and Bacon. Another booth sells freedom cigars—they’re just regular cigars with red, white, and blue labels and a 30% markup.

In the back corner, the massive NRA pavilion dominates the space. Plasma screens show bald eagles soaring over fireworks. A cheerful man in an NRA-themed golf shirt waves them over.

“Hey there! Have you considered becoming a lifetime member of the NRA today? Free snacks if you watch the welcome video.”

Buddha bows slightly. “I’m allergic to both violence and corn syrup.”

The recruiter eyes Jesus. “You look like you might have a few strong opinions on freedom.”

Jesus smiles, patient and tired. “I came to set the captives free. Didn’t realize they’d all be armed.”

And then they turn a corner—and see it.

The booth is surrounded by shoppers, all grinning and snapping selfies. A giant vinyl banner looms overhead: a jacked, sleeveless Jesus in full combat fatigues cradles an AR-15 under the words: FREEDOM ISN’T FREE.

Next to it: a life-size cardboard cutout of Donald Trump and Jesus high-fiving, draped in an American flag. The banner above them says: Jesus is my Lord, but Trump is my Savior.

Coffee mugs say: Pro-Life. Pro-Gun. Pro-God. Pro-USA.

And the book covers. One features a glistening, blond, blue-eyed Jesus titled:
Pack a Sword: Self-Defense, Jesus, and the Feminizing of the Gospel.
The artwork shows a chiseled Jesus aiming a pistol at a dark-skinned intruder climbing through a window.

Socrates snorts. “Ah yes. The three classic spiritual virtues—automatic weapons, patriotism, and abdominal definition.”

Buddha just stares. “Is this… parody?”

Jesus says nothing as he retreats inward. His brow furrows, and his normally playful eyes dilate with holy anger.

He reaches for the simple rope tied around his robe and begins to loosen it.

Socrates notices first. “Oh. Um. Hey, pal… what are you doing there?”

Jesus doesn’t look up. His hands move with quiet intensity, tying the rope into knots.

“What must be done,” he says.

Buddha glances at Socrates. They exchange a silent look. Uh oh.

“Hey friend,” Buddha says gently, touching his arm. “Let’s maybe get some fresh air, yeah? I think they have funnel cakes outside.”

“Yeah,” Socrates adds, voice light but urgent. “Funnel cakes. You love those. Let’s blow this joint.”

Jesus pulls the rope tight and snaps it—crack—like a whip.

“I’m not done here.”

Socrates flinches. “Okay. Let’s not do this, buddy.”

“There is a time and place for this sort of thing,” Buddha says softly.

“And this is not the time or place,” Socrates adds. “I get it—you’re upset, and you feel like you’ve got magic powers and all, but you’re about to take on a few hundred fully armed lunatics with, you know, a freaking rope.”

Buddha raises a hand. “And we’ve got your back. But technically I’m more of a pacifist. So if things go sideways, I’ll mostly be yelling for help. Maybe not the best day for this.”

Jesus finally looks up. First to Buddha. Their eyes meet. A pause. A breath.

It grounds him. Like waking from a nightmare.

Then he looks to Socrates. A long stare.

Socrates, quieter now: “It’s not worth it, pal.”

Jesus looks down at the whip in his hand. Unknots it slowly. “I know.”

Buddha exhales. “Violence begets violence. Suffering begets suffering.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get us wrong,” Socrates says, glancing around. “This shit is offensive, and just kind of… bonkers.”

“It’s fucking stupid,” Buddha adds.

Jesus and Socrates both side-eye him.

“What?” Buddha shrugs. “I cuss sometimes.”

Jesus smiles. His first real one since they walked in.

Socrates nods toward the ‘art’ full of Aryan Jesuses on all the merch. “Good news: at least nobody here recognizes you.”

Jesus scans the entire room—automatic rifles, ammo, testosterone, slogans.
“True. In more ways than one.”

“Seriously, enough of this. Let’s get out of here,” Socrates says as he heads to the exit.

They step outside into the sun. The heat hits them. The sky is wide and blue.

Jesus scans the food trucks in the parking lot. “I thought you said they had funnel cakes.”

Buddha and Socrates glance at each other.

“Yeah…” Socrates admits. “We kinda lied about that. You know. To keep you from getting murdered. Yet again.”

Jesus frowns. “But I love funnel cakes.”

“I know,” Socrates says. “Everyone loves funnel cakes. It’s fried dough and sugar. Sorry.”

Buddha chuckles. “Yes. Everyone loves empty calories and simple sugars—in their diets and their philosophies.”

Jesus sighs. “Solid metaphor. But I really wanted a funnel cake.”

“Well,” Socrates says, “there’s no funnel cakes. But I did get you something.”

He reaches into a plastic bag with an American flag on it and pulls out three Freedom Cigars. He hands them around like a eucharistic sacrament.

Biting the end off his own, he spits it onto the pavement, slides it between his teeth, and pulls out a brand new Zippo lighter with a bald eagle on it.

Jesus raises an eyebrow. “No cigar cutter? I’m not a Neanderthal.”

Without a word, Buddha pulls a cutter from his sash, slices the end off his own cigar with monk-like precision, and hands it to Jesus.

“Always prepared for celebratory stogies,” he says, proud.

Socrates lights them each in turn. The three of them stand in the middle of a parking lot full of pickup trucks, MAGA bumper stickers, and American flags, letting the smoke curl skyward.

Jesus lifts his cigar like a toast. “To freedom,” he says. “The kind you can’t find in the barrel of a gun.”

Buddha nods. “Yes. To freedom—the kind that comes to those who’ve died to themselves and live again.”

Socrates takes a long, satisfied drag, then exhales a perfect smoke ring. “To freedom,” he says. “And to friendship.”

As a holy incense of cheap tobacco rose from the parking lot of a Christian nationalist sideshow, the Messiah, the monk, and the philosopher stood in silence—ignored by the very people who needed them most.