Scene: A title sequence Disco influenced music plays over fast moving shots of bearded, glowing figure helping the public solve crimes; woman being re-united with lost puppy, man shaking God's hand for retrieving his stolen antiques etc. Final scene the main character punching the air, as the caption "GOD - Private Dick" appears".

Caption mixes to Scene: A dingy office. Beige and brown colours dominate the room, and the floor is littered with long-forgotten paperwork, and blueprints for planet designs.

Mabel: Damnit God! You've got to stop dwelling on this. Jesus is dead, gone; it's time you moved on. He died for our sins, and I think you should be pretty darned proud.

God: Mabel, we've been through this before. He was murdered, and I intend to find out who killed him, and I'm going to do so in the traditional detective fashion.

Mabel: Which is?

God: With a tweed jacket, a magnifying glass, and a hey-nonny-no.

Mabel: So essentially you want to have an adventure and find out why he was killed? The real reason? Not the biblical reason?

God: Yup.

Mabel: Isn't that terribly blasphemous?

God: Ahuh.

Mabel: Oh mercy me.

Scene Fades; Music Sting. Exterior view of the run-down office. Mixes back to previous scene. Things have changed. God is glowing with slightly less luminance, and is surrounded by discarded coffee cups and cigarette ends.

God: Something's not right. Something just doesn't ring true...it's almost as if someone turned over two pages at once.

Mabel: Hmm?

God: My son dies...and is arisen again. And then dies again. If he could come back to life once, why could he not do it again?

Mabel: But surely you don't mean...?

God: Yes...the man who emerged from the cage was an impostor. A cleverly disguised madman who wanted to twist religion to his own ends, but failed.

Mabel: But who?

God: I don't know. But I'm going to find out.

Mabel: [looking worried] How?

God: I'm looking under Impostors in Yellow Pages. There's only one person listed though.

Scene Fades; Music Sting. Exterior view of a brightly lit party shop. God opens the door, and enters. A greasy looking man looks up from the pornographic magazine he's reading at the counter.

God: Hello, Judas.

Judas: Cor...I'll be...How 'ya doing God, me old mucka?

God: YOU KILLED MY SON.

Judas: Er...no.

God: You sure?

Judas: Yeah, quite sure. I impersonated him for a while though. Used one of these disguise kits we had in a while back. Dead funny. The masks are made of rubber, y'see; mould to the skin. Of course, we don't do Jesus no more, on account of 'im being dead. Got some good 'uns of Tony Blair though. They're really popular with the kids. Nyaahahahaha.

God: But if you didn't kill him, who did?

Judas: The Romans?

God: DON'T TOY WITH ME.

God raises his right arm, whispers something, a light flashes and smoke fills the room. As it disperses, it is revealed that Judas's head is now firmly attached to his crotch.

God: You bring new meaning to the term, "dickhead". Now tell me what I want to know, or you stay like that.

Judas: Well, I dunno. Quite like havin' me 'ead so close to be knob. Opens possibilities, hey, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, saynermore!

God: Tell me, or me damned forever.

Judas: Wotcha gonna do? Plague of locusts? Famine? Drought? Storms? Come on mate, this is the modern age. We've got resources to combat all that crazy crap. Wotcha gonna do? I ain't scared of you, yer bloody deity.

God: It was so much easier in the past, you're correct. Famine here, a plague there. Simple times. There's nothing so horrible these days, apart from, well, it's quite final. Quite horrific. And if you don't tell me who killed my son, I'll do it, so help me Me.

Judas: You don't mean...

God: Yes. I'll contact ITV and get you to take over from John Leslie on Wheel Of Fortune.

Judas looks worried for the first time ever.

Judas: OK mate...I was just joshing with 'yer....nothing personal. It's a party shop, innit? Parties and jokes. It's my game. Judas's Japes. All good fun.

God: Get on with it, mortal.

Judas: You din't 'ear this from me, right? There's this geezer who works down the docks. He orchestrated the 'ole thing. His name's a bit weird though; "Satan" or summat. You might've 'eard of 'im.

God: I should've guessed.

Judas: Yeah. For the Almighty Creator, 'yer not very quick, are 'ya?

God raises his arm once more, whispers something, a light flashes and smoke fills the room. As it disperses, it is revealed that Judas's head is now firmly attached to his anus, and God has given him a good dose of diarrhoea. God leaves, to the sound of wet farts and groans from his son's erstwhile disciple.

Scene Fades; Fast shots of The Godmobile, a white Ford Capri circa 1977 speeding through the streets of downtown Bethlehem towards the docks, showing little or no respect from geographical accuracy.

As the car screeches to a halt, we see that Satan is not just an ordinary docker; he owns a major genetic research laboratory that just happens to be located near the docks. God jumps out of his car, and runs straight through the automatic doors of Satan Genetics Inc.

God: ARGH, THE PAIN.

The receptionist, a blonde, squeaky voiced, condescending girl looks up from her desk.

Receptionist: Excuse me sir, the doors do open, and the blood of immortal's is a real bastard to remove. Please bear that in mind in the future.

God: BUT...THE PAIN.

Receptionist: I'm sorry sir, but we at Satan Genetics Inc (A division of Satan Nastiness Corp.) cannot be held responsible for you being too impatient to wait for the doors to open.

God: Ah. Sorry.

Receptionist: Please bear that in mind in the future. Do you have an appointment?

God: I don't, no.

Receptionist: Well, you can't see anyone without an appointment. Who were you wanting to meet?

God: Well, Satan.

Receptionist: Yes...I see. Well, he can fit you in on Tuesday, about 3:30? Bring your soul with you, as he'll need to examine it.

God: I don't need no medamned appointment.

He raises his arm, whispers something else, a light flashes, the room fills with smoke, and the receptionist is instantly turned into a concept painting of a picture of the feeling of hopeless inadequacy.

Pausing only to open the conveniently unguarded security doors, he darts into Satan's office cum laboratory.

The embodiment of evil looks up from his work. He speaks with a quaint English accent.

Satan: Ah, God, I was expecting you.

God: YOU KILLED MY SON.

Satan: No, that was the Romans.

God: DON'T TOY WITH ME.

Satan: Oh, alright then. Might as well admit it. It's too late to stop me now anyway. He was asking for it.

God: You're talking about my son here. My representative on earth. Apart from me, obviously. He was good, he didn't deserve to die. Look at all the good works he did; feeding the starving, healing the lame...

Satan: You don't see, do you? He had to be disposed of.

He starts picking at his face, peeling his demonic features away piece by piece, revealing a second face underneath.

God: OH MY ME!

Satan: MUHAHAHAHAHAHA! You really never suspected it, did you?

God: Clive Sinclair!

Satan's features are now that of famous professor, scientist and TV presenter, Clive Sinclair.

Clive: Jesus was a pain. With him around healing and saving everyone, he was in danger of destroying the entire scientific industry. I had to get rid of him; he stood in the way of my fortune. With careful planning, I arranged with the Roman's to have him crucified, and the scientific industry was saved. Look what we came up with without him; toilets, electric cars, computers, calculators, Zikes and soon FLYING CARS! And I got away with it! Soon, I will escape to my secret underground lair, where my research will continue! MUHAHAHAHA.

God: You're forgetting one thing, Clive.

Clive: What?

God: As Creator, all I have to do is this...

He raises his arm, whispers something, lights flash, smoke forms, and as it disperses a team of Scotland Yard detectives appear in the middle of the room.

God: ...and I win.

Detectives: Oy, Clive; You're nicked, matey.

Clive: Gagh. And I would've gotten away with it too, if I'd chosen to be an American.

Detectives: That's it. We'll 'ave no commentary on Hollywood cinema in these parts. I'm arrestin' you for the murder of Our Lord Jesus, and for taking a cynical sideswipe at the American Cinema Industry.

Clive: D'oh!

As the closing music fades in, we see God and the detectives laughing heartily. Mabel inexplicably enters with Mr. Kipling's Fondant Fancies and tea.

Scene fades; rear view of a police van, with Clive Sinclair sobbing uncontrollably, as he's carted off to jail.

THE END....or is it?

(Yes, yes it is.)