My Kind of Town
The prophet speaketh
>> Elsewhere
Achmed al-Hazir departed this life when the bomb he wore around his waist detonated in the intersection of Kuhio and Seaside, and shortly after arrived in ... well, he wasn't quite sure, but it was kind of misty. He was sorry to find the doggie bag of spaghetti from Matteo's had not made it through with him. But that was of small consequence, for Achmed died a martyr, making one last statement for Allah and the eternally wronged Muslims of Mindanao. He was here to pick up his 70 grape-bearing virgins.
And then through the mist a murmuring of many women arose. They were coming nearer. Oh day of rapture! The mist parted, and there was God the prophet, leading two parallel lines of women dressed in white. Most of them were kind of old for virgins, and he didn't see any grapes, but hey, a virgin is a virgin! His heart racing with joy and anticipation, Achmed leaped forward to claim his booty.
"Not so fast, Camel Butt," the prophet said.
"What? But ... but my virgins ..."
"For killing innocent people in the name of God, you expect such a prize? No no no, Donkey Dung. Those who teach such things are not men of God. And any man foolish or evil enough to follow them will receive something rather different."
Achmed was too stunned to speak. "How many dead in Waikiki?" the prophet called into the mist.
"Eight," God's own scorekeeper replied. "No, make it nine."
"Nine innocents in my name. The definition of utter blasphemy."
He bade the first pair of women to step forward.
"Before you," the prophet intoned, "stands an eternal line of women. Not a virgin in the bunch, but each was a good woman -- who got dumped by her husband for a younger woman. I'm telling you, each one of them has issues about men like you wouldn't believe."
Achmed shuddered.
"I love this part about being who I am. This, you see, Sheep Snot, is where their reward meets yours. While Johanna here reads from a list of menial household chores, which you must perform exactly as she instructs, Claire will tell you all about her day in great detail. You may only nod and say 'yes, of course, dear,' or variations on that theme. You may not, by the way, touch them, although they are permitted to give you an occasional whack across the back of the head if they think you're not paying attention. When at last you have performed all of Johanna's tasks and Claire has exhausted herself of her minutiae, they will exchange roles. And when they are done, the next pair will step forward. And so forth. Welcome to your eternity."
The prophet hath spoketh.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com