The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 41)

CHAPTER 41:

UCHIKO POWDER

Wheatley W. Wheatley felt proud of herself, another mission had been successfully completed and the kid—an adult in the body of a ten-year-old boy—was on his way to the Osama bin Laden Madrassas for Girls to rescue the femme fatale of his dreams. Once there he would be on his own. They would gobble him up and spit him out but it would be his own fault for embarking on a fool’s errand. She had never heard of a ten-year-old trying something so ridiculous. But now that her part in launching the ridiculous escapade was over she was anxious to get back to her apartment so she could shed that damn burka she was wearing and feel human again.

One of these days she was going to grab a fat Imam by the throat, dress him in one of these disgusting shelter halves and chase him up and down the street with her one hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip nipping at his heels and then when he was all tuckered out she would make him flip the back of the damn thing over his butt like a cancan girl in a Dodge City saloon so she could carve her initials in his sweet patootie. Yeah—that’s what she would do…and then Abu Afaq would fire her and she could go back to singing torch songs to drunken sailors in the Maldives where cousin Algernon had found her and rescued her from her thirty-year infatuation with John Barleycorn by ducking her head 365 times—by his own count—in the Devil’s spittoon. Yeah.

She had just started down the street when she heard a soft growling sound. It was puppy dog! What was the mutt doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be with the kid? She would have thought so. But there he was, still in his cage and right in the middle of the street. Well, how about that! The kid had forgotten his pooch! If that didn’t beat all!

Maybe she ought to turn the poor thing loose—let it run up and down the street so it could bestow its blessings on Allah’s dwellings. Wouldn’t that be a hoot! But it wouldn’t be right, the mutt belonged to the kid—it was his pooch, his guardian angel dog.

Then it occurred to Wheatley that Duldul had led the donkey down the street and had turned a corner! That didn’t make sense—the Madrassas was straight up the road—there weren’t any corners to be turned! What the hell was going on here?

She picked up dog in the cage and hurried down the street and around the corner. But if Duldul had gone that way he had disappeared in one heck of a hurry!

By this time puppy dog’s soft growl had turned into an angry menacing snarl. Wheatley scratched her head. If she had screwed up Abu Afaq would be furious. The last agent to lose a client had been sent to Helios to harvest cucumbers for Persephone.

Somebody would pay for this snafu and it wouldn’t be Wheatley W. Wheatley—it would be that damned rascal Duldul!

The Mutaween had removed the 50-gallon jars from the donkey’s back.

“Is he still alive?” asked the headman.

“Of course he is,” said Duldul. “He is worth nothing to me dead.”

“Let us see,” said the headman.

The Mutaween removed the lid from the jar containing Bernard Piffy.

“Well,” said the headman, “get him out of there! Do you have to be told everything?”

The container was flipped on its side and turned upside down and the body of the unconscious ten-year-old was sent sprawling across the stable floor.

One of the Protectors of Virtue and Preventors of Vice nudged the ten-year-old with his foot. He looked at Duldul. “Are you going to stay for the fun?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Duldul. “It isn’t every day one gets to see a Saudi Prince behead a Kuffar.”

“Now what the hell am I going to do?” muttered Wheatley.

She set the dog in the cage on the ground. She could let the mutt go and see what might happen but it was too early for that. It would be the last resort when everything else had failed. She hitched up her burka—damn stinking burlap bags, why couldn’t Muslim women just wear chastity belts and be done with it?

She surveyed the street. It was too late to go knocking on doors—everybody would be asleep. And even if they weren’t what the hell would she say? “Have you seen a kid in an empty jar of cooking oil?” Oh, yes. Or: “I’ve found a lost dog. Do you mind if I search your house for its owner?”

She reached under her burka to fondle the handle of her one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip. It was a comfortable feeling but it didn’t produce the kid.

The man in the long brown robe approached Wheatley so silently he could have reached out and touched her before she noticed him. He had a little potbelly, a smooth round face and a timid smile. An aspergillum dangled from a cord attached to his belt. A monk’s tonsure adorned the top of his head.

“If you’re looking for Boy’s Town, Father Flanagan,” said Wheatley, “you’re in the wrong part of Deadwood. This is the Islamic Twilight Zone.”

“I’ve come for the dog,” the stranger said matter-of-factly.

“The dog?” scowled Wheatley. “Who are you? Some kind of a nut?”

“It wasn’t mine to give away,” said the stranger. “Gabriel gave me—if you will pardon the expression—Holy Hell for giving him to Mr. Piffy. Now I must find the animal and return it to its proper owner, the Patron Saint of Dogs, and that is St. Roch—and you have the dog.”

None of this made any sense to Wheatley. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

“I’m St. Anthony—the Patron Saint of Lost Items.”

“The Patron Saint of Lost Items?” scowled Wheatley. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you. Shouldn’t you be keeping track of where Britney Spears leaves her underpants?”

St. Anthony blushed. “Oh, good gosh, no,” he said. “We don’t even have a Lost and Found Department for things like that! I just want the dog.”

“Well, you can’t have the mutt,” said Wheatley. “He belongs to Bernard Piffy—as swell a little guy as God ever created.”

“And where is Bernard Piffy?” asked St. Anthony.

Yes, where was Bernard Piffy?

A half-dozen Mutaween had gathered around the unconscious ten-year-old.

“It makes me puke just to look at one of these infidel bastards,” muttered one of the Protectors of Virtue and Preventors of Vice.

“Where’s Prince Chauncey?” someone asked.

“He should be here any minute,” said Duldul.

“He’s always late,” someone grumbled.

“Did anyone remember to bring the sword?” asked the headman. He was getting edgy. They were already behind schedule.

One of the Mutaween produced a long slender case made of the best Moroccan leather. “I have it right here,” he said.

“Has it been sharpened?” asked the headman.

“Oh, yes,” smiled the Mutaween. “I took it to the Swedish Embassy and they did an excellent job. They used uchiko powder. I cut my finger three times just getting it in the case. Even a man as puny as the Prince should be able to slice a dhimmi’s head from his body with one whack of this thing.”

“I wish to Allah he would get here,” muttered the headman.

St. Anthony reached for puppy dog but Wheatley was too quick for him. She snatched up the cage and swung it behind her back. Puppy dog snarled.

“Give me the animal,” said St. Anthony. “It’s a Christian guard dog. It doesn’t belong to you.”

Wheatley backed away. “Now I remember you,” she said. “Algernon told me about you. You wrecked his car! You’re a crazy man! You’re always meddling in things that are none of your business.”

“Patience is a virtue,” St. Anthony said piously, “and I have my share but you are making me mad. Give me the dog or I will be forced to take extreme measures.”

“You? Extreme measure?” snorted Wheatley. “Go home, little man, before I teach you some manners.”

“Give me the dog!” demanded St. Anthony.

“Over my dead body!” said Wheatley.

“I had hoped to avoid this,” said St. Anthony. He reached for the aspergillum that dangled from the cord at his waist.

Wheatley laughed. ”You’re going to sprinkle me with Holy Water?” she said.

“Yes,” said St. Anthony. “Whatever it takes.”

Wheatley set puppy dog down and pulled the one-hundred-percent Mujahideen-pizzle whip from beneath her burka.

“He’s here! Prince Chauncey is here!” announced one of the Mutaween.

Surrounded by a cohort of advisers, the pimply-faced, buck-toothed Prince pushed his way into the crowded stable. One would not have known he was the grand nephew—the sixth cousin, twice removed—of the mightiest oil potentate in the world, King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia. He was dressed as a simple everyday mujahideen—a cloth turban, a soft shirt and pantaloons so voluminous they would have fit a sumo wrestler.

He was petrified—scared half to death. This was not the way he did things. He was a mild-mannered man about town—he was bookish, a dilettante; he dabbled in the arts, he finger-painted, he had Woody Allen’s autograph. He raised gerbils .He would rather be anywhere else than here. “Is everything ready?” he croaked.

“Yes, Prince Chauncey,” said the headman.

“Has the—has the sword been sharpened,” asked the Prince. “I—I don’t want to be detained any longer than necessary.”

“Yes,” said the headman.

The Prince smiled nervously. How had he gotten into this mess? His knees were threatening to buckle. He glanced around the stable. He prayed to Allah to give him the strength to go through with this.

“Everything is in readiness,” said the headman

Prince Chauncey giggled. “Well—then let’s get on with the hacking,” he said” He took one step and stumbled. He would have fallen on his face had not one of his advisers caught him by the elbow and steadied him.

Slowly, carefully, they circled round and round, each of the combatants looking for an opening while the dog, the object of their contention, gnawed industriously at the bars of its cage.

Wheatley shook out her whip and snapped it at the ground. “Go ahead, you first, “ she said.

St. Anthony drew his aspergillum back against his shoulder. It was full of fresh Holy Water, enough to send Bill Maher to Hell or a half dozen Liberal Democrats to Purgatory. “No,” he said. “You go first—I cannot strike a first blow. Besides—you’re a woman; at least I think you are.”

“And what are you?” said Wheatley. “Some kind of a wuss?”

“A wuss?” said St. Anthony.

“Yeah, a wuss!’ said Wheatley.

St. Anthony did not know what a wuss was. “Well, if I’m a wuss,” he said, “ then you’re a double wuss!” That would hold her!

Wheatley had had enough. This guy was every bit as annoying as Algernon had said he was. She would teach him a lesson. She would give him a good scare. She lunged forward as if to strike him with the stock of her whip but in her haste she tripped over puppy dog’s cage. She stumbled and took a nasty spill!

“Oh, dear!” said St. Anthony. He stowed his aspergillum and leapt forward to help her to her feet.

The cage had been knocked on it side and puppy dog had gone to howling. And how the little critter did howl! It was inconceivable that such a tiny animal could make so much noise! All the firebombs that had rained down on Dresden in February of 1945 plus a hundred Kamikaze’s rattling to their doom off Okinawa could not have made a greater racket!

Prince Chauncey stared at the unconscious ten-year-old boy. “That’s not Bernard Piffy,” he said. “Bernard Piffy is an old man—an old, old man.”

“Bernard Piffy is a jinn,” said the headman. “This is one of his many manifestations.”

The Prince swallowed nervously. “Are you sure?” he said. He was desperately looking for a way out of his predicament. He had never wanted to chop off anyone’s head. He had said some foolish things, but if he could talk the headman into doing the chopping for him…but he must not sound too eager…

“We have went through a lot of trouble bringing him here,” said the headman. “You can believe me when I say he is Bernard Piffy.” He took the sword from its elaborate carrying case and pressed it into the Prince’s trembling hands.

“I don’t feel so good,” said Chauncey. Something had crawled into his throat. It would be very embarrassing if he should vomit.

The headman glanced at the Mutaween. “Did anybody remember to bring the chopping block?” he asked.

Someone had. One of the Protectors of Virtue and Preventors of Vice stepped forward with the chopping block. It was the Henry VIII Model and had seen good service.

The ten-year-old was dragged to the block. The officially designated executioner’s assistant stepped forward to place the unconscious child’s head in the proper position. Someone produced a basket to collect the head and the Mutaween gathered round.

The headman studied Chauncey. He hoped it would be a clean cut. The last thing he wanted was a mess on his hands “Need any help?” he asked.

“No,” gulped Chauncey. “I’ll be alright. I’ll do my duty—I’ll be a good Muslim.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” said the headman. “We’re an hour behind schedule already”

“Allahu akbar!” someone said

Yes, “Allahu akbar!”