The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 47)

CHAPTER 47:

IT IS NO SIN

Bernard Piffy stood there trembling in his crop top Bratz bra and nylon-lycra rosebud panties. What else could one expect from a ten-year-old boy in girl’s underwear? St. Anthony had stolen puppy dog from under his nose! His charade had been a dismal failure—if anybody had been fooled or deceived or tricked it had been Bernard Piffy!

The Holy Man had slipped into the room while the kid played his silly little game with his preteen accomplices. They had been expecting the Madrassas inspection team. Now his guardian angel dog was gone and Piffy was as defenseless as Peewee Herman would have been at a Hells Angels convention.

He could have chased after St. Anthony and the thought did occur to him but the chances of arresting the saintly dognapper in mid flight ranged from zero to none. The Holy Man was more than a mere mortal. He could appear and disappear whenever he wanted; he was no stranger to the Elysian Fields where the Gods changed wine into water and ugly ducklings into princes.

But the ten-year-old had to go through the motions to impress his preteen cohorts so he opened the door and peeked cautiously into the corridor to make sure St. Anthony wasn’t lurking somewhere in the neighborhood.

There was no sign of the Holy Man but what Piffy saw would have been enough to scare the pants off Gouverneur Warren on Little Round Top south of Gettysburg on July 2, 1863. No, it wasn’t James Longstreet with Bobby Lee’s First Corps but it might as well have been. Sweat popped out on his brow and his knees began to tremble.

A man was coming down the corridor—a wizened little runt in a dark brown djellaba with a white turban perched on his head. Piffy recognized him instantly from the pictures the girls had shown him of Hanadi’s boyfriend! It was Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble! Piffy would have preferred Bobby Lee!

And the Sheikh wasn’t alone. He had a crowd with him—an escort—maybe not the size of Longstreet’s First Corps but big enough to strike fear into the heart of the average ten-year-old boy masquerading as a girl in a suicide bombers Madrassas.

There were a dozen of them—six Mujahideen armed with AK-47s, a couple of clerks toting notepads, a man with an armload of towels and a fellow even smaller than the Sheikh, trotting alongside his boss nodding his head vigorously at everything that was said and at some things that weren’t.

They were headed straight for Aisha’s bedroom! Good Grief! They were looking for Hanadi! What else? Someone must have informed on them! There would be hell to pay!

He ducked back into Aisha’s room as quickly and as surreptitiously as he could. “They’re coming!” he whispered. And with that he flopped across the bed.

But the spark had gone out of Lemon, Curtis and Monroe. St. Anthony’s visitation had destroyed what little confidence they had had in their Saturday Night Live skit—if they had had any to begin with. The charade would never have worked and by now they knew it. It was dumb and they hadn’t had a chance to rehearse. They were not Jack and Tony and Marilyn. They were two silly little girls and a middle-aged private detective scrunched into the body of a ten-year-old boy in a crop top Bratz bra.

It wasn’t Some Like It Hot; it was Romper Room School with Bozo the Clown.

But the ten-year-old in the Bratz bra had run out of options. If he were discovered he would be up the creek! A boy in a girl’s Madrassas would violate a dozen surahs and hundreds of hadiths. Worse, if they should discover he was an American it could cause an International Incident! Ibrahim Hooper would be outraged; Bill Maher would have to apologize to Keith Ellison; Hillary Clinton would have to resign; Barack Obama would blame the Tea Party. Letterman and Stewart would compare the ten-year-old to Sarah Palin. They would make him wish he were dead.

He had no other choice but to continued with the charade. So he bounced up and down on the bed and he laughed and he giggled until he thought he would pop out of his Bratz bra. But no one joined in the fun—not Fatima, not Aisha, and certainly not Hanadi.

And then al-Kabibble was inside Aisha’s room with his beefy Mujahideen—those that would fit. He was as little as he had looked from a distance—not any taller than the ten-year-old Piffy. He had a pointy Van Dyke beard and a pair of eyes so rapacious in their intensity they must have been set in the middle of his face by the Marquis de Sade. He looked the girls up and down, his eyes lingering on Piffy. “I don’t suppose any of you little beauties answers to the name of Hanadi?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Piffy said quickly.

Al-Kabibble raised an eyebrow. “Sir?” he said. “What kind of language is that?”

Piffy swallowed nervously. “I meant your Excellency,” he said.

“That’s better,” smiled the Sheikh.

Piffy’s face had turned red. He was blushing from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He didn’t like the way the Sheikh’s eyes had lingered on his crop top.

One of the Mujahideen bent forward to whisper in al-Kabibble’s ear.

The Sheikh scowled. “Impossible!” he said.

The Mujahideen pointed at the floor where a naked leg was sticking out from under Aisha’s bed!

“Oh, oh!” said Fatima.

Piffy couldn’t see what was going on but he could guess. He reached for Aisha’s hand.

The Sheikh motioned for the Mujahideen to leave the room. When they had vacated the chamber he stooped and peered under the bed. “Well, well,” he said. “Such a lovely little beauty to be stuffed under a bed—and naked too!”

“I got to go to the bathroom!” said Fatima.

Al-Kabibble straightened up. “Come, come,” he motioned, “somebody give me a hand. I can’t drag this lovely creature out from under there by myself.”

Piffy let go of Aisha’s hand and helped the Sheikh drag Hanadi from beneath the bed.

“And gagged too,” marveled al-Kabibble. “Will wonders never cease ” He pinched Hanadi on the derriere. “And the flesh bounces right back! That’s what makes a nine-year-old girl superior to a grown woman.” He eyed Piffy again.

The ten-year-old in the crop top Bratz bra and the nylon-lycra rosebud panties didn’t know whether to cross his hands over his chest or to cover his modest and hopefully invisible immensity.

Al-Kabbible smiled. The Marquis de Sade eyes were a-sparkle. “You girls play some pretty rough games,” he said, “but, this is, after all, a suicide bombers Madrassas and I suppose I should have expected something like this.” Then he winked. “Would any of you care to be bridesmaids?”

No one answered. Aisha grabbed Piffy’s hand.

The silence did not please the Sheikh. He turned his attention to Hanadi, his eyes roving slowly and salaciously over every inch of her naked body.

Hanadi glared at the Sheikh. It was her anger versus the old man’s lust.

Al-Kabibble shook his head and sighed. “She’s more developed than I thought she would be.” He sounded disappointed. “But I should have expected as much. I had only one picture to go by.”

No one said anything.

The Sheikh got down on the floor beside Hanadi. He caressed a nubile hip then glanced over his shoulder. “Will someone please remove the gag from her mouth?” he asked.

”Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” warned Piffy. “She’s fine just the way she is.”

“Really?” said the Sheikh. There was an edge to his voice.

“Yeah,” said Piffy. “She has a terrible temper…and she tells lies…all kinds of lies.” And once the gag was removed from her mouth she would tell the Sheikh the ten-year-old in the crop top Bratz bra and the nylon-lycra rosebud panties was a boy and that was what Piffy wanted to avoid at all costs and for as long as possible.

Al-Kabibble stood up. He had had enough from this bratty little girl. He stared at the ten-year-old in the crop top. His lips peeled back from his teeth and his face turned ugly. “Remove the gag from her mouth, you insolent little bitch!” he snarled.

Piffy stared the Sheikh in the eye. He could take the lecherous old rat-bag two out of three falls without trying—in fact he could break the creep’s neck if he wanted to but it would only bring the Mujahideen on the run and he wasn’t prepared for that—not yet anyway.

“You’re too feisty for your own good,” said the Sheikh. He looked the ten-year-old up and down, his eyes lingering here and there. “It will be great fun reducing you to a proper subservience.”

Proper subservience? Piffy did not like the sound of that and the lascivious look in the Sheikh’s eyes were sending shivers up and down his spine. Maybe he ought to get this over with right now. He clenched his fists and started toward the disgusting old creep. He could hog-tie the little weasel and stuff him under the bed just as easily as he had Hanadi.

But the Sheikh was not one to be threatened. He scowled and opened his robe. And there strapped to his waist in a hand-tooled leather holster was a Colt Single Action pearl-handled .45 caliber 1873 Army Revolver!

Incongruous? Perhaps. But not to those who knew the Sheikh. As a young boy al-Kabibble had seen George S. Patton in action in Tunisia. He had never forgotten Old Blood and Guts or the gun strapped to his waist. For the past forty years al-Kabibble hadn’t strayed far from his office, his harem, or his mosque without General Patton strapped to his waist. He had enemies and he didn’t take chances.

Piffy swallowed. The old geezer wouldn’t shoot him, he was sure of that, but he had to get his temper under control. He shrugged. “Well, I guess you’re right,” he said. “It must be hard breathing with a gag in her mouth. I wonder how it got there.”

“Untie her too while you’re at it,” said the Sheikh. “I’m sure you have the time.”

Piffy adjusted his Bratz bra. He looked at Aisha. He was in no hurry.

“Quick! Quick!” snapped the Sheikh.

Piffy made a face. Untying Hanadi was not a good idea. It was sure to bring on a fight but orders were orders. He knelt down alongside the naked girl.

He had scarcely started on the half hitch when Hanadi broke loose. She was a strong girl—stronger than Piffy and the moment she was free of restraint she grabbed the ten-year-old imposter by the arm and flung him to the floor!

Before Piffy could recover she was on top of him and had pinned him to the floor! If she had grabbed at what was supposed to have been his hair the masquerade would have been over and he would have been exposed but she was not interested in his hair. She had other plans. She thrust her face into his and spittle sprayed across his nose and chin. She said something he didn’t understand and then she slapped him across the face! And then again and again!

It was embarrassing; it was humiliating; it was emasculating!

And then Fatima—adorable little Fatima; fraidy cat Fatima—leapt into the fray. She grabbed Hanadi by the hair and the three of them rolled over and over on the floor!

Al-Kabibble was beside himself with excitement: he jumped up and down and clapped his hands! “My! My!” he exclaimed. “Such exuberance! If this is what they learn at this Madrassas than Islam shall rule the world!”

The noise drew the attention of the Mujahideen stationed in the corridor. One of them stuck his head into the room.

The Sheikh was soon aware of the man’s presence. The fight would have to stop. “Restrain the naked one,” he ordered.

The Mujahideen was a big rascal and he quickly waded into the middle of the struggling trio. He took a blow to the midsection and a fingernail left an angry red scratch across his chin but he persevered and at length he was able to drag Hanadi away from the others.

Fatima got in a last angry kick at Hanadi’s derriere and then sat down on the floor right where she was.

The Sheikh studied his intended bride. “I think we had better return her to her previous state,” he said.

It was easier said than done but with the Mujahideen providing the heavy lifting, Piffy managed to tie Hanadi’s wrists together and then stuff a stocking in her mouth. It was not the best way to rope and hogtie a calf and he was sweating profusely by the time he had finished. Aisha came up beside him to adjust his Bratz bra and straighten his wig. He mumbled a thank-you. He was really beginning to appreciate his little friend.

With order restored the Mujahideen returned to his station in the corridor.

Al-Kabibble smiled grimly and ordered the girls to line up in a row in front of Aisha’s bed for what he said would be an inspection.

And that’s what it was—an inspection.

He paced back and forth in front of the ‘four’ girls. He looked them over; he fingered his chin; he pursed his lips. He gazed into space, a dreaming look in his eyes. Then he paced back and forth again. He paused before each one of them for a prolonged inspection.

He had come to the Madrassas for a wife and he would have one and not necessarily the one he had come for. He scowled at Hanadi, shook his head in dismay at Fatima, nodded approvingly at Aisha, pinched Piffy on the bottom.

The ten-year-old in the crop top Bratz bra shuddered. He would rather have his butt pinched by George Costanza than by this creepy old rat-bag, by Barney Miller’s old pal Fish, by almost anybody else, by Roseanne Barr or Janeane Garofalo! If this was what little girls had to go through every day in Islam he wanted no part of it.

The Sheikh stood motionless for some time. He had a decision to make and there was no putting it off. He no longer wanted Hanadi. She was older than he had thought and she had a terrible temper. But it wouldn’t be easy to get rid of her. There would be repercussions. He would have to find something in the Qur’an, something akin to the situation he was in, something that could explain the changes he had in mind.

He had been so smitten with the ten-year-old in the crop top Bratz bra he would never find peace without her. He searched through the store of Islamic knowledge he had accumulated over the years, knowledge that had systematically driven logic and doing what was right from his mind.

And then it came to him:

“You may put off whom you please, and you may take to you whomever you desire. You may defer any of them you please, and you may have whomever you desire; there is no blame on you if you invite one who you had set aside. It is no sin.”

Take to you whomever you desire…it is no sin!

Bernard Piffy had gained an unwanted and dangerous lover!