The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 72)

CHAPTER 72:

HOW TIME FLIES—

“Oh, dear!” said St. Anthony. The plan to rescue little Bernie Piffy was falling apart because of Wheatley’s big mouth! He should have known better—he should have gone it alone. He could have gotten a pass from al-Kabibble and talked his way into the Laboratory. But no—they should dress up like Mujahideen said Wheatley and take the Sheikh with them. If they ran into trouble they could use him as a hostage.

But al-Kabibble was not fully recovered from the operation on his immensity and by the time they reached the entrance to the laboratory building he could not take another step.

And then Colonel al-Thi’b had showed up and in the brief discussion that had followed he let the Sheikh know who was running the operation—and it wasn’t the Sheikh. He had placed the Laboratory building Off Limits he said and that meant everybody including his Impotence. Wheatley disagreed and words were exchanged. She uncoiled her whip and Al-Thi’b had reached for his gun! It was High Noon!

Something had to be done to get the rescue mission back on track and it had to be done quickly. But what could St. Anthony do? Sprinkle them with Holy Water and hope one of them would turn into a toad? It could very well be Wheatley. She was the most irritating person he had ever met. He would never forget the squabble they had had over puppy dog in front of Duldul’s stable. And just hours ago she had tossed his aspergillum into a pile of donkey manure! Donkey manure! The handle still stunk even though he had washed it a dozen times!

Maybe if he let al-Thi’b rough her up a bit she would learn a lesson. Then he could step in and chastise the brute. And someone had to keep an eye on the Sheikh so he wouldn’t wander off or grab a gun and do something foolish! And there was the Mujahideen officer standing nearby, red-faced and nervously fingering his weapon, ready to shoot somebody because he had been chewed out by al-Thi’b. He was glaring at St. Anthony right now, daring the Saint to try something.

The Holy Man fingered his aspergillum. He was getting low on Holy Water. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. Nobody had told him this guardian angel business could be so stressful. Of course, he hadn’t bothered to ask.

And so far Wheatley was doing better than he had expected. Al-Thi’b might have been three times her size but it didn’t seem to matter. She came out of her corner like Sandy Saddler on his way to the Featherweight Championship—like Jack Dempsey having a go at Jess Willard. Al-Thi’b seemed confused. Maybe he had scruples about shooting women, about breaking them in two with his bare hands. Maybe roadside bombs and back alley stabbings were his style. Maybe he wanted so see what she would do—give her a sporting chance. So he stood there. He blinked a couple of times and that was about it and Wheatley took advantage of every second he gave her. The Mujahideen-pizzle whip tore at al-Thi’b’s face and blood spurted from a half-dozen cuts.

Then, suddenly, al-Thi’b struck! As the whip whizzed past his face he caught the last pizzle between his teeth! Yes, between his teeth! It was amazing; it was incredible! It was also the beginning of the end for Wheatley. The Colonel got his hands on the whip and began to reel her in as if he were landing a marlin off the Florida Keys!

Wheatley had sense enough to let go of the whip. She stepped back a coupled of paces and pulled a quirt from inside her T-shirt. It was made of one hundred percent genuine kangaroo leather and had sharp metal barbs attached to the ends. If wielded properly it could take out a person’s eye! There were those who said the Marquis de Sade had designed the quirt with Wheatley in mind but that was nonsense—the Marquis had never heard of Wheatley and had been dead for years before Abu Afaq had recruited her. And she wasn’t .a sado-masochist—at least not a practicing one.

But whatever she was she had never encountered anyone like al-Thi’b. Never! He was Schwarzenegger; he was Tyson; he was Starkweather. He was all of them at once; he shook off the bite of the quirt, moved in close and grabbed Wheatley’s T-shirt. This time the garment stuck to its owner’s body.

Wheatley dropped her quirt and popped al-Thi’b a good one on the nose. Then she kicked him in the groin—a devastating full-extension crunch to the crotchery! Al-Thi’b should have been emasculated! But no! Instead a red-hot spasm of pain shot through Wheatley’s leg from the tips of her toes to her hip and she went down with al-Thi’b on top of her!

“Oh, dear!’ said St. Anthony. This was not going according to plan! If he didn’t take a hand soon Wheatley would get her clocked cleaned to well past midnight and would have to go home in a hearse instead of a pumpkin! He let go of the Sheikh’s arm.

The Mujahid officer immediately stepped in front of St. Anthony. He had a Walther PPK .380 in his hand and he stuck it in the Holy Man’s face. “Hold it!” he shouted.

But St. Anthony was too quick for the Mujahid. He pulled his aspergillum from beneath his camouflage jacket and then, just as he had been instructed in Saint’s School, he hit the officer on the side of the head exactly two centimeters above the temporal vein. The brute collapsed without a sound.

The Holy Man grinned. It felt good though it wasn’t supposed to. What on earth had come over him/? He walked over to where al-Thi’b was throttling Wheatley. What should he do? Should he say something first or should he just hit the man over the head? He wasn’t a real guardian angel and he wasn’t sure what the protocol was. He would play it safe. He tapped al-Thi’b on the shoulder. “Sir?” he said.

The Colonel paused in the midst of pummeling Wheatley. He glanced at St. Anthony.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” said St Anthony.

“Go away!’ said al-Thi;b. “I’ll beat the crap out of you when I’m done with this bastard..” And he turned back to Wheatley.

“Oh, dear,” said St. Anthony. What should he do now? The Guardian Angel’s Beginner’s Manual did not cover acts of lese majeste! He would try again. He tapped the cretin on the shoulder a second time. He would be forceful but he would be respectful.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said.

Al-Thi’b never looked to see who it was. He placed a huge sweaty hand on the Holy Man’s face and shoved. St. Anthony went down like a hamburger patty on a grill in a fast food joint!

Well, if that didn’t beat all! Okay—he would try one more time or his name wasn’t Anthony of Padua! He got to his feet, checked his aspergillum to make sure it was loaded. He hoped Gabriel was watching. He tugged up his camouflage pants and returned to the struggling duo. This time he would do it by the numbers!

By now Wheatley’s T-shirt had been pulled over her face and her camouflage pants were down around her knees. If St. Anthony hadn’t known better he would have thought al-Thi’b was taking indecent liberties with her but saints don’t think things like that; they always think the best of people, that’s what made them saints and was the main reason St. Anthony was always so depressed. He would never understand human behavior if he lived a million years.

He eased up alongside al-Thi’b, took careful aim with his aspergillum and smacked the Colonel on the left side of the head exactly two centimeters above the temporal vein.

And nothing happened! Nada! Zilch! A gnat could have done more damage! If this didn’t beat all! And al-Thi’b continued to molest Wheatley!

Okay—no more Kid Gloves stuff! He took careful aim, drew his arm back as far as he dared and let loose with a good one! The aspergillum made a crunching sound as it slammed into the side of the Colonel’s head!

Al-Thi’b stood up. He scowled, felt the side of his head and then glared at St. Anthony. “Didn’t I tell you to go away?” he thundered. He reached out so quickly he caught the Holy Man by surprise. He tore the aspergillum from the guardian angel’s hand, bent it into the shape of a horseshoe and tossed it into a corner.

St. Anthony was thunderstruck! “Why you dirty…” he began. Words crossed his mind that he would never have dared to utter—words he was not sure what they meant!

Al-Thi’b bowed. “Allahu akbar!” he said.

St. Anthony’s face turned red. Something inside him began to throb! He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. A terrible smile crossed his face; his teeth were smoking! He took a step toward the remains of his aspergillum. Then he stopped. No, no, that wouldn’t solve anything! It was what a dhimmi would do! He glared at al-Thi’b; he had had enough!

For 1,400 years Muslims had been abusing Christians—raping, murdering, enslaving them—from the Prophet to Osama bin Laden; from the Qur’an to al-Qaeda; from the Barbary Pirates to Dr. Nidal Malik Hasan: from sura and hadith to CAIR and the Muslim League and for one Christian it was the last straw!

He drew himself up to his full height. “Jesus saves, damn you!” he shouted. And with that he flung himself at al-Thi’b.

“Allahu akbar!” screamed al-Thi’b.

“Jesus saves!” screamed St. Anthony.

Where the average-sized monk with the little potbelly found the strength no one would ever know. But he turned al-Thi’b upside-down and inside out; he threw him to the floor and flung him against the wall. He did to him what Marlon Brando did to Lee J. Cobb in On the Waterfront, what Joe Louis did to Two Ton Tony Galento in Yankee Stadium in 1939. He hung the Mujahideen out to dry. He did everything but plant his foot on the brute’s chest and bray at the moon.

Wheatley was impressed. She got to her feet and tugged up her camouflage pants. Except for a slight dribble of blood from the corner of her mouth she was in pretty good shape. If she hadn’t been wearing her Barbarella bra with the Wicked Witch of the East stitching she would have been a goner.

She smiled at St. Anthony. “Well, well,” she said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. You’ll have to forgive me for ever thinking you wore something under your robe besides boxers—Tony, old pal.”

St. Anthony retrieved his aspergillum. “It’s not Tony, old pal,” he said. “It’s St. Anthony…St. Anthony of Padua…guardian angel.”

Wheatley found her camouflage jacket and collected her whip and riding quirt. “If you’re ready, Tony,” she said, “let’s go get little Bernie.” She smiled. “After this everything will be a cakewalk.”

St. Anthony stared at his bent aspergillum. No, it wouldn’t be a cakewalk. It would be war—raw naked relentless war! He had some long overdue accounts to settle…

“We can’t let her slice this poor child open any which way she wants,” protested Dr. Muhammad al-Battani of the University of Cairo.

They were gathered around the operating table—the three Dr. Muhammads, Dr. ul-Heim, Diabolica, Hanadi Hamza and the Imam. The ten-year-old child lay naked to their penetrating gaze. Every now and then he would open his eyes. He wished they would get it over with, leave him alone, at least let him die in anonymity. But they wouldn’t. He was both furious and helpless—a frog on a dissecting pan in a Junior High biology lab. If he could have spit poison at them he would have.

“What does it matter where she cuts him?” said the Imam. “By the time you’re done with the operation nobody will know what she did to him. It isn’t going to show!”

“Maybe it won’t show,” said Dr. Muhammad of Cairo, “but it matters! It matters a lot!”

“I agree with Dr. Muhammad,” said Dr. Muhammad Natis of the University of Alexandria. “We are not amateurs. We take pride in our work. One little miscalculation…one little slip of the scalpel and this boy could be deprived of complete girlhood.”

“Why don’t we mark some spot on his groin with Mercurochrome—a spot where she can cut to her heart’s content and do little damage?” suggested Dr. Muhammad al-Aziz of the University of Aleppo.

“Mercurochrome?” said Diabolica. “Do they still use that stuff?”

“They sure do,” said Dr. Muhammad of Aleppo. “I have some in my pocket right now. I always carry it in case of emergencies.”

“Well, draw a line for Hanadi so she can get to cutting,” said ul-Heim. “We’ve already wasted five minutes!”

Five minutes, thought Piffy! Five minutes! How times flies when you’re undergoing sex reassignment surgery! If he could only get loose for one minute…one minute…just one minute…he would…He began to cry.

Hanadi picked up a scalpel and eyed the ten-year-old on the operating table as Dr. Mohammed from Aleppo produced a bottle of Mercurochrome.”

The ten-year-old shuddered. Maybe if he gritted his teeth he wouldn’t feel a thing…maybe…