Warning: when you join an ideological cause, make sure you are on the right side.
This is one of those stories that wrote itself. It is my own cathartic reaction to the terrorist actions that have been occuring lately.

Jerry Alexander picked up the folder from his IN box and briefly perused the summary. He turned the pages and consulted a few other documents before closing the folder and pressing the intercom button.

“Miss Gordon,” he spoke into the intercom, “Please send in the next client.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgment he released the button. The door opened and a swarthy young man entered.

Alexander took stock of the man. He was closer to being a boy than a man, and wore the distinctions of his young manhood defiantly, as though he expected someone to challenge it. His closely cropped hair contrasted with his long beard. More telling was the belligerent attitude this young man affected. He was prideful and more than a bit arrogant.

Alexander had seen the type before, and knew how to deal with him. “Please sit down, Mr Hussein,” he said, indicating a chair opposite his desk. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“Coffee?” Hussein asked incredulously with an angry edge to his voice. “You ask me if I want coffee? Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting outside your office?”

“I apologize for any delays, Mr Hussein, but we must be thorough in our evaluation. After all, this will determine your status throughout eternity. Once adjudicated there is no appeal. You do agree that this is important, don't you?”

“Yes, it is important! But am I not to be judged by Allah, the Just and the Merciful?”

“That has already been taken care of, Mr. Hussein. Rest assured you have been judged most fairly. The purpose of this meeting is to determine the particulars of your eternity.”

“Particulars? What particulars?”

“We need to determine the exact circumstances of your eternal condition. Now let me see.” Alexander briefly consulted the folder. “According to this, your full name is Ibrahim said Hussein. Is this correct?”

“It is.”

“And according to this you are a suicide bomber. So you got here by means of taking your own life, and in the process managed to kill a number of others.”

“Indeed. I was honored to give my life for the holy jihad. I and my fellow holy warriors struck a blow against the great Satan deep within his own heartland, a blow he shall not soon forget.”

Alexander jotted a few notes in the file folder. “So this was part of a plan in cooperation with others?”

“It was.”

“And you carried it out in the United States, as a passenger on the Frankford Elevated train in Philadelphia.”

“Correct.”

Alexander looked up from the folder. “That's curious. Why did you pick Philadelphia? Wouldn't a higher profile target such as New York have been more effective?”

Hussein smiled, eager to share the details of his glorious plan. “The infidels in their arrogance guarded the New York subway lines but neglected the transit system in Philadelphia. We exploited this weakness to strike at their vulnerable underbelly.”

“I see. It says here that you had lived in the United States for about ten years. Were you waiting all this time to carry out your plan?”

“No, my parents sent me to America to study at their great university. They thought I should be a doctor. But I was disgusted with the immoral condition of that country. They allow their women to work, to hold jobs and to go to school, and to display themselves wantonly.”

“Were you strictly religious before your trip to America?”

Hussein cast his eyes downward. “I am ashamed to say I was not properly observant of my faith. Only when I came to America did I realize the importance of surrender to Allah's will. I met with fellow Muslims who guided my feet on the path of godliness.”

As he spoke, his eyes seemed to burn with fanatical ardor. “I soon realized the folly of Western education, and so I left the university to study at the mosque. My eyes were opened. I saw the need to cleanse the world of its sinful ways.”

Alexander paged through the file, pausing to consult another document. “I think that's sufficient to establish your motivation, Mr. Hussein. Now skipping ahead, I see that this plan was several years in the making. Is this correct?”

“Of course. Along with some friends I was inspired by the glorious blow struck for Islam by Al-Qaeda. The great whore America was on its knees before the power of the jihad. How could I not join the battle? And so we planned this attack.”

“Yes,” said Alexander, checking a few more notes, “quite an impressive plan. You constructed the devices from C4 explosive and detonators. It says here you each carried ten pounds of explosive wrapped with nails and scrap metal which you wore under trench coats. You then each boarded the El at different stops and, when you reached the stations in question, detonated the devices.”

“That is correct.”

Alexander read a few more lines. “So you detonated your device at the Bridge Street terminal. It was at the height of rush hour and quite busy with workers and high school students.” He turned a few pages. "Impressive casualty list. Fifty killed, seventy wounded, and considerable property damage, not counting yourself.” He looked up at Hussein. “Was this supposed to be a suicide mission, or did you originally plan to just drop the bomb and set it off later?”

Hussein answered proudly, “From the first we knew we would be giving our lives for the cause. It was a small price to pay, and we gave our lives gladly.”

“I see. And you feel that this was necessary? There was no recourse but violence?”

“Of course! The apostate and godless regime must fall, and the confrontation Islam calls for does not know Socratic Debates, Platonic Ideals, or Aristotelian diplomacy. It knows the dialog of bullets, the ideals of assassination and destruction, and the diplomacy of the bomb and the machine gun!”

“I must say,” Alexander said, “your zeal and dedication is remarkable.”

“I merely do Allah's will.”

“And you are certain of Allah's will?”

“I am.”

Alexander leafed through the records. “Many of the victims were women and children. How does that make you feel?”

“How do I feel? How many Muslim women were raped by the infidels? How many Muslim women were made widows? How many Muslim children were made orphans? I am called upon to answer this outrage. My faith demands that I see the infidel's heads roll in the dirt. That is how I feel.”

“And you have no regrets for your action? No remorse or second thoughts.”

“None.”

Alexander made a few notes and closed the folder. “Very well, Mr. Hussein, we need not take any more time. You certainly qualify for the full package.”

Ibrahim's eyes lit up. The full package? Surely this must be the celestial reward he was promised by the clerics. Seventy-two virgins at his service for eternity!

“Please stand over here, Mr. Hussein, and we'll get the process going.” Alexander indicated a corner of the office next to a full length mirror. Ibrahim leaped to his feet.

“Now just hold still, Mr. Hussein. This won't take but a minute.” Alexander positioned a curious box on his desktop and pressed a button. Ibrahim was suddenly surrounded by a blinding golden light. He felt a curious tingling over his entire body.

Just as suddenly as it happened, the light vanished.

Ibrahim felt strange. Somehow the center of mass of his body had shifted. He felt a strange pendulous bouncing on his chest. As he looked into the mirror he beheld a naked woman. Her breasts were magnificent, perfectly formed, the color of coffee lightened with cream, and crowned with dark, sensuous nipples. Her narrow waist flared into seductive hips, and the curve of her body continued to a pair of beautiful legs. This woman was breath-taking.

And, Ibrahim realized in horror, she was him!

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“This is the package you earned, Mr. Hussein,” Alexander replied.

“But, I was told I would get a harem of seventy-two virgins!” he protested.

“Seems like everybody gets that one wrong,” Alexander said. “You don't get a harem of seventy-two virgins, you get to BE IN a harem of seventy-two virgins. But I wouldn't worry too much about the virginity. You've been assigned to old Dirty Ben's harem, and his tastes are, well, esoteric. I guarantee you won't have a virginal orifice left in your body by tomorrow.”

Alexander pressed another button on the box. Suddenly a gaping pit opened up underneath Ibrahim. As he fell he shouted, “This is not the Heaven I was promised!” Then the pit slammed shut.

Alexander shook his head. Where did Hussein ever get the idea that this was Heaven? He sighed and placed Hussein's folder in the OUT basket.

Jerry sat down before opening the next folder, reflecting on the stream of clients he had processed over the past several decades. He had once sat in an office while his life had been reviewed. Jerry's sins were not sins of commission as much as they were sins of omission. He had been a low-level administrator in a very large organization, and in the course of his duties had uncovered some high-level impropriety. Upon bringing the matter to his superior, Jerry was offered a promotion if he would agree to look the other way. Jerry did so, and started on the road to a successful career, eventually becoming a vice-president of the firm. But the impropriety had inadvertently led to the failure of several small businesses. Jerry Alexander's fate in the afterlife was to perform a boring, menial, and completely unappreciated job day after day, with no time off, no breaks, and no vacation. And the coffee was awful. Hell, as it turned out, was a unique experience for all who were damned.

Jerry Alexander sighed as he picked up the next folder. He scanned the summary and consulted some of the documents. Then he pressed the intercom button.

“Miss Gordon,” he said, “please send in the next client.”

The door opened. A stout man with pale skin, thick glasses, and a buzz haircut entered the room.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Crandall,” said Alexander, motioning toward the guest chair. He sat behind the desk, scanning the folder. “I see you set a bomb in a Planned Parenthood clinic.”

 © 2005, Valentina Michelle Smith