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July 29, 2004

Outside A Cell In Baghdad

Two soldiers clad in green stood on either side of a wooden door in the lowest level of a prison in Baghdad. Not Abu Ghraib, but one darker, more secure and above all, more secret. Still they stood, still as statues, as screams, horrible screams, issued forth from the cell on the side of the door.

"Aieeeeee! .....Ahh! Mother of Allah!.....Please, O Lord, I beg of theeee!"

Finally, one of the soldiers could stand it no longer.

He set his rifle against the wall and banged heavily on the wooden door separating himself from the prisoner within. "Quiet in there, or I'll come in and give you something to moan about, shitbag."

An exhausted, teary voice replied from somewhere on the other side. "I'm in pain, asslamb of the infidels!"

"I don't care if beetles are devouring your eyeballs from the inside out. One more noise and I'll go West Virginian on your ass!"

Ahmed looked up from the cigarette he had begun rolling. "What's the old bastard doing?"

Shamir re-shouldered his rifle, sighed. "Having another piss, or at least trying to. Serves him right. Drinking water day and night in his condition.'

Ahmed lit his cigarette, blew out a thin stream of blue smoke. "Ahh. Can you blame him? They say the be-damned American cameras add 10 pounds to one's frame, and he's puffy to begin with. The man doesn't want to look like a prancing harem guard at his trial. "

"Atkins be damned. The vanity of the man is beyond belief. He needs another lesson." Shamir pulled a much-handled blue pamphlet from his tunic pocket and began loudly declaiming. "The symptoms of Prostatitis include a gradual narrowing of the urinary tract manifested as splitting or dribbling of urine!"

Ahmed turned to the cell door, projecting his voice as he had been taught in drama class those many years ago. "Which is why you must now squat like a woman when relieving yourself! Which is you why your trousers smell like rancid piss!"

The prisoner within was silent. Without, faint shouts, as if from distant cells, could be heard drifting down the corridor.

"Two, four, six, eight. I know a man who can't piss straight!"

"Fear the handshake of the Dribbler King!"

"Hamdi, wake up! They're doing it again!"

Shamir continued, shouting perhaps a bit louder than before. "A diminution of erection or inability to maintain one!"

"A woman may find more pleasure in a bit of boiled macaroni than in thy soft and tiny member!"

"Fast ejaculation!"

"Your own wives name thee 'Quick-Draw' behind thy back!"

From within, silence. From without, a chorus of voices.

"Quick-Draw!......Quick-Draw!......Quick-Draw!"

"Burning or itchy sensation during or after ejaculation!"

"Why your hand is at your crotch more often than a Wahabi deprived of his boy!"

"Diminished volume of semen or dry ejaculation!"

"No more sons will your wives bear, save those given to them by men of more vigor. Thou art a Dry Well!"

"Dry Well!......Dry Well!......Dry Well!"

Shamir peered around, savoring the moment, then spat a single word out into the darkness of the hall around him.

"Impotence!"

The response was thunderous.

"IMPOTENCE!...IMPOTENCE!...IMPOTENCE!...IMPOTENCE!"

From inside the cell came a choking sound, as if the prisoner was trying, unsuccessfully, to contain a great emotion within himself.

"Next time I get to read from the little book," Ahmed muttered as silence fell again.

Shamir motioned him to silence "Shut up, ass fold of a jackal. You had your moment in the sun. It's almost time for the doctor's visit, and we're not done." He returned his attention to the sweat-stained pages in his hand.

"The Causes of Prostatitis!" he shouted. "Prostatitis occurs when bacteria from your urethra enters the prostate through a duct that connects the two! Putting unsterile toys or other objects into your urethra can cause Prostatitis! One may develop chronic prostatitis from engaging in anal sex, or it may be caught from engaging in unnatural acts with a domesticated animal!"

"Baaaaaaaaaa," Ahmed added. "Baaaaaaaa!"

"I swear by the houris of Allah," said the voice within, "that I have done none of those disgusting things."

"Do not swear by that which you will never see," said Omar, emerging from the darkness, a set of keys in his hand. "The houris are not for such as thee, craven."

He continued. "And it matters not what you did or did not do, though many have spoken of your love for the goats of the Bekaa. Not for naught were you known as the Feta Maker."

Omar reached out and grabbed the smoldering butt from Ahmed's grasp, ignoring his silent protests, flicked ash at the door.

"What matters is whether the Americans learn of your condition or not. For if they do, they will broadcast news of it far and wide in no more than an eye blink of time. The entire world will think of you and smile when they look upon a farm animal."

Ahmed looked on forlornly as Omar drew deeply on the cigarette.

"Again you will have brought shame upon yourself, your family and your tribe, craven."

A final drag, then Omar ground the butt to flinders under his heel. "You know what the infidel doctor will say if she sees you smoking again," he told Ahmed.

Omar addressed the inhabitant of the cell one last time. "Will you admit to your affliction in front of the American doctor? Will you submit to her ministrations as meekly as you did to her comrades? Will you take treatment for Allah's punishment?"

The prisoner spoke in a cracked voice, heavy with pain. "I will not."

"Very well." Omar turned and stepped back into the darkness. "I will tell her to come so that she may hear so from your own lips."

A soft sobbing sound came from behind the door as Ahmed began rolling another cigarette.

Shamir sidled over to him, whispering. "Not that I mind the charade--it breaks up the monotony, but why do you suppose Omar hates him so?"

Ahmed looked up, shrugged. "Omar's an Iraqi. What more reason does he need?"

From the end of the corridor came the sound of heels. Ahmed guiltily tucked the new-rolled cigarette away in a pocket.

Shamir banged once on the door, "Quiet, shitbag. Else I'll tell her myself."

The sobbing died away, and the two guards returned to their positions while the American doctor spoke briefly with Saddam, then left, a frustrated look on her face. In a guardroom not far away, Omar sat, still as a cat, black eyes gleaming as he watched the tape player rewind.

Posted by Bigwig at July 29, 2004 04:35 PM | TrackBack
Postscript:
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Comments

It's 'cause he doesn't want the proctological exam, because they'd find the WMD he's got stuffed all up in there.

Posted by: Jim at July 29, 2004 11:34 PM

Good stuff.

Posted by: Yomamma at July 31, 2004 05:29 PM
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