The Konformist

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June 2002

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McHajj:

Part XVIII

by

Jaye C. Beldo

Netnous@Aol.Com

 

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I call this disorder:AAD (Advertising Affective Disorder) but know not where to go for help. Do you?

 

"So what am I?" Osama asks the motley congregation. "Alive or dead?"

A coffin is wheeled up the center aisle and parked near the altar. Blow mold polyethylene pudendas are embedded in the lid. Osama goes over and caresses one of the replica snatches and draws his hand back in disgust. He signals to Ronald McDonald who comes forth and covers the casket with a bloody, Full Figured Chador imported from Afghanistan and spins it around. Not receiving an answer, Osama fires a shot up into the dome of the church. The report, along with the ricocheting slug, echoes ad infinitum.

"Has an Imam ever been caught molesting a child in a Mosque?" Osama asks and paces back and forth near the dead Cardinal. Ronald McDonald, dizzy from the spinning begins to reel, lets go of the casket and falls to the ground. "How about a Rabbi in a Synagogue? Any prepubescent doodling of the Altar Boys there? How come that never makes the news?"

Someone sitting in the back pew raises his hand. Osama points to him and gives him a nod. "We'll make a deal with you Osama since we cannot possibly answer your rhetorical questions. How would you and the rest of your Al Qaeda hooligans like to take over the Roman Catholic Church lock, stock and Crozier?"

Osama scratches his temple with the .45 and rolls his eyes upward, towards Allah.

"If you agree...we give you full access to the Vatican shekel Laundromat if you know what I mean."

"There is always a catch Mr. Cheney. Let's hear it."

"You only have to give us the envelope addressed to Fatima that you are holding in your hand."

"Hah....never. I open this thing and I'll have the entire world genuflecting in the direction of Mecca. Such is the power of the Doughboy's seminal influence...such is the power of your Ames Iowa Strain of Anthrax. Surely your Carlyle Group knows all about that."

"Whatever. Osama....we are giving you the world. Why won't you take it? You'll have full access to the Vatican library deep down in the most secret recesses of the church. You can translate all those Latin texts back into Arabic then into Greek if you'd like. We won't ever bother you there. In fact you can do all of our books if you'd like."

"Only if we can sacrifice the Pope like an Albino Camel in a Mosque.....on Larry King Live will I ever consider your offer. And only if I am properly knighted by that schmaltzing Shiksa otherwise known as the Queen of England."

"Consider it done." Donkey Dick says. He gets up and walks to the casket, whisks away the Chador and opens the lid. Inside, the Pope, looking a bit waxen, fails to get aroused by the light.

"Look Dick...I never officially agreed to this deal. He's already dead." Osama says, sensing an immanent con job.

"That's what you think. Boys..."

Ronald McDonald gets up and closes the coffin lid. A Zyklon B tank is wheeled up to the altar, a tube is inserted into one of the blow mold replica BVM pudendas and a valve turned on. After a few seconds, the lid is opened again. The Pontiff comes to life and studies his predicament. He sits up in the casket and cracks his knuckles.

"They always say that the sense of smell evokes the most vivid of memories." The Pope says and starts to climb out of the casket with a grin on his face. "Boy are they right!"

Osama jumps off the altar and hands the Fatima envelope to the Pope and points the gun at him. "Open it." The wayward terrorist commands. "There's no other way out of this." The Pope is too weak to tear the envelop and starts to fall back into the coffin. Osama takes the envelope back.

"Mr. Osama, do we have a deal or not?" Cheney intervenes. "After all....he is alive."

"Only if a Shinto Priest does the sacrificing. He must ride him like a Camel and stab him in the throat while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir ululates, mocking the camel's death cries. The camel...I mean the Pope must spin counterclockwise, rapidly until the entire Tabernacle is covered with its blood. The dagger has to be made of virgin Titanium."

"Oh. Why?" Donkey Dick asks, scanning Osama for clues of subterfuge.

"Because we don't want to be the Catholic Church's designated sin eaters for eternity...that is why Richard. We just don't have the digestive enzymes if you know what I mean. I doubt that even a Boa Constrictor could break all your sins down properly."

The Pope takes advantage of the distraction, reaches up, grabs the envelope out of Osama's hands and manages to tear it open with his dentures. He dips his finger into the mixture and tastes it. Something akin to a divine revelation overcomes the Pope and he is surrounded by an aura of nacreous, pulsating gold.

"Osama is the hidden Imam." The Pope declares. "Fatima is his wife."

Ronald McDonald , seeing the threat to the future of America, shoves the Pope back into the coffin and slams the lid shut. He turns and wheels the casket out of the church. Osama is too baffled to act. The Pillsbury Doughboy jumps up and takes the gun out of his hand. But he has no one to point it at, for the entire congregation has collapsed to the floor. All except for Osama. It is Osama and the Doughboy, face to face.

"My little Shabbas Goy Golem." Osama says. "We are friends, no?'

"I'm Fatima....your wife. Don't you recognize me?" The Pillsbury Doughboy smiles and without hesitation, jumps up into the arms of Osama. He starts firing the gun in celebration of the reunion. Osama starts to walk, reverently, in the footsteps of the Once and Future King, out to a waiting crowd in Vatican Square.

 

To be continued

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