The Konformist

January 2002

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Part VII


Jaye C. Beldo



*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 will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!


Ronald McDonald parachuted into Taliban country. Disguised in a Chador, he navigated his way to Osama bin Laden's cave. The guards at the cave entrance spied Ronald's clown shoes and pointed their guns at him instantly.

"I'm just here to let you know that you can have it your way." Ronald said in fluent Arabic, so convincingly that the guards parted and invited him in, bowing respectfully as if he were the very prophet they had been waiting for. Ronald, reciprocating the respect, took off his wig and tossed the prop Chador aside. A towel was handed to him with a bowl of rosewater. He dipped the towel into the bowl and took his clown make up off. Without his disguise, except for a bit of greasepaint left on his nose, his true identity was revealed.

"Mr. William Casey." Bin said into his microphone. "So nice to see you again after all these years. We really thought you had perished from your so called brain tumor after that Iran-Contra shindig. But here you are before all your immortal splendor. Or so it seems." Osama gestured to the man, placing his hand on his heart. "Before we begin, I'd like to conduct a little market research survey if you don't mind." Osama motioned for the ex-CIA head to have a seat before a table. McCasey sat down on the ground and crossed his legs. Osama then placed a bottle of Jack Daniels, a Beretta 9mm pistol and a bottle of RU-486 Abortion Pills on the table.

"Which of the these objects is the most truthful?" Osama asked. He puffed on a hookah, leering at William. The cave filled with clove scented hashish which sent William reeling into an instant contact high. He looked at each object thoughtfully, scrutinizing every detail that he could.

"I know what you're thinking..." Osama said. "You think it is a trick question...a trap."

" is straightforward to me. But I believe there may be something that is lost in the translation." William replied, staring at some veiled object next to the others.

"What translation? You are speaking fluid Arabic. What do you mean?"

"I mean...what if I answer incorrectly? There may be cultural differences pertaining to what each of us thinks the truth is."

"Well, you'll have to glue the Buddha statues we blew up back together again.... piece by piece. We saved all the shrapnel. That isn't too terrible of a consequence now is it?"

"And if I answer correctly?"

Osama motioned for a delicately arabesqued curtain behind him to be pulled aside. There were three doors numbered 1, 2 and 3. Three anorexic models, Cindy Crawford type replicants, stood in front of each of the doors. A game show announcer came forth. Osama handed him the microphone.

"William...." The announcer said with a distinctly Hollywood, baritone camp. "You have a chance to win a valuable prize behind one of these doors. Simply choose which object is truthful and the corresponding door will be opened....if it is the correct one...the one corresponding to the absolute truth."

"Look I didn't come here to win anything. I came here to negotiate with you, your people. We are not the great satanic imperialists that you think we are. We are here to help you get back on your feet."

"And we are not the hashish crazed turban heads you make us out to be. For your information, I can read Urdhu poetry, do differential calculus on an abacus and play poker all at the same time. We invented the zero...don't you remember? Where would your Federal Reserve Bank be without zeros to play with? We translated Aristotle from Greek to Latin back in the 9th century. If it wasn't for wouldn't have any Greek philosophers..none at chew on. Just imagine how barren your universities would be."

Ronald William McCasey ignored Osama bin Laden. He resumed studying the objects before him as if he were preparing to make a checkmate move.

"Feel free to handle them." Osama reassured.

William put the bottle of abortion pills up to his ear and shook it. He shook his head and placed it back on the table. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels, opened it up and took a swig. He offered the bottle to Osama.

"Now we are getting somewhere." Osama said and took a swig. He gagged a bit but managed to swallow the booze.

"I think there is an object missing." William said, wits sharpened by the alchohol permeating his blood along with the THC. He picked up the gun and examined it. "You have no intention of giving me a prize at all. Do you?"

"With the whole world watching you think I would cheat you? I've gotten enough bad press as it is." Osama took another swig and lit a Marlboro.

William pulled the magazine out of the Beretta. It was fully loaded. Hollow Points all the way. He slammed the magazine back in and pointed the gun at Bin Laden.

"If you point it at my heart and pull the trigger, perhaps you will finally know what the truth is. But on the other hand..."

The models grew restless and paced back and forth in front of the three doors. It was getting drafty in the cave. "Will you please get on with this." One of them yelled. "We want to go back home before the Stockholm Syndrome takes effect."

"I want to know what the fourth object is." William demanded. "...Or I drop the hammer."

"Very is it says in the Koran anyway." Osama reached over and pulled a veil away. On the table next to the other three objects was the 2002 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Calendar in its full, four color glory. William placed the gun back on the table. He took the abortion pills out, sprinkled them on the calendar. He placed the gun on top of the pills and poured some Jack Daniels over the pile to consecrate the offering. He sat back and smiled.

"You might as well open the door. I have found the truth."

Osama laughed sardonically. "Get your wig back on. You won't be able to handle the truth when it is revealed. None of your people ever will."

To complete the equation, door number one and door number three were opened simultaneously. Behind door number one stood a platoon of Contra soldiers waiting for orders. Behind door number three was an exquisite statue of the Shah of Iran made out of solid brass. He had the brazen serpent of Moses draped over his shoulders like a mink stole. The serpent squirmed about as if it had been speared with a bamboo fondue stick.

"Well my are lucky you came on our holy Friday. We have decided to give you what is behind door number two. Girls...the real prize please!"

One of the Cindy Crawford models tried to pull up the door but it was stuck. Her comrades in rouge came over and tried to help. But the door would not budge. Pools of blood seeped from underneath the door and began to flow past their sequined pumps and onto the game show stage.

William just grinned and took it all in. He could wait another fifteen years for the truth to be revealed if he had to.


to be continued

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