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[personal profile] drewkitty
Warning: read at your own memetic risk.


Wow. That really hurt. A lot.

But this doesn't hurt. Odd choice for a hospital to dress me in cotton robes. I suppose it's better than being fitted for a halo and wings.

Non survivable injury. Oh dear. I'm dead. But I hear strange musical instruments, my bare feet are on a cool tile floor, and there is a bowl of sherbet on the low brass table at my right hand.

Can I file a complaint? Clearly I am in the wrong hell.

A jaw droppingly beautiful middle aged woman wearing a burqa and showing a shocking amount of ankle ... and her face! ... sits on the low couch across the table. I look once, then twice.

Ok. Big foul up.

"You are in the right place. He who saves the life of one man..."

I blink. I realize two facts. 1) She's transgender. 2) She's the one upon whom peace be. You know. The Big M. THE Prophet.

I died throwing a backpack into a storm drain. The jihadist carrying it was one of His. Hers?

"Not mine. He is going to the true dwelling place of Shaitan, where there is only salt water and the plant that causes hunger."

I stretch. I don't feel dead. But I am.

"So, Mo, we gotta talk."

She stretches an open hand intriguingly. The fingers are long and slender but masculine.

"What is with this bestiality thing? A man who discharges his lust with an animal commits no sin..."

Not what She expected. But if this is the complaint department, that is only one of a couple hundred items on the list. And if I've got eternity to bitch Allah out, it might be enough time.

"I never thought a mullah would say something so stupid. But have you ever tried to keep an Arab man from sticking his folly in places it never belongs?"

Yes. Ouch. Two points to the T-Prophet.

"72 virgins. Only four wives. Beating them with a stick."

"Variations on a theme. Trying to civilize some really barbaric people."


"I died in her arms. I have no idea how Jesus does it. One death was hard enough."

"Age 8."

"Oh. You really have heard some stories about me." Her face turns crisp. Cold.

"Just trying to reconcile the religion of peace with a child rapist."


"Very. Never mind the ontological questions. You personally fucked an 8 year old. Yet we are here. I think I should pull a Marcus Aurellius and bash your head in with this table."

I start to get up, to do exactly that.

"Ten. We married when she was eight. Lived with her parents until she was nine. Then she lived with me for a year. Shared my bed. Warmed my heart. Then seduced me."

I sit back down. I've dealt with short eyes and sex offenders. This was neither. No attempt to justify or to defend. Love and ... wistfulness.

Then I got smacked on the back of a head with a pillow by a woman in her sixties. Hard.

"Aisha!" the Prophet exclaimed, and suddenly turned male.

"I am sick of these lies!" she shouted. "And you too damned proud to stand up for yourself!"

I had never imagined the Prophet being defended by his ... victim? No... spouse. The love and affection between them was plain to see and crossed meaningless boundaries like gender.
And much as it did not fit my culture, age.

I stood and bowed slightly. It was one thing to give a God a wedgie. But this was a saint.

"The lies men tell carry such heavy weight," she said.

"Sometimes the truth is heavier," I replied.

She nodded.

"You may hold many sins against men acting in my Beloved's name. Including the sin that killed you. But in his life, he strove to always act without sin. Can you or any of you say the same?"

I shook my head, and helped myself to the bowl and a spoon.


Three thimblefuls of hot coffee appeared on the table, and the three of us sat to talk.

It would be a long conversation, but a good one.


"Lift, on three! One, two, three! Male in his forties, blast injury, difficulty breathing, flail chest, collapsed lung. Intubation on scene. O2 sat low 90s. Blood type as indicated. Two units wide open. Head CT clear, chest CT hemo and pneumothorax. Page thoracic stat."


"Why jihad?"

"'As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free...' ...?"


"Seven dead, four expectant, eighteen immediate, at least thirty delayed. Requesting all available air ambulances, ten ambulance task forces, four rescue companies and any available hospital physician teams."


The coffee was delicious. The question was not.

"The suffering of woman... of course you realize men are the weaker sex."


The door splintered and broke under the weight of three strong, angry men swinging a battering ram. Others flooded in behind, waving the tools of their trade and shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Police! Police search warrant!


"The ultimate jihad is always the struggle within each man. And woman."


How he longed to wipe the smirk from the suspect's face. He knew they would cover for him. Everyone knew he deserved it.

"You will get justice," he promised.

And stayed his hand.

And jihad was won, by one man on one day.


That was one of the oddest threesomes of my life. Afterlife?

Her age kept changing. His gender kept changing.

So many pillows.


Whirr. Suck. Whirr. Suck.

Life. Thanks to, and perhaps only while on, a respirator.

My own jihad had just begun.


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