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Moulay Haram ibn Abdullah Rashid gazed meditatively over the expanse of green grass and springtime trees. The dawn light was seeping into the city like the blessings of Allah, gilding the glass towers like with morning sun. He sipped sweet tea and thought with amusement of how different this place had been when he had first arrived, ten years before, in the fourteen hundred and thirty sixth year since the prophet's fabled flight from Mekkah.
He had truly led a blessed life, he mused, as befits a descendent of the prophet: a moulay. Born in Morocco, the holiest of cities, and raised in the palace of the king, he had grown to manhood in the halls and gardens of one of Islam's finest cities, among some of the Islamic world's most favoured kings and priests.
He though with fondness, as he often did, of that momentous day a quarter of a century ago, when the messengers of Allah had delivered to Khomeini's "great satan", the message that their time was coming to an end. Such a time! The will of Allah had spread across the Earth, as the brave young men of Islam had joined as one, putting aside rivalries that had seen a millennium pass without abatement, to answer the call; finally, to bring the reign of Allah to the world.
Rashid had been blessed to be among those who brought the word of Allah to the "wounded snake" of America. He had watched as the mighty infidel nations of the Earth had beaten themselves to exhaustion against the rock of Allah's will in Afghanistan. He had cheered the blessed mujahideen of Bin Laden, as they slowly destroyed the invading forces of the mongrel dogs. He had laughed to see the American president, as infinitely accursed as Allah is infinitely divine, concede defeat in Afghanistan.
As he watched the trees sway in Central Park, and awaited the call to prayer, Rashid thought over the coming day, and the needs of his business. After coming to America, to cast down the great satan and free the people of america from the domination of the infidel dogs who kept them from the bosom of Allah, Rashid had been blessed to find himself in a position to lay claim to the plentiful oil-fields of Alaska, untouched by the hand of the infidel; surely a sign from Allah that this bounty had been reserved for his most favoured followers.
"Allahu Akbar," began the call from the mosque that had replaced the blasphemous idols that the infidels had constructed in the park.
Rashid stepped inside from his balcony, to fetch the mat he had left against the door, having performed his necessary ablutions before awaiting the adhan.
"Ashhadu Allah ilaha illallah,
He laid the prayer mat on the ground, facing Mekkah, and stood with his head down, and his hands at his sides, thinking. The call from the mosque echoed from the sides of the glass monoliths of New York.
"Ash Hadu anna Muhamadar rasuulullah,
The American yesterday...even now, after so many years in the divine kingdom of Allah, these men still resented their benefactors. Had they not cleaned the streets of criminals and filthy drugs?
"Hayya' alas Salaah,
For half a century the infidels had struggled against a descent into chaos and sin, fighting a war on drugs that they could not win, because Allah was not with them. Had the jihad not been triumphant, there would still be prostitutes and criminals, peddling sex and drugs on the street outside this very apartment, and in the most famous park in the world, there would be thieves and vagrants! Yet the impertinent swines persisted in their blindness to the blessings Allah had bestowed upon them, his forgiveness of their resistance as infinite as it is merciful.
"Hayya' ala Falaah,
He calmed himself. It was not good to be angry during prayer. That was no way to praise Allah, he thought.
"Qad qaamitis Salaah,
His thoughts drifted restlessly back to those momentous years, when the Americans had bankrupted themselves fighting their ridiculous war on terrorism, one year losing in Iran, the next against wily Muammar Quadafi's guerillas in Libya. He sighed to think of Quadafi; such a waste of a brilliant mind. It was a great pity he stood in the way of Allah's truth, for too long preventing proper punishment of criminals, and almost mandating the education of women. His death though regrettable, was the will of Allah.
Rashid commenced the ritual of prayer, as he had five times a day for as long as he could remember, even when he fought the accursed swine of the southern states, most obstinate and revolting of all Americans. Even when the armies of the US were beaten and destroyed by Allah's divine hand, the fools of the South had continued to fight, with pathetic handguns and semi-automatic rifles. A poor match for his AK-47, not to mention the years of experience he and his fellow soldiers had developed, killing well-trained Americans in the Sudan and Arabia.
He blessed the angels at his shoulders, who recorded his deeds, and his prayers completed, he stood and returned inside, where his fifth wife, the prettiest, and the only one he had brought to New York, was completing her prayers. He smiled to see her smooth, pale face, peaceful in reverance for Allah. Inside, away from other men, she wore no chador, and he felt lucky to be the only man in the world who saw her beauty, kept safe from unworthy eyes behind her black chador.
When she completed her prayers, she stood, smiling deferently and said, "May Allah receive our prayers." He embraced her, repeating her words, and felt contented after his prayers. He listened to her speak of a phone conversation she had had with her sister the previous evening. Her sister lived in Beirut, which was peaceful at last after a millennium of fighting. At last the troubled city was free of the insurrections of christian and jew alike.
Her words were interrupted by an uproar in the street, arabic voices yelling and moaning. Rashid rushed to the balcony to see traffic halted all along Park Avenue. What event could provoke such chaos?
His wife's sharp wail from the lounge brought him inside, to see her with her hands covering her faces, quivering and moaning in consternation. The television was on, and a news reporter was speaking, while a scene of an enormous crowd of anguished mourners was shown. The only thing Rashid could think of was the death of Khomeini. He had flown with his father, the prince, to Teheran to attend the funeral, only to be kept back by a crowd of one million mourners who would not willingly give up the Imam to the soil.
As he heard the reporter say the name of the deceased, Rashid felt the same emotion that he had felt as a boy, when he had first heard news of Khomeini's death. A wail leapt unsummoned from his lips as he dropped to his knees, his hands beating his breast in distress.
Bin Laden had been shot.
Their father, their deliver, was no more. How could this be? What accursed son of a mongrel dog could commit this atrocity? He watched uncomprehending as pictures were shown of the assassin, an American, from New Mexico.
Mexico, he thought numbly. The Mexicans still held out bravely, yet stupidly against the divine soldiers of Allah, clinging to the breasts of their disgusting virgin mother goddess. The Mexicans had the strength of their beliefs, but not the strength of Allah. Their end was certain.
But they had said New Mexico. The conquered Mexico. Americans. He gnashed his teeth in anger and pain. He rent his garment. He saw his fifth wife beating her forehead and drew her to himself. She would beat herself bloody if he did not stop her. He felt the anger and sorrow at this terrible loss clench like a fist in his gut, and knew it would not be unclenched until the death of Bin Laden was avenged one millionfold against the countrymen of the killer.