The Gay Bomb
I am the world’s most wanted terrorist. Today’s events make me an infidel to Islam; a pariah to the West. I am Jordanian by birth, though I grew up in Montgomery County, Maryland. I attended Frederick Douglass High School, where the teachers were more concerned with feelings than authority. I lost my virginity to a cheerleader. I went to an Ivy League university where I went to the gym every other day, got drunk on the weekends, and never missed a class. I snorted cocaine with a future U.S. Senator. I speak perfect Farsi and English.
An Ivy League school is a wonderful place to network. That’s what they call it in the states: networking. It means making friends that can do you favors. The West runs on favors; the East on fear. This is the only difference I have identified.
A career as a military interpreter followed. The western generals and the Saudi royals do vast amounts of business involving oil, guns, and bombs. Being well liked by both sides, I quickly ascended through the ranks.
In the West, decisions are made by generals in war rooms of polished oak, full of cigar smoke and cognac. As my career status improved, I was allowed in these rooms more and more, to give the generals an eastern perspective. They asked me questions.
The one with the most patched and metal-encrusted evergreen jacket would ask me things like this: “Hey Ahkmed, should we bring King So-and-So American prostitutes as a gift?” My name is not Ahkmed. The King is not named So-and-So. The prostitutes went over fine. I told him to lie and say that the prostitutes were virgins. Muslim men, kings in particular, like to believe they are the first to enter paradise.
In war rooms, generals decide whom to bomb, whom to bribe. On special days, they improve their methods. They laugh, rough and manly, and clink their cognac glasses under a cloud of cigar smoke. A toast to napalm, to predator drones, to the gay bomb.
The idea of the gay bomb was simple enough. Detonate an explosive, an aerosol delivery device packed with chemical pheromones, in an enemy encampment and spike their hormone levels to an obscene degree. The inspiration for it was the admission, after a lot of cognac was downed, that most of the top brass had diddled about with other gentlemen in their formative years. Nothing up the ass, mind you. Just jerking off together—maybe accepting a helping hand. One of the four-star generals, a man whose rank placed him far above shame, even admitted to accepting a blowjob. None admitted to giving one.
Of course, none of them were gay. They were married and had children, after all. So the prevailing thought was that the elevated hormone levels of puberty were to blame. Then someone had a bright idea.
Being that we were at war with Muslim fundamentalists, who are by and large homophobic, what if we could detonate a hormone bomb in their midst, a weapon that would send them into an ass-fucking, cock-slobbering frenzy? How could they look at their compatriots after they had given in to savage man-love, to carnal lust? What could be more demoralizing?
The idea to broadcast the proceedings was mine.
Beyond discomforting the highest levels of terrorist leadership, broadcasting the sodomy festival on Al Jazeera, for example, would inevitably disgust those most likely to follow the bin Ladens of the world. According to the plan, these would-be revolutionaries would return to their caves and huts, disillusioned as the fattest American non-voter.
Naturally, there were many challenges. High-level terrorists of the Al Qaeda strain tend to live in caves in northwestern Pakistan, for fear of American satellites and missiles. We have attempted to infiltrate their organizations with many embarrassing failures and far more casualties than we care to admit.
That was why they sent me. In my ratty head wrappings they nested the latest in micro technology—a digital video recorder the size of a fingernail clipping.
Perhaps the reason why I succeeded where so many others failed is that I have formal theater experience. I believe in the immersion method, where one becomes their character. When I played Ahkmed the Jordanian goat herder, whose family had been killed by refugees leaving U.S.-occupied Iraq, they believed me. Social climber that I am, I soon found my way to bin Laden’s inner sanctum.
How disappointing it was. Perhaps it’s my American side, but I’d always pictured his cave being more like a Bond villain’s lair—a secret escape tunnel, a world map with the cities most ripe for attack pinpointed, at least a tiny lake filled with piranha, to dispose of operatives who had failed in their assigned mission. It was merely a slit in a northwestern Pakistani mountain filled with canned goods, bullets and mattresses. The video equipment was the most exciting thing there.
One thing I do have to give Osama is he eats and sleeps with his troops. He is no armchair general. Despite all wealth, he is “one of the boys” as they say in the U.S. He plays soccer with them in a little rock crevasse sometimes, just outside of the main bunker. Afterward, everyone is panting and they drink water in our makeshift common room. There they were: fifty high-level Al Qaeda operatives drinking water and panting, sometimes giving playful, congratulatory butt-slaps, all in a room slightly larger than a middle-class American basement. The perfect time and place for the bomb. There was no fire, just a pop, a hiss, and a cool mist pervading the air.
It was as bad as the American leadership hoped it would be. Lovemaking is lovemaking, even if you find the idea of men making love with each other distasteful. This was fucking. It started with the kind of power-stripping that precedes fucking. The speed and ferocity of it makes it seem as though clothing itself is a violation. The men were so eager to be free of their raiment, one would have thought they were on fire. Every time a man disrobed, a turgid erection popped up at a forty-five-degree angle.
This was not lovemaking. It was more like everyone had to come—now. Cocks were rammed down willing throats. The smaller ones were made women straight away, though the big ones didn’t really have to chase them down to subjugate them. The bomb had made them coquettish, eager for dick. At one point, a fist entered bin Laden’s dilated brown anus.
I was terrified by the sheer power of it. In the frenzy following the detonation, I pulled on my gas mask and hid behind some crates of canned peaches with a grinning cartoon sun on the label. I tried to keep my eyes on him, mister happy fruit sun, but my focus was drawn back to the grinding, heaving hormonal choreography of submission and domination, the lean bare chests and legs, the dicks, dicks, dicks. Thankfully, it was over in less than five minutes. Afterwards, cum covered everything. The image of bin Laden, panting and exhausted with a half-inch semen worm drying in his beard, that was what the generals had paid for. That was their money shot. No predator drone could have accomplished what that image has.
The video went viral despite notoriously tight control of internet in the Middle East. What could they do? Execute everyone?
The generals had been watching the stream live, back in their handsome oak war room. I timed the second device to go off three minutes after the one I detonated in Pakistan. I had counted on the fact that the generals would be congratulating one another with playful butt slaps.
I’m not entirely sure why I did it to them, or why I had planted a second live-streaming webcam. Maybe I never was as American as I thought. The generals certainly never saw me as one.
Personally, I found the American video more distasteful— middle-aged men with potato-white flesh and blubbery thighs. Plus, a general in the states displays his rank by growing an awful moustache. The terrorists had at least been shaved and fit, young and brown.
The initial reactions displayed the cultural divide. In the East, to react to geopolitical tremors, they often fire guns in the streets and set flags on fire. Having no flag to burn in this case, the mobs simply flooded the streets and fired guns. Then again, they do the same when an eastern nation gets to the World Cup finals. As usual, America was more emotional in its initial reaction. On all the cable talk shows, filmed on sets like odd shadows of oak war rooms, Religious conservatives sobbed and prayed. Then they called for an end to all federal funding of the Pentagon. No one saw that coming, so to speak.
My motives still baffle me. Something about this war exhausted me in a way I still don’t fully understand. Maybe the fact that it was such an amorphous thing—a country fighting a gang; a mechanized army in countries without roads. Maybe it was the way no one knew or cared to know what victory looked like. It could have been the obscene wealth it created for some and how nakedly giddy they were about it, even as the corpses piled up, reeking in the deserts of the world.
I liked World War II—there were countries and proper armies. The carnage produced no millionaires; everyone agreed it shouldn’t. There were capitols and defined victory. There were timetables and an ending, even if it involved a mushroom cloud massacre—there was an end to it.
So I’ve revealed to every out-of-work redneck and every madrasah firebrand that their leaders are a bunch of cocksuckers and assfuckers. I have taken their raw obscenity and broadcast it to the world.
My boyfriend, Oscar, is the cheerleader I lost my virginity to. He is a tiny blond thing and I am a great dark man. I do not think our sex is obscene. I think it’s very pretty, and on occasion, when we’ve invited guests into our bedroom, they have not behaved as though they found it obscene. Perhaps you find it distasteful. In my opinion, obscene is a descriptor best reserved for the violent acts of savage men. Obscene is a strange word to describe any act of lovemaking, or at least, any act of lovemaking not caused by a bomb.
We are leaving now, Oscar and I; fugitives with far too many enemies. I do not expect to live to see my fortieth birthday. Nonetheless, I have made my mark on history, so I am content. I don’t know if my actions will lead to world peace or world war. I don’t know if there will be a stampede of the proletariat, followed by the toppling of dense golden thrones. There may merely be the quiet sheathing of swords. Regardless, I have presented you your leaders, fucking one another up the ass. What happens next is entirely up to you.