Chapter IX: On DORA the Penetrator (For Asian release: The Day of McTamuyver)

This has happened to everyone at one point or another.  You're busy gathering your cellphone, balls, bags n' all when you forget to take the most important thing.  And by the time you realize your folly, it's too late ...

The bloody car keys!

Well this happened to Tamim today in the scorching heat of the barren desert factory that is Packages Ltd.  And Friday prayers were already under way so Tamim had to abandon the efforts until after expressing his frustrations with the Lord.

"Why, Lord?", Tamim cried after his prayers, standing at the very edge of the mosque which was exposed to direct sunlight, the ground too rocky and broiling to sit or stand on for more than a few seconds.  "Why doth Thee forsake the Tamim?" But the Lord did not respond.  He simply let the sun and insufferable heat scorch me as the horde of worshippers trampled before and behind me, their impatience yet another indicator of the bitch of a heatwave festering our beings.

Miserable and frustrated, Tamim trudged back to his car after callously putting his sandals back on and began contemplating the next irksome steps for regaining access to his butthole of a vehicle.

Tamim will have to call the father, he thought, or perhaps take a rickshaw, go all the way back home in the mind-melting heat, grab the spare key, explain to any bystanders I bump into at home how I ended up in this horror for the 547th time, and then drive all the way back to work only to find that the day was beyond done.  Needless to say, Tamim was displeased.

But just as he was nearing his car, Tamim noticed something out of place about his vehicle.  It was an opening, a sliver of hope left bare by the odd cosmic forces that fuck with our minds daily, nightly and ever so rightly.  For just above the window, Tamim caught glimpse of what was literally ...

​
An opening.  Like a sign of mercy from the Lord and a beckoning for Tamim to accept this most daring of challenges, Tamim saw that he'd left his windows slightly open to prevent the solar exposed car from turning into Satan's vagina.

And that's when Tamim's gears really started turning, whirring, nay, revving.  Tamim looked around to see if there were any useful items he could use.

Walking back towards the factory, Tamim noticed a pile.

Like the afterbirth placenta of a Transformer, there were wires and electronic junk lying in a heap.  Analyzing each item, Tamim came to the conclusion that the unlocking device would have to somehow slip in through the crevice, hook on to the lock and clasp it with enough torque so as to be yankable (yes, Tamim makes up words; he believes that if you can understand what they mean, then they are officially words.  Revolution is evolution - Tamim ... or perhaps Mandella, same difference).  After several failed designs in his head, including a donkey-powered jetpack, a nuclear-powered window vaporizing device and an armadillo suit, Tamim decided to keep it real and selected the simplest of items.

​Using my ultra-super mechanical powers, bestowed upon me from Tamim Sr., the father and high-borne engineer, and Abu Tamim, the grandfather and irrefutable philosopher of the East (but not Hashim the great grandfather and spendthrift, because that guy was a party animal and a destroyer of future generations' wealth!), I fashioned an elaborate little contraption that I joyously dubbed "Door Opening Rubber Apparatus", or ...

DORA the Penetrator

Like a pedophile finding out about a children's fair in his neighborhood, Tamim rushed to his car with his instrument in hand.  As I neared the door, I looked up at the heavens and took a deep breath.

There was a slight cloud cover forming overhead, and a breeze brushed past me, reminiscent of the time I baked cupcakes for the first time and kept the oven door open too long, nearly burning away my eyebrows.  I then whispered to myself.

"Lawd, I'm seriously, this had better work, or else.  Or else what? Exactly. Amen."

With that, I began operation Satan fingering.  Like a pedophile creeping up behind a sleeping child, I slipped my instrument in cautiously and quietly.  A sweat was building up on my brow as I used my fingers to position the device right.  I repeated the attempt, pulling and repositioning the noose to lock on to the door lock, but to no avail.

Like a pedophile at a retirement home, I was starting to get frustrated.

I pulled the contraption out, took a deep breath and bowed my head, convincing myself that I was going to do this.  That Tamim would not fail today.  This was not just a simple guy-unlocks-car-using-Nobel-Award-worthy-craftsmanship.  For eons I had accepted that some things were beyond my abilities and that the universe had not provided me with the tools or resources to achieve what I had sought.  But today would not be that day.  For today, Tamim would right his wrongs to my peers, to the timeline of this world and its sentient and non-sentient beings. This was my chance to prove to the universe that I was worthy of life, that I could create constructs out of heaps of junk and survive without having to resort to others.  This was an homage to my ancestors, human, animal and single-celled organisms, to my peers who saw potential in me when I could not, and to my mother and wife, and all the cats and turtles I had lost over the years.

Like a pedophile who was 2 inches deep, I was gonna keep going.

I slipped DORA back into the opening but this time, used my Powers of Gym to lower the window a bit more so as to gain improved manoeuvrability.  The Ride of the Valkyries began to play in my head as thunder clouds rolled in the heavens above, and a light peered down upon me like a hallowed spotlight, as if the hand of God was guiding the hand of Tamim.  It was at that moment that Tamim realized, he would not fail.

... And then, it happened.

DORA, that elaborate little bitch, went straight to on to the lock and latched herself with a precision that would put car thieves to shame.

​Like pedophile staring at a naked midget, I was pleasantly shocked.  DORA had me going for a while, but she had finally delivered.  I carefully yanked the ends of the noose and pulled up the lock.

"YEEEAAAAAAASSSSSAH!"

I yelled in ecstasy as fireworks began exploding all around, the symphony of 'Chariots of Fire' echoing throughout the cosmos.  I unbuttoned my shirt, spread my arms all Leo de Capri like and began twirling around in slow motion.  The fireworks began to get more intense and elaborate, forming psychedelic, rainbow-like patterns.  And that's when Tamim realized these weren't fireworks, this was intense sunstroke and dehydration.

Snapping himself out of it, Tamim opened the door as an insurmountable amount of joy overcame me.  He quickly leaned in, grabbed the keys, cursed them for their insolence, and praised DORA for her competence.  This was a victory, a conquest of epic proportions, a glimpse into all that I could have been and all I would be.

​For this was a reminder from the universe.  That this world of ours was indeed a pile of junk, rubble and scattered elements, all waiting to be rearranged into crafty items that would do our bidding.  The Earth and the universe are Tamim's playgrounds, and Tamim has only just begun playing.

Tamim posing like a boss with DORA and the key

Chapter VIII: On the Road

Once upon a time, as I was treading along a long and lonesome road, with nothing but a satchel flung over my shoulder, vast barren plains with mountains layering the horizon, I came across a tree.  Like a single quark in an endless abyss, it stood tall, out of place. And from that tree fell a fruit.  I stepped forth and picked it up, examining it.  Hunger had its hold over me so I bit into it.  But the moment I did, I noticed a worm emerge from within, and I immediately spat out the piece still in my mouth.
 
"Declare", cried the squirmy fruit worm.

"Declare what?" inquired I, as I rolled my tongue in my mouth, clearing any gobs that remained.

"Declare your truth", it retorted once more.
 
I did not understand.

So I dropped the fruit and continued onwards.

Meanwhile, a she-demon, invisible to the naked eye, had perched herself upon the tree, and had been observing me.  As I proceeded on my walkabout, she whisked herself through the air and transformed into a boulder at a distance I could not yet see.  All I felt was a gust of wind, which I failed to acknowledge as anything other than the breeze oft whispering across this desolate road.
 
Later, I came across that boulder.

I stopped in my tracks and examined it.  'Twas black granite, I observed, and certainly not from these parts.  Not that I knew what nor where nor when these parts were.  So I proceeded to go around the boulder.

"Decry", cried the boulder.

I turned around and saw nothing but the boulder.

"Decry your lies", it spoke once more.

I was puzzled.
 
"Decry what?" I inquired.

The boulder rolled, as if to face me, though it had no face of its own.

"Decry your false constructs and misconstrued truths", it echoed in the barrenness of the empty plains.
 
I did not understand.

So I turned and proceeded to edge along the endless road, scuffing the trail with my heavy feet.

Little did I know that all this time, an angel baby had strung itself to my left foot; having witnessed my encounters, it flung itself off and pranced on ahead of me.  Like the she-demon, it too was invisible to the naked eye, subtle to the touch, though it had a slight translucent hue emanating from it.  As I observed this strange glow speeding across the road ahead of me, I passed it off as perhaps a mirage, a glare from the sun, its light shades and colors deceiving my sight, yet felt my gait become more firm and balanced.
 
I looked up, but could not see the sun.  The sky was far too luminescent and its brilliance far too sharp to focus.  So I lowered my head and proceeded.  As I had done throughout this trail, my sight on the road below, treading, trudging.
 
Erstwhile, the angel baby had spoken to the demigod of the cosmos, telling him of my ceaseless walk upon this most sacred of roads, of my defiance towards the signs laid out by the worm, the she-demon and now the angel baby.  The demigod had decreed that I be punished for my insolence, for defying the laws of her faithful demigod monkeys, as had been writ in the Book of Apes & Ayr in the ages forlorn.
 
So the angel baby and the demigod transformed into a door, which I then happened upon.  It was wooden, made of beechwood, I speculated, and like the tree and the boulder, stood out of place in the middle of this road.
 
Once more, I took a pause in my steps.

"Deny!"

The word echoed, this time louder than it had from any of the other oddities upon this road.  Foreboding, stern.

"Deny?", I repeated.
 
"Deny yourself and submit, for your truths are false and your lies are inadequate", cried the door.

I did not understand.

So I opened the door and walked on through to the other side.

The door remained open as the scorching heat from the strange glow of the sky radiated all around me.  I proceeded, as the angel baby and demigod transformed back into their ethereal selves and glared in horror at my sheer indifference.
 
"We shall strike down upon him with great vengeance and fu ...", cried the demigod, only to be interrupted by the she-demon, who had appeared with the howl of the wind.

"The Man cannot be struck, you megalomaniac", spoke the she-demon in her sinister tone.
 
"'Tis the duffel he carries, for it hath powers beyond our might, a relic made in the ancient times before there was light."

At that point, the angel baby became furious and plunged forth towards the demon, only to find himself head down in a pile of rubble at the edge of the road.
 
"Tsk tsk.  Know you know that I am the fiery wind of the plains? That I cannot be seized by your likes?", she retorted mockingly.

"Enough", spoke the demigod this time.  "Though the people of Ayr are forbidden from fraternizing with the likes of you, speak, she-demon. Tell us, what know you of the sacred duffel of the being called Man?"
 
Like a seductive snake, the she-demon slithered herself towards the demigod, transforming into various shapes and colors in her approach.

As the snake woman was whispering long tales of the magical items in my satchel, I had been, I realized, walking thousands of miles on this gravel-ridden road.  I looked up to gaze how far the road went, and noticed a dust storm forming up ahead.  But it was neither approaching nor receding.  Like a slow tornado trapped in a hollow vassal, it stood tall, towering, spinning like a mesmerizing sand globe, yet far too sluggish to be a storm.
 
Yet again, I stopped and examined it closely.

Though the sand was moving slow, it was far too dense to see within, so I proceeded to walk into it.  Particles of sand grazed upon my skin as I lowered my head and covered my eyes.  I then took off my satchel, untied its noose and retracted a woolen handkerchief which I wrapped around my face.  Almost immediately, I began to notice that the dust was becoming less dense, and not a moment after that thought, the dust cleared and I found myself in the very eye of this very still and silent dust storm.
 
I looked up once more.

The facade of this large structure of swirling sand had blocked off much of the brilliance of the sky, and I finally realized why I could not see the sun before.  With the reduced glare, I noticed that there was not one brilliant sun but a cluster of suns in the sky, all merging and bouncing haphazardly in the heavens above, their brilliance far too powerful to be discerned by the naked eye.  Awed by this finding, I sat down on the ground and continued to gaze upon the dance of the thousand suns.  The sight, as profound as it was harrowing, left me ravenous.  So I swung over my satchel once more and emptied its contents.  Out came a small, ripening pear, a blunt and bent knife and a silver box.  I picked up the pear and began to eat it, all the while staring at the oblong box.  Quickly, I went back to my satchel, frantically turning my hand inside it.  As I finally gripped what I was searching for, a relief came over me and I took out a withering and dusty notebook.  I then opened the oblong box to reveal a tiny quill that I had crafted out of a crow feather.
 
Then, I began to write.

I wrote of the things I had encountered, of the creatures and their fatuous proclamations, of the strange artefacts, highlighting my incomprehension and doubt.
 
I am merely the observer, I penned, and my observations are not without flaws.  I declared that the truth of this road was inconclusive and the signs were meaningless, with my last phrase being ...

"For what good are signs on a single, straight road?"

 
With that I packed my accessories and stood back up, only to find that the storm had disappeared.  I looked straight towards the road I was to go upon and noticed it was swerving towards an edge.  I quickly scampered on.

As I swerved around the mountains blocking my view of the turn, I beheld the last sign on this long and lonesome road.  The only sign, I realized in retrospect, that had any actual significance.
 
And one that I could finally understand.

For there was no road beyond the blockade, and the sign on it read simply:

The End

Chapter VII: On Presidents

Dear Mr. President,

You may or may not recall this, but we have met before. It was right after the Pakistan Development Forum in December 2010, an event that gave our government bodies the opportunity to "seek aid" from representatives of the first world (and some of our wealthy Arab friends), and I had been fortunate enough to be selected to manage the event for the Planning Commission. This forsaken forum, as I recall, had been called off at least thrice before on account of our ... somewhat questionable security situation and the white man was simply too afraid to come out of his heavily armed/armored, nuclear-safe bunkers, commonly known as embassies in Pakistan. Now one should ask why they are here in the first place if they really are that afraid of us. I am compelled to quote one of your more devoted friends in inquiring "then why don't they leave?". It's certainly not the $5 escort ladies in Islamabad or the tikkas and pulaos at Afghani restaurants. Perhaps these ambassadors made their own political booboos and being assigned to Pakistan is their bureaucracy's version of the dunce hat.

But I digress. I recalled that wonderful seminar (for which I was paid by Minister Khar's office, at the time, a much-needed Rs. 10,000 stipend, God bless her extravagance) because at the end of the 2-day event, you graciously invited us to your averagely guarded presidential palace (strangely enough). Unfortunately, even for a middle-class citizen who, since childhood, has fantasized of being invited to a ball room party with foreign dignitaries in a James Bond setting, the event was a tremendous disappointment. For starters, contrary to popular belief, there was no throne made of gold on which you presided your presidency ever so callously and luxuriously.  In fact, in spite of a thorough search of the, once again, unguarded halls, I found no sign of a throne made of gold decorated with the skulls of conquered money-lenders! Furthermore, your staff members served us Coke and Fanta, NOT champagne. Seriously, what is up with that? Needless to say, neither I nor the others (particularly the Arab dignitaries) were thrilled by your staff's tacky choice of beverages. I would strongly recommend that for the next event, your people contact Nawab Aslam Raisani's staff for suggestions on drinks.

But alas, I digress again. In spite of the disappointing ambiance, I do remember two very important events. The first one was when your arrival was announced by a servant dressed in a glittering tunic (at least that's how I choose to remember it), and all attendees formed an oval to sequentially greet your grace. For some wonderfully odd reason, yours truly found himself being lined up between Rehman Malik and Shah Mahmood Qureshi (I kid you not, readers). I reiterate, Mr. President, that I am a disturbingly average citizen for whom just being in the presence of these important figures was like a dream inside a dream inside a movie. Don't get me wrong though, this was not like the awe of a teen who had just met Justin Beaver (or something kids are into). No sir, this was shock, the utter shock of realizing that I was surrounded by the most hated people in the country and, what’s more, stuck right in the middle of the hatred.

Eventually, our queue began to move single file to greet your highness; all of us, your multi-faced minions, somewhat loyal loyalists, dignitaries and random strangers, such as yours truly who had ended up in this mix like a black guy inadvertently finding himself in a KKK meeting. Right before the 10 million dollar handshake, yours truly was eyed up and down by two ISI guards on either side of you like death row inmates eyeing a naked woman before their execution. Irrespective, what I got out of it was a handshake with the most misunderstood man in Pakistan (if not the planet) and his mischievous (but somehow warm) smile.

The second event was a quote from a speech which you gave during the dinner (which was exquisite, btw; you need not execute the chefs but I would consider having Babar Awan talk to the guy who decided to serve us Coke and Fanta). I was too lost in the food to listen to the rest of your speech but I clearly remember you saying the following:

"Many world leaders claim to have learned from universities (irony overload!). But I, I have learned from the university of life."

I remember you smiling after that statement, probably expecting a standing ovation from the crowd, some “Jeeay Zardari!” chants and maybe a few women throwing their undies at you. Instead, you were reprieved by the mushy hum of naan being chewed in the background.

Mr. President, I believe that quote is the perfect depiction of what you are, and critics, trolls and mullahs be damned. For the most dejected man in the country to go on to become its most powerful leader and, in spite of the perpetual backlash from the entire nation, manage to maintain that power, you, sir, are a force not to be reckoned with! It takes a lot more than a few good contacts and smart stratagems to pull off the stints and stunts that you have in your political career. And rather than admiring your exceptional prowess, these low lives who call themselves citizens loathe you, despise you, wish a most gruesome death upon you. I recall that right before shaking your oddly soft hands, the only thought going through my head was my father's constant rant about you being borne of some form of a canine. It was only after your University of Life quote that I realized how obtuse and spiteful my father and, frankly, these so-called citizens really are.

So you screwed some people over, had others silenced (ostensibly), used your wife's death to your political advantage, lured a bunch of not-so-shareef brothers into the most elaborately devised political scheme in the history of politics and effectively made them run back to Punjab with their tails between their legs. How unfortunate and deplorable it is, my dear Mr. President, that if Michael Corleone resorts to such subterfuge, the so-called youth (and not-so-youth) would applaud him for it, saying they want to be just like him when they grow up. Well, pluck them, Mr. President, and pluck them hard. Because while they can only flirt with these fantasies before their nightly activities, you, sir, are the real life Corleone. You did what was needed when it was needed, all the while looking out for the best interest of your family. You certainly angered a lot of people along the way, but politics are as simple as chess; if you can foresee your victory in 3 moves, why play another move just because you are likely to upset your opponents?

I have also often wondered whether that actually bothers you, these rants and poetic expressions of rage that this nation has become so adept at directing towards you. In psychology, there is a concept on the dichotomy between self-projection and self-actualization which says that people are more likely to criticize others for their own shortcomings rather than face the challenges posed before them. Frankly, if they had used this literary creativity for more constructive outlets, this nation wouldn't be in its current deplorable condition. In fact, if these rats that you have so successfully lured into the ocean were really as capable, aware or competent as they pretend to be in their constant verbal regurgitations, they never would've allowed you to become President. How remarkable it is that just because you are an adroit politician, and excel at playing the game of thrones in a democratic paradigm, singly constitutes the reason for all this player hate. Sure, you blatantly overlooked a lot of important needs of the populace and conveniently blamed it on the previous government. But how can they expect you, just one man who is out there looking out for himself, to cater to the needs of all? I swear on your mother's life that were they in your shoes, they would’ve done exactly what you did ... actually, that's not true, they're not as tactful at politics as your grace. For a people who forget so easily that it was, in fact, "they" who brought you into office, these citizens are not too bright at all.

So my advice, Mr. President, is to ignore their ramblings. If shepherds could understand what the sheep say before being led to slaughter, would they take a moment to reflect on the banter? I would, however, like you to coach some of your other shepherd friends on learning to keep their mouths shut by not retorting with a "who is stopping them [from being led to the slaughter]?"

But I wonder, Mr. President. Indeed, who is stopping them from revolting against you? From stopping you from continuing to lead the office? They did/have done nothing but baah their hearts out, all the while continuing to march towards the slaughterhouse. The fact of the matter is that these are sheep who are so accustomed to baah-ing that the being led to the slaughter part is of no consequence to them.

Besides, this might be your last Presidency in this lifetime. I say enjoy your last months as President and find a nice getaway in the Carribean once this is all over. I hear Costa Rica is really nice, like all the time.

Sincerely,

A Mango Citizen

Chapter VI: On the nation's forgotten hero

The first time I heard Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s story was around 1989 and I just fell in divine love at our national hero’s sheer kickassinism. Interestingly, I was in this Indian school in Qatar at the time and us minority Pakis often had political quarrels with the majority Indians (yes, I was only in the 1st grade but the patriotism and passion were already intense). And I don’t mean physical brawls, I just mean really silly verbal and often musical exchanges like “Hindus eat cow potty” followed by elongated eww’s or hawww’s, or some fantastic song which went something like “tum kachray ka dabba ho, yay kachra tumhara hai".

Now naturally we never argued in front of the teachers because we would get in serious trouble if we were ever caught (I’d like to say that the teachers, who were all Indians, sided with Indian kids and punished us Pakis, but that never happened. They were disturbingly unbiased, which was upsetting because an unbiased, good Indian was a paradox). So these heated debates usually took place around recess or lunch when the teachers were away and we were free to be in our true Machiavellian states.

I vaguely recall us exchanging the same kiddy blows over lunch one day when Tariq (don’t remember his real name) decided he couldn’t take anymore crap from the Indians. It was quite a momentous day for us because he took the fight to an entirely different level and the Indians were just not ready for it (btw, a quick reminder, I’m still talking about 6 year olds here). After a comment from some Indian kid about some war he had heard of happen between Pakistan and India in which India had defeated Pakistan (probably 1971), Tariq went into a brilliant story-telling mode and began the wondrous tale of Aziz Bhatti Shaheed. Our world changed that day because the Indians were in almost the same awe as us Pakis, and we were all just in tears at the pure awesomeness of this one man. I mean we were bawling with huge smiles, overcome with an insurmountable feeling of love and pride, while the Indians were crying because they had probably realized their soldiers were lollypop thieves in comparison. I don’t remember what the teacher’s expression was when she entered the class to find every single one of us weeping but I imagine it must’ve been quite a sight for her. The story has had such a profound impact that it is impossible for me not to state his complete name when speaking of Aziz Bhatti Shaheed. We even had our own triple-hit combo shout on his name that involved a left jab, right jab and a roundhouse kick. In telling you the story of this demi-god, I am going to try and maintain that childhood spirit and pride that Tariq brought out when he introduced us to our nation's only true hero.

Aziz Bhatti Shaheed was the epitome of what legends are made of. He was born in Hong Kong at a Shaolin temple to a Rajput family and later moved to Gujrat before partition. Now Rajputs have been known throughout history to have brought the pain in asskicking since the time the British invaded and left weeping back to England to drown their humiliation over gallons of sherry. The Bhattis, however, were in a class of their own. In spite of a very simple, non-elitist background, the Bhattis excelled in being the masters of whatever they aspired to do yet showed humility and respect to friends and foes alike. Not surprisingly, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s father was known in the oriental world as ‘the Master’ for his incredible wisdom and knowledge of the universe and unarmed combat. He had travelled far and wide to teach his ways in Asia and was revered as the founder of the way of the warrior. In fact, China’s age-old alliance to Pakistan is singly attributed to the respect she has for Master Abdullah Bhatti and all that he had taught her people.

In addition to his superior wisdom and martial arts, Master Abdullah Bhatti was known for his uncanny ability to produce children with super powers. For instance, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s eldest brother, Bashir, is known as the first person from the subcontinent to have impregnated Japanese men during World War II. In a last desperate attempt to stop the madness and humiliation he had brought to the empire, the Japanese, upholding seppuku from their bushido principles of honor, nuked themselves in Hiroshima where he had been rending Japanese buttholes. Even though the bomb landed a few meters from where he was 'goating' a Japanese soldier, Bashir survived the fallout and fled to Nagasaki to continue his reign of destruction. Three days later, the Japanese nuked Nagasaki and though he survived that attack as well, God decided the world was not ready for Bashir’s awesomeness and had him beamed up to heaven, where the angel Mikael suffered a black eye from Bashir’s fist when he foolishly asked the soldier to relieve his sidearm.

Aziz Bhatti Shaheed was on a completely different level of awesomeness. It was reported that in 1926 when Aziz Bhatti Shaheed was born, a state of emergency was declared in Hong Kong when tremors sizing 13.2 on the Richter scale rippled through the region. The event was never documented because no casualties or damages were reported. Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s birth doctor, Dr. Sum Ting Wong, described the birth as follows: -

“When I first see uterus, bright light come from inside. I say wow! I was a so scared. I go through same experience when other Bhatti kids born but this light was a more bright. At first I tell a Bibi Amna, I no do birth. But then wata' break and light go brighter. Then WHOLE building shake! But I good docta', so I reach in and tell mother to push. She push and building shake harder, but baby no come out. Then my Chinese vase fall and break and then I more scared. But I keep trying. Finally I see head and I take baby out. I hold baby and big light fill entire room. I don’t see anything. Then shaking stop and baby peacefully smile like he da man. I say to Bibi Amna, 'That's it, ok? I no give birth to your children no more!'”

From that moment on, it became evident that Aziz Bhatti Shaheed was meant for greatness. After spending his childhood in Hong Kong teaching grandmasters the secrets behind levitation, telekinesis and catching bullets using one’s toes, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed moved to the village of Ladian in Gujrat district and enlisted in the Punjab regiment in 1950. To no one’s surprise, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed annihilated all military regimen records and though he was to be promoted from Major straight to Chief of Army Staff, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed generously refused the offer and claimed he would rather serve with his men on the frontlines than from some villa atop the Margala hills.

On September 6, 1965, the Indian army decided they had nothing better to do and invaded Pakistan by moving troops in through the eastern parts of Punjab. When news of India’s folly reached Aziz Bhatti Shaheed, he was filled with an immeasurable rage, a rage so intense that it caused a spontaneous genitalia change within the Indian army. Mounting his BTR-70 armored personnel carrier armed with twin M61 Vulcan cannons, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed blazed through the Punjabi countryside and joined his troops at the frontlines in the Burki sector of Lahore. The events that followed are still in the minds of every Indian soldier who was spared and when asked what happened to them that week, they put it simply as “it was like losing your virginity, only not fun”.

The Indians had been sending in their tanks wave after wave in an effort to penetrate through to central Punjab and would have been successful had it not been for Aziz Bhatti Shaheed. Upon arrival at his post, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed was told that the defense was weakening and that the Indians would be breaking through any moment. “Not on my watch”, he said with a frown so forbidding it would make Chuck Norris wet himself. Not a moment later, the roar of a thousand Indian M4 Sherman tanks shook the grounds of the Pakistani outpost. While Pakistani soldiers mobilized and manned their anti-tank artillery, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed fearlessly climbed the highest point to better gauge the enemy’s formation. Like a god commanding his troops from the heavens, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed strategically placed artillery at the weakest points and rather than holding his ground, ordered his troops to trudge forward as they gained ground. Stunned by the audacity of a supposedly weak army, the Indians laughed in the joy of an incumbent victory. Little did they know that the military was not being commanded just by anybody, it was under the command of Aziz Bhatti Shaheed.

For three days straight, the Pakistani army obliterated every tank that even considered moving forward. In fact, it was found that 70% of the Indian tanks were obliterated before the driver had even switched on the vehicle just because of the sheer magnitude and numbers of artillery fires that were dropping around the Indians like meteors from hell. Relentlessly commanding his soldiers from his higher ground without any sleep or food, claiming food was for pussies, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed continued to bring the destruction on the Indians despite their chaotic retreat. On the fourth day of incessant firing and exporting constipation-inducing fear on the Indian army, a commanding officer from Islamabad dispatched a note via the radio asking him to stop for a while. Though the soldiers under Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s command had been filled with bloodlust simply by being in his aura and thus did not feel the need for food or sleep, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed realized that in spite of their unrelenting intrepidity, they were still human and ordered them to rest. When one of his fellow comrades mistakingly suggested that Aziz Bhatti Shaheed should do the same, he reprimanded the soldier at the absurdity of the question with a grimace that sent him into a temporary epileptic shock. Nonetheless, when told this was his wife’s request, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed reluctantly came down. Not a moment later, an Indian artillery turret made the fatal mistake of shooting down his higher post and while other soldiers jumped for cover, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed, unperturbed by the falling debris around him, stared out into the distance from where the shot had been fired.

“Mistaaaaake!” he shouted with a tone so foreboding that it caused mass defecation in the Indian army (It was reported that 3% of the Indian army died instantaneously from the defecation while another 7% succumbed to the dysentery that ensued from the ominous cry).

Jumping back up to the destroyed post, he brought what can only be described as ultimate and utter doom in its purest form. Giving off an aura that rendered his enemies impotent and gave his comrades the ability to shoot fusion bombs from their turrets, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed and his troops caused a hurricane of devastation so immense that the Indians who managed to survive had their heads dislocated from their vertebrae by the enormity of Pakistani firepower. In fact, the effects of that day still persist in the Indian people, for as you may have noticed, Indians can't nod and instead bobble their heads when showing approval.

On September 11, having brought the real 9/11 on the Indian army, Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s awesomeness began to grow endlessly and his earthly body, unable to withhold all that power in one being, succumbed to its spirit. While it has been said that he died after a shell hit his chest, the truth has purposely been hidden from the West lest they try and use Aziz Bhatti Shaheed’s DNA for cloning and bioligical research.

Upon his death, the Indian army thanked their gods by consuming tons of cow dung. But what they didn’t know was that his spirit had imploded and gone into the being of every Pakistani. When the war finally came to an end, Pakistanis, rather than weeping at his demise, felt an overwhelming feeling of wonderment, for they knew that his spirit and awesomeness had actually been fused with their own souls and he had indeed been immortalized.

Author's Note: If you would like to contest the authenticity of this story, immediately consult your nearest physician for stupidity. Symptoms may include frustration, angry outbursts, inability to interpret humor and anal irritation possibly brought on by insufficient breastfeeding in infancy.

Chapter V, Part I: On Mormons

I am not a dull man and do not give in to the doldrums of everyday life very easily. For some reason, interesting things tend to find me wherever or whenever I may be. Or vice versa. Last week, for instance, it seems that one of the gods heard my plea for salvation from boredom. And it just so happened to be the god of Joseph Smith. Because last week, I had an encounter with ...

THE MORMONS!

Though I love South Park, they have ruined the simplicity in so many mundane things. For instance, when you hear Mormons or Joseph Smith, you might think Jesus in America, polygamy or Utah. But when I hear these words, I can't but help sing the song from the South Park episode on Mormons that goes like: -

"Joseph Smith was called a prophet, dum dum dum dum dum.
He founded the Mormons' religion, dum dum dum dum dum."

Now as everyone knows (or would agree), there are different types of white people in foreign lands. First you have your smelly dirty hippies who want to get along with everyone and pathetically tell you they've integrated themselves into the foreign society. Then you have your touristy, slightly better-looking whities who're dressed like hippies so as not to draw attention to themselves. But really, they're your typical everyday internet-addicted, confused, spiritual-but-not-religious liberal whities. And finally, you have the well-off and more grounded white people who are borderline racist and can't wait to get back to their apartments and consumerist lifestyle. As I found out, Mormons are unlike any of these. They are as alien to foreign lands as they are back home. Interestingly, though they are white, their features resemble those of the Aryan Pakthuns and give off an aura of, well, a lost people within an alien civilization.

So anyways, our encounter was not deliberate, but certainly instigated by our mutual curiosity. I was standing outside my office when these two white guys in white shirts, black pants, geeky ties and small bagpacks hanging loosely behind them walked by. I assumed that they would assume that I was a Guatemalan and just walk on. But lo, they did look upon me, smiled and said, "Buenos dias", to which I doth replied, "Hi! Hey, art thou Mormons?"

And behold, they stopped in their tracks, astonished that their language had been spoken by one who resembled the others.

"We are the people of the Latter Day Saints, yay! Who art thou, stranger? And wherefore upon this most holy of lands did you learn that which is spoken in the good state of Utah, amen?"

Verily, my curiosity thus did ariseth and I continued to inquire. "Indeed, thou art the people of Joseph Smith. I am called Umair, of the tribe of the Syeds from a distant and warm land of afar. Come thou to Guatemala to preach thine religion of Mormonism?"

"We have indeed, verily, yay!", they replied.

Ok, this is exhausting. In my head, that is exactly how our conversation went down, especially because of the things we spoke of and the sheer adamant tone they had for their faith. These introductions went on for a while and we eventually found ourselves taking a walk (yes, I know I said I was at work but I barely ever do anything and nobody really cares if I disappear days on end, let alone for an hour). The two had to get back to their church and I wanted to know where it was and if it was any different from the other shabby and unkempt churches across Coban. Shockingly, it was by far the most out-of-place edifice I have ever seen in Coban. But more about that later.

Chapter V, Part II: On Mormons

My companions were eager to know what a Pakistani was doing in Guatemala and about my religion. As any barely practicing muslim, I knew the basics, had the things-to-say-to-white-people speech on Islam down perfectly and the Mormons were in awe (of course!). Then came my turn to ask them about Mormonism, Joseph Smith and all that I had learned from South Park.

"So tell me," I began. "Do you guys really believe that Jesus came to the Americas after his ... umm, death? First disappearance before the second coming? I'm sorry, how do you say it?"

"Ha ha. Verily, thou art funny, yay. But nay, Umair of the Syeds, we believe that upon his crucifixion, our Lord resurrected somewhere upon the plains of Mexico or Guatemala. I mean, ha ha, it is not as if he took a boat and came here. That would be absurd and ridiculous, especially at that time."

"No, you're right. Resurrection makes a lot more sense." I managed to blind them from my cynicism and sarcasm, but have no idea how I maintained a straight face. "So just to make this clear for me, let me summarize what I know about your church: Jesus gets resurrected in Central America, brings christianity to the natives here, gets betrayed for the second time and goes away ... again. And Joseph Smith finds these two stones, puts them in a hat, translates them into the Book of Mormons and the Latter-Day Saints are born."

"Well, yes, more or less. But there is so much more to it. You see ..." They went on about the goodness of their religion and all that it had done for them and how I, like one other they knew, was very curious and very smart and upon joining them, he believed as well. They also told me about the mention of Jesus as Quetzalquatl in the Mayan's holy book; a strange white man with from beyond their world came to them wearing Quetzal feathers on his head and promised he would return; which is also why the Mayans greeted the Spaniards with arms wide upon, thinking they belonged to Quetzalquatl (this is actually true; I have met several archaeologists here and all of them have told me how this story is what has attracted so many Mormons to archaeology in Guatemala and the country itself). Their tone and gestures were very welcoming and sincere and, honestly, in spite of their beliefs, I kinda liked them (I respect their beliefs, yes, but I am a cynic and mockery is often necessary).

Chapter V, Part III: On Mormons

But then I came to the most interesting part of the discussion: the story of the wife of Harris the publisher. Short summary: Martin Harris was a fairly rich guy who believed JS was a prophet and agreed to print the Book of Mormons for him. Now JS puts these two stones in a hat, sticks his head in and starts reading the book out to him, chapter by chapter, word by word. They completed it within a week or something. Harris takes the manuscript to his wife, Lucy, the skeptic, who says, "Tell him you've lost it and that he should write it again. We'll keep the old version and if it matches with the new version, then he's telling the truth." But upon hearing about the loss of the original manuscript, JS gets pissed, goes to his attic to pray and comes back and says the Lord has spoken to him and commanded him to write a new book of Mormons, thus giving the incident the name "the lost book of Mormons".

When I asked them about this, naturally, their expressions had changed. I honestly did not think it was possible, but they were no longer smiling. I don't know how they do it but Mormons don't ever stop smiling (except when this story is told, apparently).

"We, uh, we have not heard of this story. There is indeed the story of the lost chapters of the book, but this?" They both looked at each other for a moment, their expressions almost hinting fear ... and I didn't understand that.

Btw, I can't believe I forgot to tell you about this but here's a brief about my two Mormon companions. The older one had a name tag bearing 'Elder Karr' and the younger one's name tag was ... actually, I don't remember. We'll just call him Younger Karr. Together, the two walked around like a very wrong Laurel and Hardy pair. Elder was about 25, had been with the church for 15 years, originally from New Jersey and had been taught Spanish by a Palestinian Guatemalan in the capital (thus, I was, unfortunately, not the first muslim he had ever seen, but certainly the first Pakistani ... which was also shocking; there are at least a thousand of us in every major American city [Right, Maria?]). And Younger was ... younger (though more interesting looking, I can't seem to remember any details about him). Born and raised into Mormonism in Salt Lake City, the younger looked like a mix between an Uzbekistani-Chinese and a Mexican-Dutch; he had pale skin, a small stature, black hair and eyes that, during their growth, couldn't decide whether they wanted to be chinese, caucasian or central european and just ended up bulging and shrinking simultaneously, resulting in two swollen golfballs. I normally tend to remember people better if I've had eye contact conversations with them, and since it was difficult to look at his eyes without squinting, that's probably why I don't remember anything about him.

Anyways, I spared them from their disturbed expressions and cheered them up by saying something like, "Hey, look, I heard about this story somewhere and it's probably not even true. Besides, the only problem with your faith is that people doubt you and look at you with strange looks. The problem with my faith is that people don't understand us and look at us like we're gonna blow up any second." Like normal white people, for a change, they didn't get the joke (or thought it wasn't funny) but forced a smile and managed to get their minds off of the story that their religion tended to turn away from.

We eventually got to their church, and folks, as cynical as I was, I started thinking that if this is the kind of money Mormons are pumping into their church, then sign me up right now. The church was not a church, it was a giant community center with a large basketball court, a Victorian-style main building (which was the church) built entirely from materials imported from the US, a large parking spot, a cafeteria so clean it'd put the Swedes to shame and gardens all over the place. If they changed the "Iglesia de los Santos de Últimos Dias" to "Oxford University - Guatemala campus", I honestly would've believed them. Not surprisingly, the entire place was fortified with large cage-like fences and a stern gate. When I asked them if this was the central Coban church, they laughed their borderline fake laugh and said, "Ha ha. Oh no, this is but the secondary church, yay. Verily, the main one is in another part of the city." And yes, that other one is almost twice as large as this one.

They invited me inside and I reluctantly refused, but promised to return some other day. We exchanged numbers, I pulled out a cigarette as I walked away (to which they gave an almost envious look) and waved them goodbye. As I walked away, I reflected on yet another encounter of the second kind: I had met the Morons!

Chapter IV: On Murphy's Law of Flight

When someone tells you that you heard of a Pakistani travelling to Guatemala, your natural reaction would be to wait for the punch line in the joke. Using Pakistan and Guatemala in the same sentence is a lot like using virtual cognition and chicken wings in the same sentence; you may as well put them together but it would make no sense whatsoever. And to be honest, I guess that’s one of the main reasons why I’m here; to feel irregular, absurd, anomalous and yet still manage to fit in.

Leaving Sweden was not easy, I’ll tell you that. Most of you may not believe this but the weather in Lund in the summers is actually nice. It’s sunny, doesn’t rain as often and everyone’s outside … I’m not BSing. You don’t have to worry about the cold, are no longer prone to suicide, women wear less clothes; I am telling you, it becomes the shit. Plus, when you’ve become too accustomed to the lifestyle, naturally you don’t want to change that. But I think all of us leaving for our field semesters have so much to look forward to and so many experiences to encounter that … well, yeah, it’s exciting but not all of us take excitement well. For me it’s extremely high acidity and insomnia.

Anyways, there are lots and lots of things I want to talk about but for now, I’ll start with the flight to Guatemala. Being a citizen of the country that possibly hosts Bin Laden, Hitler, the Manson family, Freddy Kruger and other enemies of the States, it’s not easy to travel. For starters, even if you simply want to transit to the US, you need something called a B-12 transit visa (but ok, apparently everyone needs that). For most people, you can get it in less than a week. Naturally, I am “special”. And I don’t mean like a pretty little princess with flowers in her hair or even a handicapped child. No, I mean take-out-your-guns-and-put-on-your-masks-when-you-see-him-near special. And since I probably would’ve gotten the visa at some point around the death of my great-great grandson, I decided to go through Spain instead, or Iberia Airlines to be specific.

The first stop was Madrid and upon boarding the plane in Copenhagen, I could already feel the salsa/latinness. The music on the flight was not exactly Hispanic nor latin; it was almost Mayan with a lot of Carribean. To top that off, the air hostesses were exceptionally good-looking. In fact, when they started showing where the exits are or how to put on masks during that presentation before take-off, for the first time, I found myself actually paying attention. I was casually listening to Dave Matthews’ Dreamgirl and reading some book I didn't really want to read when I raised my head to stretch my neck only to find myself mesmerized by this tall black-haired Hispanicita doing her thing. I still don’t know where she was pointing or what was being said with those movements and it didn’t matter. With the music and her movements, I found myself, well, smiling uncontrollably . And before you judge me or call me a pervert or refer to the other oft-cited rhetoric against our species, let me tell you that I was not the only one enjoying the display. After 4 minutes of incredible eye candy, I looked around casually, you know, just to seem I wasn’t ogling. Not surprisingly, every girl had her head down reading something and every guy had earphones in their ears, eyes on the air hostess and a stupid smile on their face.

We landed in Madrid a couple of hours later and I began dreading the 5 hour wait until the 13-hour flight to Mexico City. The only highlight of the Madrid flight had been the hostess’ incredible display; my companions were these two annoying Danish women who had evidently never seen a wing before because their gaze and talks were restricted to things happening outside the window. Every time it moved, they’d jump and start speaking with delight; bottomline, my Murphy’s law of flight was still in effect.

When they finally made the boarding call at around 2 a.m, I was already too exhausted and knew I’d fall asleep as soon as I sat down on the plane. But a few minutes before boarding, my gaze caught this eastern-looking girl with very prominent Mediterranean features. Knowing my luck, I turned away; the law would always be in effect.

Ok, before I proceed, let me quickly explain my Murphy’s law of flight. As long as I can remember, it has been my dream to find myself sitting next to a beautiful girl on a long flight, casually starting the conversation by something mundane only to find ourselves in a deep, semi-intellectual and strangely intimate tête-à-tête an hour later and eventually having it lead to something more. Long flights are the only place that can happen; you can get acquainted with a stranger without having to leave or be interrupted by outside nuisances (except maybe a kid constantly crying, which too can be useful as a conversation topic). Unfortunately, the more I have craved to be in that situation, the worse the quality of my companions has gotten. Eventually, I completely gave up on the dream and decided to occupy myself with music, books and finding awkward positions to seat myself to sleep.

On this flight, however, something strange happened. As I entered the plane, I was ushered to the very last cabin. There weren’t too many passengers and from where I was standing, there was only one other person in the cabin. As I walked near, I realized that it was the eastern-looking girl. Optimistically, I was relieved to know that at least she was in the same cabin. But when I saw her seat number and looked at my own boarding pass, my jaw dropped. It had finally happened! A surge of thoughts went through my head as I sat down with a smile and an “Hola!”; what should we talk about? Books? Politics? The Italian mafia? Mimic the accent? That was always a favorite with the ladies! Or, better yet, we would delve into the meaning and mysteries of life. My excitement was overwhelming and I did my best to hold it in.

Yet it seems that fate or destiny or whatever force that determines the manner of events is not without a filthy sense of irony and dark humor. A few minutes after settling down, I prepared myself for the wonderful conversational delights to come and started with a rather stupid but necessary opening. “Excuse me, hi! Do you know how long this flight is?” She smiled a rather Middle Eastern smile and replied very politely “Uhh, no hablo inglés!”.

It felt like the pressure in the cabin dropped and I found myself on the verge of tears. I looked around and saw several couples and pairs of strangers already in conversations with an evil smile on their faces, mocking me, cruelly laughing at me. The bitch we’ve all come to accept as fate was standing right behind them, laughing the loudest, pleased with herself.

I tried not to let our language barrier be the reason for fate’s billionth victory but with my limited Spanish, all I could get out of her was that her name was Valeria, she was half-Mexican, half-Italian, had a boyfriend in Italy, family in Mexico and forced herself to laugh when I did my rather depressing imitation of Don Corleone. The rest of the flight was, well, like all other flights. Fate had had the final laugh; the Murphy’s law would always be in effect.

Chapter III: On Satan

I fear this will be the most sacrilegious work I'll ever write.

It's funny how often I've said that and yet how often I've repeated my mistake. Before I begin, I'd like all of my faithful, shariah-abiding, orthodox and adamantly religious friends to know that I mean no disrespect to anything or anyone, especially not God. I believe in a Higher Being, do what little I can to sustain my Faith and though my perception of Him may differ from yours, even the finest of the sufis and ulema agree that such differences are common [I have no direct references but search the statement and you will find plenty that supports this].

Even so, this piece of writing is just a thought that my foul mind brought forth one dull morning and though I should've simply ignored it, I decided to write it down so you may correct me along with those who might have thought this way once upon a time.

According to the Biblical, Quranic and other monotheistic (and often not so monotheistic) literature, Lucifer became Satan because of pride, ego and haughtiness. He could not accept that a creature made of earth would be preferred to a creature made of fire. Another version says it was because of some interstellar conflict and Satan wasn't willing to become some crap-making fleshling's bitch. Yet another version states that it was simply meant to be.

I'm told that all versions of this story are pretty much the same in every religion, but my version will slightly detract towards a more fictitious angle. So here's how it rolls (for those who already know the beginning, I'm truly sorry but it had to be stated to build the thesis):

Lucifer is not only the leader of the Jinns but the most forthright non-angel being ever created. To empathize with him, imagine a foot soldier borne and bred to serve nothing but the Divine Being, to know nothing but servitude and devotion towards the God you've come to admire, love, fear, respect and submit your existence to. He is the be and do of your entire existence. Though this is true of even angels, it was precisely because of his not being an angel that his staunchness and servitude were so immense.

Then one day - or time, moment, eon, whatever perception of time that prevails where there is no Time - a gathering is called by the Being. Rumor spreads in silent but pervasive whispers among the angelic and non-angelic entities that a new creation has been created in the Creator's own image (NOTE: What is about to be stated now is my perception and must be read as a fictitious interpretation, nothing more). All the creations are left in awe and bewilderment as to what their Almighty Creator must've brought forth and what it's purpose must be. They speak secretly among themselves, asking one another inquisitively.

The Angel of Death suggests a dark angel, one that is a hybrid of angels and jinns yet more powerful than both, divine like the Lord they serve. He elaborates on how this creation will supersede the higher order angels thus replacing the current hierarchy and act as the body of control over all that exists. The Angel of Stars laughs at this notion and suggests that the love the Higher Being has for His creations would never allow the present order of things to come under jeopardy. She suggests a creature so brilliant it would illuminate the newly created universe, thus acting as a divine radiance on all that is and isn't. She goes on about how it will prove to existence that it is the Almighty Being that is and that His grasp surpasses the inexistent. The Angel of Probability & Randomness nullifies all these "ridiculous conjectures" and states that the pattern exhibited by the Divine thus far suggests a creation of grandeur, larger than anything they can possibly imagine. He displays on a hologram, first, a Poisson graph depicting the pattern that previous creations showed and how the new creation has to be larger, followed by a pictorial depiction of the creature itself. Based on all existing data, he says the image will look like this: a picture of a large white circle with a small black circle in the middle appears on the hologram. A small note at the bottom of the picture reads "Scale: 1mm = 1,000 Dm" (Dm, Divine meter = 1,000 googolplex of terameters).

At this point, the Angel of Humor comes cartwheeling between the crowd, then hops to the Angel of Wrath and yells "TUK-A-DURR" to his face. "The creature", he says, turning to the gathering, "will be ...". He pauses, eyes as wide as the sun, about to reveal the secret that none but he knew. The gathering of angels leans forward.

"A MONKEY!" He squeals and jumps back into the crowd, yelling "TUK-A-DURR" as he cartwheels away. Some angels yell out in disapproval, some seek repentance from God while others simply laugh at the absurdity of the idea.

Meanwhile, Gabriel and Lucifer stand firm side-by-side, looking on at the throne of God, awaiting His appearance. The angels and jinns had been turning to the two simultaneously, asking if they had any knowledge of the creature to be presented. While Gabriel simply tells them to seek His mercy and be patient, Lucifer quietly continues to look at the throne, ignoring all the irrelevant inquiries, a forbidding yet humble look in his eyes. He is neither jealous nor proud at this moment, simply anxious and curious as to the purpose set for him by his Lord with regards to this new creation. Fearful, obedient, humble.

All of a sudden, a light appears on the throne and the creatures silence themselves, humility overcoming their whims. Like a sunrise, its radiance gradually amplifies, reaching far, illuminating all the creatures. When a form appears on the throne, the creatures bow down, prostrating themselves to the Form. Lucifer clears his mind of all else except his Lord, his Creator, his Purpose. Though all creatures were equally subservient to the Almighty, Lucifer's regard for the prostration was incomparable. To Him, it symbolized his devotion to God and nothing else.

On His Command, they rise back up, resurrecting from their state of trance. God speaks in a mighty voice that echoes throughout existence itself. The creatures are now focusing on nothing but Him, their gaze locked on His Presence. He tells them that a new creation has been created, one in His own image: one that can reason, learn, adapt and discover as no other creation has ever done. But He states that before it can be shown, all creations must prostrate to it.

Like a windstorm that annihilates entire civilizations in one fell swoop, Lucifer's world is left in disarray. A prostration? The symbol of servitude to the one he revered, loved, feared for eternity will now be presented to some other creature? He is still not proud, still not egotistic about fire being his source of creation and earth being the new creation's source. A part of him tells him to ignore this and remember that it is God he serves and he must do as he is commanded.

But the pain is insurmountable. The anguish is too much to bear and he clutches his breast, walking slowly towards his Lord, hoping He would make him understand and appease the pain. But when the creature is finally presented, Lucifer stops dead in his track. The angels and non-angels glare at this creature named Man, in bewilderment.

In a precision that would put the London Symphony to shame, the angels and non-angels prostrate together. "Told you it was a monkey!" The Angel of Humor whispers to the Angel of Wrath, who simply grunts at the comment and continues to prostrate obediently.

Like a single palm tree on an infinite desert plain, Lucifer stands straight, not in defiance but in shock. Gabriel, the only angel Lucifer ever truly respected, cries from his prostration.

"Luke! What are you doing? This is no time for being resilient. Just prostrate!"

"No, Gabriel," he responds, his gaze still locked on God, "not to him. My prostration belongs to God."

"Lucifer! As your superior, I command you to return and prostrate." Gabriel calls desperately in loud whispers. "You can seek His council after this. Do not earn His anger! Lucifer!"

Lucifer begins to walk towards God, his hand still clutching his chest, ignoring the calls of his comrade behind him.

The Almighty had been hearing this conversation since it began and turning to him, verbally commands Lucifer to prostrate.

"Why, my Lord? My Almighty, most High, most Revered God. My true Master. My Creator. Why to him? My prostrations belong to you!" He falls to his knees, weeping in despair.

"Do not question me, Lucifer." His resounding voice brings humility to everything. "You do not know what I know. You will simply have to trust Me."

"But my Beloved, my prostration is the symbol of my servitude to you. I implore you! Ask me to do anything, anything but prostrate to this creature." He bows his head down, clutching the ground before his Lord as he cries aloud.

"Lucifer! Arise!"

He does so, continuing to plead for His mercy, begging Him to change the command for this occasion.

"Please, my Lord," he cries, "please do not ask me to do this. I have never asked you to change Your command. But I beg you. Do not ask me to prostrate before another."

God's divine aura changes from supremacy to mercy. He beckons Lucifer to his feet, facing him. In his humility, Lucifer does not look back but simply bows his head.

"Lucifer, you are my servant, undoubtedly one of the best I have ever created. And I love you as I love all creations." His voice is comforting, like a nurturing mother calming her child. "But it disturbs me to see you defiant over this command."

"Then why ask me to prostrate to another? I am no angel. I was not created to be subservient. I was created to be able to reason, to make my own decisions, to choose my own destiny. And I chose You.

"They prostrate to him merely because it is what they have been created to do," he points to the thousands of bowed angels and jinns on his side, "but you gave me a choice. A prostration may simply be another action they perform in Your name, but it means everything to me. It makes me who I am, it differentiates me from them. That where they are obedient to you because you created them as such, I am obedient because that is what I have chosen. This prostration is my symbol to you, my only proof that I have chosen You. And if you ask me now to prostrate to another, then you take that away from me. And I will do whatever it takes to let that from happening."

The aura of mercy fades. A tense atmosphere prevails over the throne. As the angels and non-angels continue to prostrate, the Divine Radiance fades from Lucifer. But Lucifer remains defiant, showing his commitment to God, even if that meant defying God himself.

"Then you leave me no choice." He commands the bowed figures to rise and made witness to His command. "Lucifer, you are hereby declared wretched and forsaken. Leave My throne! Abandon My presence! You shall never return to this sacred place again."

As the Divine Radiance begins to fade, Lucifer falls to his knees. Never in his entire existence had he imagined that the One he loved so dearly would shun him like this. "Abandon My presence!" The words kept echoing inside him. His Father, his Master, his Purpose.

As the figures behind him begin to rise, Gabriel rushes to Lucifer's side.

"Luke, listen to me. What you did was stupid and arrogant. He would never have given this command had you spoken to Him in private." Being the first of creations, the two leaders shared a relationship of mutual respect and love that everyone knew about but never spoke of. As superiors to their subjects, they had always been forbidding, treating one another with a facade of staunchness and discipline. But now, seeing his comrade in despair, humiliated publicly, Gabriel sat himself down beside the shrugged figure and placed his hands on Lucifer's shoulders, reassuring him that God's anger was merely transient and would soon be replaced with mercy.

"Take your arms off of me! You patronizing, self-righteous trash of existence!" A look had appeared in Lucifer's eyes that Gabriel had never seen before, a look so vile it reminded him of the day he was shown Hell.

Lucifer turned to Man. The figure stood there, its eyes closed, arms and legs stretched out like Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. You, he thought to himself, you are the reason my Lord has denied me His presence. A surge of thoughts struck him as he contrived about what must be done next.

Weep. No. Be strong.
Repent. No. Must prove to Him my servitude.
Destroy. Who? Man. No. God would never allow it.
Burn him. He is earth. I am fire. No. It proves nothing.
Befoul him. Seduce him. Teach him. Yes, befoul man. Befoul the clay statue.

The thought made him cackle outloud.

"Lucifer?" Gabriel had backed off now, a mixed expression of shock and concern overcoming him. "What is wrong with you, old friend? Do not do this to yourself. There is a way out of this."

"You're right. There is a way. There is always a way." Lucifer stood up slowly, his figure dark as the depths of oblivion. The divine radiance that was so luminescent off of him once had now dissipated.

"A clay figure, my Lord?" He yelled to the Radiance still revolving on the throne. "You have broken the heart of 'one of the best servants you have ever created' for THAT?"

The Radiance stopped revolving. All angels and non-angels froze still, all except Lucifer. His chest was protruding, gaze locked on the Radiance with an insuperable hatred.

Fearing the worst, Gabriel finally spoke.

"Please, my Lord. He is not himself. Forgive him for his defiance. He will bow."

"Be silent, Gabriel," God shunned the leader of the angels, "lest you wish to share the same fate as the one who dares to raise his voice to Me."

With nothing more that he could do, Gabriel simply bowed himself in prostration, praying that Lucifer would come to his senses.

"You know I will never bow." His eyes were still locked on the Radiance, unflinching. "And you knew this would happen even before you gathered us."

"No, Lucifer. You have chosen your own fate. But on Gabriel's request, I will give you one last chance to repent."

Lucifer turned to Man. "Him," he said, pointing towards the naked figure. "Let me stay with him. Let me teach him. After all that's been said and done, I am still Your slave and You are still my Master. Do not make me worthless yet. Let me accompany him to wherever he goes, whatever he does, even whatever he thinks. Let me be the balance in his life. His darkness to shield him from Your blinding light. His shade against Your blistering radiance. His knowledge in Your universe of ignorance. His courage against Your wrath." He turned to Gabriel, still addressing God. "His curiosity against Your apathy." Then to all the angels and non-angels. "His freedom against Your servitude." He then turned back to God and spoke slowly, clearly enunciating every word. "And finally, his comfort in Your world of despair."

A commotion began to brew in the background as the non-angels conversed among themselves in whispers. The angels remained silent, still, obedient. Gabriel did his best to hold his tears in but couldn't. Every part of him was aching to smite the fool that was the closest thing to a brother he ever had.

"Very well." With just two words, the entire gathering went silent. "So it shall be. You will be given respite with Man in his abode, you and whichever of your kind that wishes to join you. You will whisper your whispers to this Man and his partner in Eden, from where they shall be teleported [for lack of a better word] to Earth. There they shall create many offspring and you shall befoul them all. All except those who remain true to Me."

"Remain true to You? REMAIN TRUE TO YOU?" His voice rose again, this time in rage rather than resilience. "After I have spoken to them, none shall remain true to You. None! I will speak to them about Your true nature, about how servitude to you will bring them nothing but despair."

He turned around, remnants of his earlier tears still drying on his face. As he began walking away, Gabriel's eyes caught his. There was a mixture of grief and anger in the angel's eyes, but they quickly bowed down. Lucifer continued walking, ignoring the gesture, but then stopped at Gabriel's side.

"Join me, old friend. Join me so that we may prove to Him that we will defy anything that dares to swerve us away from Him, even He Himself." He looked up at him. "You are not a sheep, Gabriel. You do have a choice."

"Listen to yourself, Lucifer." Gabriel was now looking back at him, at his dark eyes. "Defy God for God's sake? Why can you not understand your folly here?" He took a step to the side so he could face him completely. "But you are right. I do have a choice. And I choose God." He continued. "Join you? Quite the contrary, old friend. I will protect Man from you, protect them from your destruction. You are no longer Lucifer, you are Satan! And I regret the day I called you my brother."

Lucifer's composure remained the same, simply taking a deep breath of indifference. "So be it. But sooner or later, you will see that this is His doing, not mine. He created Hell, not me. He could have stopped me from doing what He undoubtedly knows I will do. Call me the enemy, call me Satan. See if I give a fuck!" And with that, he walked away.

The gathering had now been divided. While some Jinns remained with the group of angels that had cleared the way for the defiant Lucifer, others were eagerly awaiting his arrival at the end of the hall [again, for lack of a better word]. He turned to address this group, but spoke loud enough that the other angels and non-angels could hear him.

"Come, you foul creatures! He says you will share my curse, I say you will share my freedom. He says you will burn in hell, I say that you will be the glorious fire itself. He says what you are doing is wrong, I say what you are doing is noble. He says there are good humans, I say let us make Him regret the day He spoke of their goodness. We are the first of creation, we are finer ones, we roamed the universes when there were none. Let us prove to Him the power of the Jinn race. Let us prove to Him," he then took a curtsy bow in mockery, "our devotion for Him".

A cacophony of roars and laughters filled the throne as the Jinns made their way out. When one yelled, "Hail Lucifer", he grabbed him from the collar, glared down his whimpering figure, then smiled and said calmly, "Call me Satan. Satan, the most vile". As the group continued to march out, laughing and bellowing in their newfound freedom, Lucifer remained back, turning to look one last time on his Master, his Creator, his Beloved for thousands of eons.

He recalled the day he was first created and the blissful radiance that had filled him the first time his Lord had spoken to him. You are my creation. I will provide for you, sustain you, love you, protect you. I will be sacred to you as you will be to me. You will be mine and I shall be yours.

His Lord was looking back at him, an aura of wrath surrounding His throne. But behind this, there was a hidden hope that His creation would return to Him. For a moment, even Lucifer felt a slight warmth emanating from his breast, trying to overcome his rage.

Alas, my friends, that warmth was not to last. For Lucifer simply turned away, dejected, forsaken yet strangely content with his new title. "Satan. I like the sound of that. I know Man will too."



And that, friends and now-potential foes, is why Satan does what he does and is what he is. Like I said before, this is not based on any literature, thought or religion. This is simply a fictitious over-exaggerated version of Lucifer's becoming Satan. I know that in playing the devil's advocate and sympathizing with him, I have jeopardized my own self-righteous image and consequently some of you must be furious. But the truth is, if Satan truly does exist, then he must be smart (I mean come on, the guy rules the financial world and has got to be the finest social and clinical psychologist ever). And if he is smart, I doubt he'd let petty things like ego and pride overcome his destiny, especially if it meant being dejected by God. So, no, tell me I'm wrong but I do not think it was ego or pride. With what we've been told about Satan, pride was irrelevant.

So bottomline, my story only provides an alternative answer. God knows better!