Caveat

Abdul patted his stomach and found it intact—no bomb, no gaping wound. “I did it,” he told himself, then again, louder, “I did it!”

“I have flown the plane into the towers of the infidels!” shouted another man, running toward him.

“Are we holy martyrs, then?” Abdul asked.

“Indeed, we must be. I am Akbar.”

“I’m Abdul. I carried a bomb into the heart of the Zionist oppressor.”

Akbar nodded gleefully. “Well done. Look, others come.” Indeed, they did, alone and in small groups.

“Are we dead?” asked one as he approached.

“We are holy martyrs!” answered Akbar.

“The last thing I remember was preparing bombs with my brother Hassan Isbn.” The man looked around and then waved his arms over his head. “Hassan! Over here!”

Abdul scratched at his beard. “Where are our seventy-two virgins, I wonder.”

“I think I dropped something,” Hassan mumbled.

“Do not worry, holy Hassan. You are a martyr,” cackled Akbar. He threw his head back and bellowed at the dull red sky, “Bring on the virgins! I am ready to party like the infidel!”

Hassan picked a flea from his beard and popped it into his mouth.

“It’s getting awfully hot,” complained Abdul, wiping sweat from his hooked nose. Quietly, he began to count the men gathered around him.

“I cannot wait,” said one of the men. “I have never had a woman before.”

“I almost had a Lebanese woman,” said Akbar, “But I could not get her out of her robes before her father got home—too much burka stock.”

Abdul felt a sinking feeling come over him. The heat was steadily increasing. “Have any of you had sexual congress?” he asked warily.

“Hassan came close but I lost my grip on the goat.”

No one else answered. Abdul sat on the blazing sands and cradled his head in his hands. “There are seventy-three of us,” he moaned.

“Who cares?” replied Akbar. “We are holy martyrs.”

Abdul did not answer. There would be plenty of time for the others to figure it out.